White Elephant Dead (26 page)

“Hello.” Barbara’s cheerful voice was a song of greeting.

“Hi, Barbara, Max Darling calling from Death on Demand. Annie put her best customers’ names in a bowl and pulled out yours. We have a special prize for you. May I bring it over?”

“Why, Max!” Sheer delight lifted her voice. “Oh please do. I love surprises!”

The sale room was beginning to fill as bargain hunters fanned out. One enterprising volunteer had begun a hoarse chant: “Half price, cookie cutters of goblins, shooting stars and anteaters; old photos of gunslingers, madams and riverboats; 1910 telephone book of Savannah; cookbooks of Gullah cuisine, Indonesian spices and Gold Rush Grub; a treasure map that marks the location of the magic sword needed to save the princess; a genuine Penny Dreadful, only missing three…”

Annie hurried toward the aisle near the far windows. Discarded boxes were piled at the far end just behind the costume jewelry booth. Janet Pierce smiled up at a customer. Her sleek golden hair glistened in the late afternoon sun spilling through the shining glass panes.

As Annie came nearer, she marveled at Janet’s crisp appearance. Annie felt frazzled and knew her hair needed combing, her blouse was coming untucked and her skirt was wrinkled.

Janet lifted a welcoming hand. “Every year I swear I
won’t do this again. I’ve forgotten how hard it is to work all day.”

Annie felt a sudden kinship. Okay, Janet looked fresh but she was just as tired as everyone else. “Sold a lot?”

Janet waggled her hand. “Quite a bit. But Emma’s never satisfied.” She checked her watch. “Twenty more minutes, then I’m going home for a swim.”

Annie planted her hands on the table, looked around conspiratorially, then asked, “Janet, what’s this I hear about Kathryn Girard’s van stopping at your house?”

Janet gestured toward the stage. “No reason to be so quiet about it, Annie. Trot up on the stage and ask over the PA system.” Her voice was amused, but there was an undercurrent of irritation. “I swear, you’re the fifteenth person who’s sidled up to ask me that, very confidentially, of course. All I can tell you—”

“—is that someone’s made a mistake.” Dave Pierce’s clear tenor voice was unemphatic, but possibly its very smoothness and control made his tone more impressive.

Janet’s head jerked up. “Dave, isn’t this silly!” She spoke lightly, but her eyes watched him anxiously.

Pierce was not looking at his wife. Instead, he faced Annie, a slender man with a stern face, cold eyes, short black hair touched with silver.

Annie was uncertain what gave Pierce his air of power. Was it the grim set of his thin lips, the firm jut of his jaw, the obvious quality of his sports coat and worsted slacks, the shine of his Italian loafers? Was it all of these or none of these? But no one would dismiss this man or ignore him, not now in the crowded aisle of a rummage sale nor in a corporate boardroom nor on the deck of a boat. “In fact, Mrs. Darling, I understand it is your mistake. You provided this so-called list to the police.” His eyes bored into hers.

Janet’s hands closed on a mess of jewelry.

Annie felt an instant of shock. But why should she be surprised? Chief Garrett had truthfully answered Dave Pierce’s inquiry and it certainly should come as no surprise
that Dave Pierce, once the rumors reached him, would investigate. This was not a passive man.

Annie was never quite certain what gave her courage. It might have been his derisive reference to the list as “so-called.” It might have been the remembered horror of that terribly still form beneath the blanket in the back of the van. It might have been the memory of Henny sprawled face down in the forest. “The list exists.” Her voice was uneven, but she met his gaze without wavering. “Four addresses, Mr. Pierce. One address is yours. The list was made by Kathryn Girard. There can be no doubt of that.” Annie didn’t need a handwriting expert to be confident. She had seen the list and she had seen Kathryn’s distinctive scrawl on the notepad in her shop.

Janet’s face was puzzled. “I don’t understand it. I’d already made our donation to the sale, a pottery swan”—she pointed across the room at garden statuary—“and some old linen and a tea set with a chipped teapot. And I’m the one who takes care of that sort of thing….” Her voice trailed off. She was not looking at Annie. Again her eyes turned to her husband, and Annie read uncertainty. And fear?

Dave Pierce’s lips curved in a cold smile. “Nonetheless, it’s clear that there has been a mistake. If the list, as you claim, is genuine, then the Girard woman wrote down the wrong address, certainly for our house.” A shrug. “Perhaps for all the houses. Moreover, no one has reported seeing the van at any of these houses. The list may have nothing to do with her death. In any event, our house had nothing to do with her death.” He stepped past Annie, dismissing her, and focused his gaze on his wife. “Are you finished here, Janet?”

“Almost. I’m sacking up the jewelry that didn’t sell.” Her slender hands quickly scooped up some brooches. “Dave, let’s take a swim.”

Annie apparently no longer existed to the Pierces. That made her mad. She stared at Dave’s back, then took two steps and ostentatiously squeezed past him and parked herself right in front of the booth.

