White Elephant Dead (19 page)

Annie’s shoes clicked on the tiles. She walked slowly, trying to frame a reasonable question. “Were you looking out of your windows into the rain at a few minutes after six last night?” seemed a little abrupt, not to say peculiar. But surely the person who lived here must have heard sounds of the search, perhaps seen swaths of lights. Though that activity occurred some time after the murderer’s escape.
But still…Some intelligent query, Annie assured herself with Hastingslike confidence, would occur to her.

She stepped onto the porch, lifted her hand to knock at the door leading into the club room, and looked through one of the eight-foot windows, admiring the bright chintz-covered chairs, a stark white fabric with a profusion of red poppies, the glowing heart pine floor and—

Annie’s hand fell. She stood quite still and leaned toward the window.

The dead man lay on his back not far from the door, afternoon sun spilling around him. He had been a natty dresser, a cream polo of the very finest, softest weave of cotton, crisp khaki trousers, Italian loafers of burgundy leather. A table set for breakfast was a few feet beyond him, a glass of orange juice, a bowl with cereal. Thoughts whirled in Annie’s mind: He must have been ready to have his breakfast when his murderer arrived. Edith would know the origin of “natty.” Maybe the word popped in her mind because he was old with a bristly iron-gray crew cut and sharp features. He’d been dead for a while because the pool of blood had congealed and his blood-sodden shirt was stiff. He hadn’t shot himself because the gun lay near his foot, but the police would do gunshot residue tests to be sure.

The gun. Annie swallowed. She couldn’t be certain from here, but the grip looked white and shiny. What was it Ruth had said? Her father’s gun, the grip pearl-handled with his initials.

Annie stepped stiffly down the steps, walked to a lawn chair in the shade of a yellow and white umbrella. She sat down, got out her cell phone and made three calls.

Max’s Maserati squealed to a stop just as the police siren died. Garrett and Pirelli jumped out of the police car and Max shouted, “The terrace. Annie said to come to the back of the house,” and he was running hard, knowing there should be no danger to Annie now, no matter what she’d found, but driven to be sure. He heard Garrett’s yell, but he
didn’t care. Annie, Annie…Loblolly pines screened both sides of the rambling house. Somehow he kept his balance even though his loafers skated over needles slick as pond ice. He skidded around the end of the house, jumped a low wall onto the terrace.

Annie came up from the terrace chair and ran to meet him.

Max caught her in his arms. “I’m sorry, honey, I’m sorry.”

She clung to him and let tears come because there is nothing so ugly as murder. She didn’t know the man, but he had picked out a pretty shirt this morning and the shirt would never be worn again.

“You two sit over there and keep quiet.” Garrett might look like a sunburned cupid, but his voice was tough and cold and the eyes that studied them were full of suspicion. He watched until they walked to the lawn furniture, sat down. Max gave Annie’s arm a warning squeeze.

Annie pointed at the back door. “He’s in there, Chief.”

Garrett gestured to Pirelli, then walked swiftly to the door. He looked through the tall window as Annie had just a little while ago. He stood without moving for several minutes, then, pulling latex gloves from his pockets and slipping them on, he turned the doorknob. The door opened. Garrett stepped inside and Pirelli followed.

Annie knew they had much to do, Polaroid pictures, videocam, sketches, fingerprinting, the arrival of the medical examiner. But she was sure that she had seen the most important piece of evidence.

“Max, Ruth’s gun is in there. I’m sure it’s hers.” She watched the men moving around the big room.

Max frowned. “Why would she be so stupid? She described the gun to you, didn’t she?”

Annie had a swift memory of Ruth’s forlorn eyes, shaking hands. Oh yes, Ruth had described the gun. What would Ruth do if she shot a man? Drop the gun and run? Oh yes, quite possibly she might. However, could Ruth be driven to
murder? Gentle, unconfident, twittery, sweet Ruth? But this murder occurred because of another murder. And once a scarlet trail was begun, there could be no turning back. Never.

“She told me about the gun,” Annie said wearily, “but she claimed Kathryn took it from her.” Bluffs and double bluffs abound in mysteries. Was Ruth that clever? “Do you suppose Ruth left the gun deliberately?”

Max looked toward the house. “That would be a hell of a gamble.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. If it ever comes down to a jury, there are grounds for reasonable doubt, aren’t there? Ruth told me the gun was gone twelve hours before anyone shot this man.” Annie massaged her temple. Could Ruth possibly have staged that sad interlude with Annie? Did Ruth have the wit to create such a complex web? After all, it was Ruth who first mentioned the gun. If she had shot at Annie outside Kathryn’s store, then certainly it would be smart to tell Annie that the gun had been taken before Kathryn died. And when danger came, a call from a man who saw the murderer’s escape, why not shoot him and leave the gun?

