White Elephant Dead (21 page)
“That I don’t know. But I can tell you he’s got a short fuse. Once at a Friends meeting, somebody interrupted him and he stopped and his face turned purple and I thought he was going to heave a chair across the room. You could see it in his eyes. Maybe that’s why Marie’s always right there. She took his hand and tugged. You know how little she is, but in a second she had him out in the hall and the whole thing blew over.” Henny looked thoughtful. “That’s funny. I hadn’t thought about it until now, but she’s the tough one.”
Annie remembered Marie’s lively, elfin face, not a face to associate with double murder. But there was strength in that face. Had she needed strength through the years to deal with her husband? And with a mother-in-law who loathed her?
“And that leaves Vince Ellis.” Henny pointed across the saloon at a wall of framed photographs, all, of course, featuring Emma. “I’ve always liked that picture, the third from the bottom. It’s one of the few times I’ve ever seen Emma laugh out loud.”
It was an excellent shot of Emma and Vince and Arlene Ellis. Across time, there was no way to know what prompted the joke but Vince was staggering backward, one hand holding up his tie to simulate a noose. Arlene stood with her arms folded, shaking her head in remonstrance, trying not to laugh. As for Emma, her face was pink, her eyes watering and she could scarcely stand she was laughing so hard.
“Vince used to be so much fun,” Henny said softly. “Before Arlene died, he was the happiest man in the world.
When you think about it”—she shook a finger at Annie—“how many happy murderers have you ever read about?”
“Vince isn’t happy now.” Max’s gaze was dark.
“I should know who did it.” Henny moved impatiently on the divan. “I’ve been thinking and thinking ever since Emma told me. And then I try to imagine being afraid of one of them and it seems crazy. Emma insists I’m in danger.”
There was a silence and they all could hear the slap of water against the hull.
“It depends,” Max said judiciously.
“The case is solved,” Annie said slowly, “if Ruth Yates is the murderer.”
“No.” Henny was emphatic. “I’ve known Ruth ever since she and Brian came to Broward’s Rock. She is incapable of murder.”
Max’s face was grave. “I’m afraid we can’t be certain of that. I talked to the nurse who was on duty the night Alden Yates died…”
When he finished, Henny shook her head, then winced. “I don’t believe Ruth killed anyone. Funny. It would be so much better for me if she was guilty. Because I’m beginning to remember, you know. In patches. And if it isn’t Ruth…” She suddenly looked much smaller, frailer, weary. She looked around the elegantly appointed saloon. “I can’t stay here forever.”
Death could come stealing quietly up the steps of her isolated marsh home in the stillness of a rainy morning, in the darkness of moonlit night.
“We’ll figure it out, Henny. I promise.” Annie wished she had the ebullient confidence of Elizabeth Peters’s Amelia Peabody instead of an uneasy feeling that their opponent was as cold and capable as Agatha Christie’s villain in
N or M
.
Annie glanced at the clock as they straggled into the house. Almost two in the morning. Every night they came in a little later. They had waited until Henny was locked in
her cabin and safely asleep before rowing back to the harbor. Now, as they flicked on the kitchen lights, Dorothy L. gamboled happily across the counter.
The answering machine light blinked steadily. Five messages. Annie crossed to the machine as Max shook out dry food for Dorothy L.—certainly it was fortunate Agatha couldn’t see this—and filled tall tumblers with ice. Annie punched the button.
M
ESSAGE
1:
Chief Garrett informed me that Pamela Potts arrived on the scene shortly after I left the hospital and she raised the alarm. Henny is now officially among the missing. I’m pleased with that. It should make our murderer highly nervous. By the way, I cleared Henny’s departure with Dr. Cary and with our young police chief. Garrett may possibly learn something from this adventure. In fact, it’s given me an idea for a book:
The Case of the Shamefaced Cop
. If Garrett had listened to us Thursday night in Marsh Tacky Lane, he might have fanned out and reached Jake Chapman’s house and Jake might be playing his regular foursome in the morning. In any event, we dare not be sanguine about Garrett’s focus on Ruth. In fact, I intend to get the word out that we intrepid investigators are convinced of Ruth’s innocence and intend to pursue other suspects. To that end, I suggest Max delve deeper into the boating mishaps. Annie, I’ll expect you at the White Elephant Sale in the morning. Everyone will be there. I’ll stalk about making dark hints. You can furrow your brow, widen your eyes, and claim you never, ever believed—let your voice drop—and whisper a scandalous tidbit. You’ll ferret out all kinds of discreditable histories. I’ve already spoken with Laurel. Do you know, directing this investigation is almost more fun than writing. Until tomorrow.