Ignoring Annie, Dave smiled at his wife. “Beach or pool?” Janet lifted a tray with an array of gaudy bracelets.

“How much are those bracelets?” Annie pointed at that tray. She didn’t wait for an answer. “Of course, that’s just costume jewelry. Not like the pieces that have been stolen the past few years.”

Janet held the tray motionless. She was strikingly beautiful in the sharp sunlight, golden hair, smoothly planed face, bright coral lips. The sun sparkled too on the red and yellow and green and white stones, and the cheap jewelry blazed with color. She glanced at Annie, her face unreadable, then in a swift movement slid the bracelets into a box. “No treasures here. But do you know, I’ve been thinking about those robberies—”

Annie’s eyes widened. Was there the slightest hint of a smile on Janet’s face?

“—and it occurred to me that all the jewelry was stolen after Kathryn Girard came to the island. Do you suppose she could have been the thief?”

Barbara McKay’s round face glowed with anticipation. “Max, no wonder Annie’s bookstore is such a success. Why, this is the nicest surprise I could ever have.” She held tight to the book, wrapped in a paper bright with red and yellow balloons that Max had found stuck behind a duster in Annie’s office closet.

Max smiled, felt ratlike and sipped the excellent fresh iced tea with a sprig of mint. “She had fun drawing names this morning. She always wants her best customers to know they are appreciated.”

They sat in Barbara’s small den and Max knew Barbara deserved a gift, even if this one was a product of his creative fancy. Bookshelves filled all four walls and all the books were mysteries. He spotted titles Annie would love to have:
To Spite Her Face
by Hildegarde Dolson,
Death Tears a Comic Strip
by Theodora Dubois,
Cat’s Claw
by D. B. Olsen.

Barbara removed the paper, folded it with precision and
stared at the book with incredulous delight. “Max, Max! A first edition of
Murder’s Little Sister
by Pamela Branch. Max, I can’t believe it!”

Annie probably wouldn’t either when she returned to the shop to find the $260 book gone. Max grinned. “Actually, it was easy to pick a prize for you. We can’t decide what to give Vince Ellis. He’s the other winner. He shops at the store for mysteries for Meg. You know, we have a terrific collection of children’s mysteries. But Annie wasn’t sure which we should pick. She said Vince is very particular about what Meg reads.”

“Oh, that dear child.” Barbara’s eyes were soft. “What a difficult time she’s had.” She saw Max’s inquiring look. “Oh, you wouldn’t know, but I had Meg in kindergarten.”

Max brightened. “Then perhaps you might suggest some books she would enjoy.”

“Nothing too scary, Max. The Boxcar mysteries and anything for that age group by George Edward Stanley. His books are lovely, happy and silly and funny. But you have to be careful.” Her gaze was earnest. “Nothing that mentions a car wreck or loss at sea. That dear baby has had so much trauma, but she’s a lucky little girl.” Barbara threw her hands up. “Oh, that sounds silly after all she’s been through. But Vince is the kindest, dearest father to her. And he knows that Meg’s very fragile. On top of everything else, you know how depressed Arlene was. Meg’s just now gaining a sense of security. And she’s making friends and that’s so hard for a little girl as withdrawn as she is. You know how children are! They are quick to shut out anyone who’s different. And maybe, too, it frightens them when they hear adults talking about a mother and daddy dying.” Barbara sighed. “At school, we’ve all made a special effort for Meg to help her make friends. It’s finally working.”

A
nnie luxuriated in the warmth of the sun on her skin and the smell of coconut oil and the gentle lap of salt water as her rubber raft rocked. Sometimes it was wonderful to remember where they lived, in the land of soft light, sea breezes and—She jerked upright, flailed and the raft overturned, dumping her into the water.

Max, his blond hair sleek against his head, whooped with delight, then dove toward her. She clung to him. “Dammit, Max, I thought that was a jellyfish on my leg.”

“I’ll rescue you from that old mean jellyfish.” His gaze was virtuous, but his hand was sliding down her back to her thigh.

“Max, we’re in public.” She twisted away.

“We’re in the water,” he corrected, moving purposefully toward her.

“Public water,” she insisted.

He grinned. “Ready to go home?”

She grinned in return. “Soon.”

He did an abrupt back flip and water cascaded over her head and sprayed out in sparkling drops.

Annie paddled to her raft and draped herself across the middle, her legs trailing behind her in the water.

Max took a deep breath and did another back flip.

Annie watched as the plume of water rose and fell. “That’s all we’ve done today. Make a splash that comes to nothing. We still don’t know who killed Kathryn Girard or Jake Chapman. It could be Ruth. Or one of the Campbells. Or Vince Ellis. Or Dave Pierce. Or Janet.”