“Garrett won’t buy it.” Max shrugged. “But that’s Ruth’s problem, not ours. And Garrett’s problem.” He looked past Annie, lifted a hand in greeting and stood.

“There they are.” Emma’s crisp voice sounded bright and fresh. She plunged across the flagstones, her caftan billowing, her bright eyes scanning the house, the terrace, the woods and paths.

Laurel wafted alongside the big woman, murmuring huskily, “Poor dear man. I would never ever plant rhododendron. There could be no clearer signal of danger.” Laurel looked even more slim and lovely than usual. Most women her age would look absurd wearing their hair in a ponytail. Laurel looked adorable and her striped cotton blouse and soft blue slacks emphasized a figure that men from seven to seventy regarded with extreme interest.

Annie glanced past them. Was Fred, the super sailor, in tow? Apparently not.

Laurel’s midnight-blue eyes sparkled. “Celandine. Such an interesting plant. It reminds one of buttercups.” Her seductive lips curved in delight. “And, of course, it whispers of joys to come.”

Max almost spoke, thought better of it. Annie felt that was a wise decision. There might have been an interesting silence, but after a quick amused glance at Laurel, Emma said briskly, “Thanks for calling me, Annie. Bring us up to date.”

When Annie finished, Emma frowned. “Crew cut? Spiffy dresser?”

Annie nodded.

Emma’s square face was somber. “Poor old Jake. He was a damn fine golfer.”

Max stared at the house. “Jake Chapman?”

Emma nodded.

Annie hadn’t recognized the dead man, but now she remembered him from the club, always well dressed, a neat, spare, intense, precise man, the kind of man who would have a beautifully kept house and well-tended grounds.

“Why Jake?” Emma mused. “In
The Puzzle of the Pink Potted Plants
, the murderer’s ex-lover got up to let the cat out at three in the morning and spotted his car turning into Mulberry Lane.”

There was a moment of silence.

Emma’s face tightened for an instant, then she continued graciously, “I’m sure you all remember what happened next.”

Max tugged at one ear and was a picture of earnest concentration.

Annie frantically tried to remember:
The Puzzle of the Pink Potted Plants
, was that the one where Marigold looked at an open door transom and announced the murder’s identity?

Laurel smiled ecstatically. “Pink larkspur? Fickleness is ever destructive. No doubt she called her old lover the next
morning when she heard about the body in Mulberry Lane? Putting two and two together.”

Emma favored Laurel with an approving smile. “Exactly. And that’s what happened here, I’m certain.”

Max folded his arms across his chest. “I know the women on the island always know everything as soon as it happens, but old Jake probably wouldn’t have known about the murder until the afternoon paper. Okay, maybe he’d pick it up on the morning news. But why would he happen to be looking out his window at just the right time to see the murderer go by? Emma, I don’t think it flies.”

Annie announced excitedly, “He was going to eat breakfast in his clubroom.”

Three pairs of eyes studied her.

Annie suddenly knew how Frances and Richard Lockridge’s Pam North felt when confronted with slow mental processes.

“Don’t you see?” Annie demanded impatiently.

No one spoke.

“If he ate breakfast there, it means he spent most of his time in the clubroom. And”—she squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, then opened them—“yes, the place at the table faced this way. Of course he’d see everything from the clubroom windows.” She bounced to her feet. “The vase! That’s what happened.”

Now the silence was profound. Emma glanced meaningfully at Max. Laurel murmured throatily, “She seems quite calm. But is there an aura of red columbine, which might indicate a trembling and anxiousness? One can sense these things, I’m afraid.” Even Max’s dark blue eyes were concerned.

“The vase!” Annie gestured toward the wall at the end of the terrace. “Come on.” She sped down the walk.

The silent trio followed and clustered around her at the west end of the wall. She pointed at the tilted vase.

“Don’t you see? Maybe the murderer was in such a hurry the bike skidded and bumped the wall, knocking over
the vase.” She waved a hand at the immaculate grounds, the recently painted house. “Jake Chapman would have been furious. He must have hurried out on the terrace and followed long enough to recognize whoever it was and this morning, he called—”

“Why do you say this morning?” Max squinted into the late afternoon sun.

“The table’s set for breakfast. Besides”—and Annie remembered the quick bark of the gun last night—“if Jake confronted the murderer right after the attack on Henny, he would have been dead before we went to the shop. And that’s impossible or the gun couldn’t be here. And I refuse to believe in two guns. No, whatever he saw, he waited until this morning to call and complain.”