Max handed Annie a glass of water. She drank and glared at the answering machine. “Who does she think she is?”
Max grinned. “Marigold Rembrandt is America’s Miss Marple. What does that make Emma?”
“A conceited, self-centered, patronizing show-off,” Annie fumed. “Does she think she needs to tell me how to ask questions?”
“That’s ridiculous,” Max said staunchly. Was there a slight quiver of his lips? He ducked his head to pick up Dorothy L.
Annie looked at him suspiciously. “Emma may have written seventy-five books but that doesn’t mean she knows everything. I fact, I could tell her a book to write. Or maybe I’ll write it,
The Case
”—she savored every syllable—“
of the Missing Mystery Writer
.”
Max grinned. The cat curled against his chest and purred.
M
ESSAGE
2:
Dear Annie, dear Max. I am impressed by your devotion to Henny’s cause. I must rush to my easel and compose a tribute to you both, elder for zealousness, goldenrod for encouragement, and larch for audacity. I shall embrace magnolia as a reminder that I, too, shall persevere. Dear Fred is so encouraging. And insightful. When I see him, I can only think of monkshood, a tribute to his chivalry—
Max’s dark brows knit in a frown. Dorothy L. looked at him with interest.
Annie resisted the impulse to hoot, “Chivalry? Is that what they call it?” Clearly in America the semantics of sex were undergoing a strange and wonderful transformation in the last years of the twentieth century.
—and of ranunculus, as I am surely dazzled by his charm. Mmmm. But tomorrow I shall broadcast the language of flowers in our pursuit of justice. Anon.
M
ESSAGE
3:
The evening was quite uneventful. I can report—
Adelaide Prescott’s soft Carolina accent invested the everyday words with grace and loveliness.
—a grand success for the Arts Center. I believe it may be the most successful fund-raiser to date. Certainly Janet Pierce deserves the gratitude of every lover of art on our island. In regard to our earlier speculations, I must inform you that nothing untoward occurred. Indeed, Janet Pierce was at her loveliest and most charming. I spoke to her at one point and Janet’s smile was unforgettable. She said, “Mrs. Prescott, you will never know how much this evening means to me,” and at that point Dave came across the room and he looked so proud, a pride which I well understand. The credit for the party’s success all belongs to Janet. I trust you will dismiss our earlier conversation. My dear old friend was there with her remarkable necklace. I was in total error. Good night, my dear.
Max dropped Dorothy L. to the floor. She immediately wafted through the air to land beside the answering machine. She patted the cord.
“Dorothy L., don’t even think about it. Max, she’s still hungry.”
Max opened the refrigerator, found a piece of steak. As he chopped it up, he looked at Annie quizzically. “Come on, Annie. Can you really picture Janet Pierce as a cat burglar? The woman eats and breathes social prominence. She would never jeopardize her social status, much less put herself in danger of going to prison.”
Annie took another deep swallow of the cool water. It was nice to focus on something besides Emma Clyde’s bossi
ness. “It would be a neat link between Janet and Kathryn, a thief who picked a fence with a penchant for blackmail.”
“I don’t buy it.” Max put down the bowl with the steak and leaned against the kitchen counter.
M
ESSAGE
4:
Clearly there has been an outbreak of idiocy on the island. It was absurd for Henny ever to have been suspected of murdering Kathryn Girard. But Ruth Yates!—
Miss Dora’s raspy voice quivered with indignation. The snap, crackle and pop of the international connection punctuated a tirade that concluded:
—and I trust that you and Maxwell and Emma will bend yourselves to the task of clearing Ruth. I have worked with Ruth on many diocesan matters and I can state unequivocally that she has neither the intelligence, the aptitude nor the appetite for multiple murders. Do you think it would be helpful for me to so inform the new police chief? I shall await your response. Good night
In unison, Annie and Max shook their heads. Dorothy L.’s fur fluffed.
“Not you, sweetie.” Annie pointed at Max. “You call Miss Dora tomorrow. Deflect her. Tell her it’s all a ploy to fool the real killer.”
Max yawned. “Maybe it would be a good idea for Garrett to get a picture of how people perceive Ruth.”
Annie put their glasses in the sink. “I think it will be better if we leave him alone. He’s going to get tired of everybody telling him he’s got it all wrong.”
M
ESSAGE
5:
Annie, I can’t believe you told that policeman the gun belonged to me. I told you Kathryn took it—
Ruth Yates’s voice shook with anguish and fear. Annie lifted her hands as if to ward off blows as the frantic words pelted her.
—and I can’t tell anyone about Kathryn, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t—
Ruth was sobbing now and the words became difficult to hear.
—can’t bear…never wanted to hurt…leave me alone…oh Brian, Brian…
When the connection ended, tears burned in Annie’s eyes. “Max, this is awful. She’s terrified.” She reached for the telephone.
Max grabbed her hand. “Wait. Annie, it’s too late. You can call first thing in the morning.”
Finally Annie agreed, but her last vision before falling asleep was of Ruth Yates, her face streaked with tears, her finger pointing at Annie.
Annie paced back and forth in the kitchen, watching the clock. It wasn’t good manners to call before nine in the morning but surely contacting a frightened murder suspect altered the rules of social intercourse. The minute the hour hand swung to seven, she picked up the phone.
The microwave pinged. Max opened it, lifted out her two slices of pizza and his carrot muffin. He hadn’t said a word about cholesterol or fat grams when she’d chosen her breakfast.
As he put her plate on the table, Annie nodded her thanks and swept Dorothy L. onto a chair. Undaunted, Dorothy L. swarmed right back on the table, her blue eyes sparkling. Max picked her up, nuzzled her neck. “Are you still hungry?”
“Of course she’s still hungry,” Annie snapped. “Dorothy L. thinks mealtime is anytime she’s—” Annie broke off.
“Brian Yates.” He was a big bear of a man, but it was the first time Annie had ever heard his deep voice sound harsh and stricken.
Suddenly her own kitchen seemed about as comfortable as the Arctic tundra. “Brian, this is Annie Darling. I—”
“Haven’t you done enough harm?” His tone bristled with anger. “I can’t believe you’d call here.”
Annie stiffened. “Wait a minute, Brian. I’m not the one who pointed a gun at Kathryn Girard. But Max and Emma and I are the ones who are trying to find out what really happened Thursday night. Now, if you want to help Ruth, you’ll let me talk to her.”
Max was watching, his eyes concerned. Dorothy L.’s head poked up next to Annie’s plate. Annie grabbed the plate, put it on the counter by the phone, then turned on the speaker.
“I can’t.” Brian spoke so softly he could barely be heard. “She’s in the hospital.”
“The hospital?” Annie felt numb. What had happened? What had Ruth done?
Max pushed back his chair, came to stand beside her.
“After the police left, Ruth locked herself in her room. Chief Garrett said she had to come to the station tomorrow and she should have a lawyer. But she wouldn’t talk to me.” His voice was heavy with pain and disbelief. “Dr. Burford came when I was trying to get her to let me in. She hadn’t eaten. She was crying. He told me to wait downstairs. I heard him knock on her door. He told her he had to see her and not to be a damned fool. In a minute, she opened the door and he went inside.”
Max scrawled on a kitchen pad: I
told you what Burford said. It must be true, after all. Ruth must have killed Alden Yates
!
Annie leaned close to the speaker phone. “Was she sick? What did Dr. Burford say?”
“Nobody talked to me.” His tone was querulous. “I went
upstairs and leaned close to the door, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying.”
Annie pictured Brian Yates easing quietly up the stairs to creep down his own hall, bewildered and desperate.
“When he came out, he said Ruth was suffering from exhaustion and had to be hospitalized and he was going to check her in himself. She came out of her room with a bag.” There was a long, aching pause. “She didn’t even look toward me.”
Annie wanted to tell him not to worry. But how could she? If ever a man had reason to worry, it was Brian. Instead, she said, “I’ll go see her, Brian.”
“They won’t let you in. Burford called a little while ago. He said Ruth wasn’t to be disturbed. Not by anybody. Not me. Not her friends. Not the police.” He took a deep breath. “They’ve got a guard at her door. A guard!” and the phone slammed down.
Annie clicked off the speaker phone, put up the receiver. “Max, it looks worse and worse for Ruth.”