Emma clapped her hands. “Two guns. That could be true, Annie. In
The Mystery of the Albuquerque Anvil
—”

Annie cut in impatiently, “Emma, that was crazy. You had three guns, a bolo and an ax and then Marigold figured out the murderer soaked a bunch of cigarette butts and dumped a slug of nicotine in the bourbon. I mean, really!”

Emma glared. “It was perfectly logical. Marigold figured it out as soon as I got to page 279. The chief suspect, a chain-smoker, had made his ex-wife mad so she decided to frame him and she brought the bolo to kill his pet boa constrictor, the ax to smash open the chest where he kept the bearer bonds and the guns to sell to a collector.”

“How thrilling,” Laurel breathed, her eyes wide with admiration. “Dear Emma. You are simply amazing. I must devise a crest for all your books. Perhaps sweet alyssym, which always brings to mind excellence beyond beauty.”

Emma’s nod accepting the tribute was graciousness itself, but her pale eyes studied Annie like a taxidermist evaluating a carcass.

Annie stared right back. There were benefits from reading about Sara Paretsky’s V. I. Warshawski. V. I. never wilted. “Lacking an ex-husband, a boa constrictor and a chest full of bearer bonds, I think we can dismiss two guns
here. Broward’s Rock is not Arsenal America. Most people don’t have handguns. Rifles, maybe, for hunters. But not handguns. And who are we talking about? The Campbells. Vince Ellis. Dave and Janet Pierce. Ruth Yates. None of them hunt. No, there’s one gun and it belonged to Ruth Yates.”

“Ruth.” Emma’s tone was thoughtful.

Max waved away a cloud of no-see-ums. “All we know is that the gun in the clubroom sounds like the one that belonged to Ruth Yates. It will be up to Garrett to find out.” He looked across the terrace. “Do you suppose Garrett’s going to leave us out here until all our blood is sucked away?”

Since no-see-ums loved Max and ignored her, Annie said callously, “I’m in no hurry to talk to our new police chief.”

Emma, her glance still cold, demanded, “What exactly brought you here, Annie?”

That, of course was precisely what Garrett was going to ask. “It’s all perfectly logical,” she said stiffly. “Nobody came out of Marsh Tacky Road into Red-Tailed Hawk, so the murderer had to come this way. So I came.”

Max swatted away a mosquito. “You came, you saw, you knocked on the door. I believe it. Whether Garrett will is another matter.”

“Sour red berries with big yellow flowers.” Laurel smiled. “And spiny.”

Max said gently, “Yes, Mother?”

“Barberry. A sure indication of sharpness of temper. Perhaps dear Annie should be tactful when she informs Chief Garrett about our investigations and Mark Stone’s enforced vigil near Marsh Tacky Road last night.”

Annie looked at Laurel’s dreamy expression with respect. Laurel sure had a point. How much tact would it take to tell Garrett they’d outdone him from start to finish in the search for facts? More tact than Annie had ever commanded.

Emma waved a stubby hand. “Leave it to me. I’ll explain everything.”

Sometimes Annie resented Emma’s generalship. But not right now. She welcomed any and all support.

A car door slammed. Horace Burford, wiping his sunburned face with a bandanna, stomped across the terrace, black bag in hand.

Max was frowning. “Annie, you said Jake was going to have breakfast.”

Annie nodded. “There was a glass of orange juice and a bowl of cereal. And the murderer came.”

“Okay.” Max waggled his arms and the no-see-ums whirled away. “I follow you this far. But are we talking mental telepathy, a crystal ball? Why did the murderer come?”

Emma jumped in. “Oh, that’s simple. Jake called him. Or her. First thing this morning. Wanted his vase fixed, said how much it would cost. Annie’s right. Jake had to have seen something last night. Nothing that would have alarmed him. But if someone rode past his house, careened into the wall—and you know the person who left Kathryn’s body and tried to conk Henny must have been stressed—and went on, leaving the damaged vase, Jake would have been outside in a flash. He wouldn’t have been likely to chase after the person at the moment, but he would certainly have called.” Her broad mouth spread in a grim smile. “Oh yes, I like that. I’ll use it in my next book. I’ll call it
The Case of the Careless Caller
. I can see it all. The phone rings. The murderer answers. At this point, the murderer thinks everything is pretty well under control. Kathryn’s dead. The murderer escaped from her apartment with the blackmail folders. Henny Brawley’s under suspicion for Kathryn’s murder. So far, there’s no indication Henny remembers anything of what happened in Marsh Tacky Lane. Everything’s cool. Then, Jake calls. Jake’s in a huff and he says, ‘You knocked over my vase when you hit my wall last night. It’s going to be expensive to fix it.’ He didn’t know it, but the minute he said that, he was a dead man.”