Max floated on his back toward her, rolled over and joined her on the raft. He blew in her ear, then said quickly, “Not so, Annie. We accomplished a lot today.”

She pushed away a blob of seaweed. “Like what?”

Max grabbed a strand of seaweed. “We know what happened to Arlene.”

“How could she do it?” Annie turned to look into his deep blue eyes. “How could she sail away and leave Vince and that little girl?”

“Winston Churchill called it the Black Dog. Depression. Arlene wasn’t able to think about Vince and Meg, Annie. All she saw was blackness.” He looked out toward the horizon, the soft green sea stretching to meet the sky. “It was a black day that she sailed.”

They clung to the raft, their bodies touching with the warmth that transcends light and heat.

Annie’s voice was small when she said doubtfully, “But Max, Vince’s address was on the list.”

Max nodded. “I told you about my talk with Barbara—”

There had been a moment of stiffness over
Murder’s Little Sister
.

“—and when I got home, I checked with Pamela Potts. Kathryn did some volunteer work at the school. People talk. Teachers talk. Meg’s problems were probably mentioned. Kathryn had probably already picked up on Arlene’s death and so she nosed around.”

Annie rested her chin on a ridge of the raft. “But if Ar
lene committed suicide, what hold did Kathryn have over Vince?”

“Not a hold, Annie. A threat.” His voice was grim. “What would it do to Meg if the gossip got around the school, reached the parents of the little girls she wanted to play with, that Meg’s mother killed her father? Think about it, Annie.”

A V of pelicans flew overhead, then peeled into dives, down, down, down to the water. Annie pointed at the birds. “That’s what Kathryn did. She saw something odd in someone’s life and she pounced. It was the same kind of thing with the Campbells. A secret that they didn’t want anyone to know, especially not Kate.” Annie’s shoulders tightened. “Gary Campbell could lose control, Max. He almost did this afternoon.”

Max’s face hardened. “I wish to hell I’d been there. And that goes for Dave Pierce, too.” He was still bristling at Dave’s overbearing treatment of Annie.

She looked at him fondly. With his wet hair plastered against his head and a golden string of seaweed looped over his right shoulder he didn’t look like a knight ready to joust for his lady, but he was definitely Galahad to Annie. “They don’t have that,” she said abruptly.

He looked at her with interest, dark blue eyes thoughtful. And patient.

It was, Annie realized abruptly, the same expression Max bore when his mother had made a remark that didn’t fit any known context.

Dammit, she wasn’t loopy. “The Pierces. They don’t have the kind of closeness we have. Janet was watching him like Agatha at a mouse hole. I think”—Annie frowned, trying to interpret that quick flash in Janet’s eyes—“she was scared.”

“That may be the most important thing we learned today,” Max said slowly. “If Janet was telling the truth and she’d already made her contributions to the sale, then maybe Dave was the one Kathryn talked to.”

Annie shivered. “He’s tough, Max. When I looked at him, I knew what it would have been like to be a captive on a pirate ship, knowing the captain would cut out my tongue in an instant. Without a qualm. Without a thought.”

“I agree, Annie.” Max maneuvered the raft away from the lowering sun. “Okay, we’ve tried to find out who might have killed Kathryn and why. And we think we know.” He ticked them off on his fingers: Ruth Yates, the murder of Alden Yates; Marie Campbell, the truth about Kate’s paternity; Gary Campbell, ditto; Janet Pierce—”

Annie wriggled in excitement. “Max, she was laughing at me about the jewelry. And that’s a hell of a motive if Kathryn figured out she was stealing all that stuff. But I’ll bet you anything she’s going to get the story around that Kathryn must have stolen the jewelry, and when nothing is ever stolen again, everyone will accept Kathryn as the thief.” Annie’s face fell. “But would Janet twit me like that if she killed Kathryn? That would be awfully reckless.”

“Maybe, as Adelaide said, that’s the point.” Max sprinkled water on her shoulders.

“Which would make them both scary.” Annie glanced at him and amplified, “Janet and Dave.”

Max resumed his summation. “—Janet Pierce, the jewel thefts; Dave Pierce, his first wife’s murder; Vince Ellis, the murder and suicide of Meg’s parents. But maybe none of that counts.”

Annie stood up in the water so abruptly that the raft upended and Max sank in the water. When he came up, spouting water like a geyser, Annie continued hotly, “None of it counts? What do you mean, none of it counts?”

“The reasons for blackmail. Maybe what matters more is the people who were being blackmailed. What’s a big deal to one person, isn’t to another. Would Gary Campbell kill somebody to prevent people from learning about Marie’s weekend with Roderick Ransome?”

“But Max, it wasn’t just a weekend. It was a weekend with long, long consequences.” The sins of the fathers, or in
this case, the mothers…. Old truths were like prehistoric remains. The flesh was gone, but the bones could not be ignored.

“I know. But the point is the people, not the facts.” His voice was stubborn. “If you just look at facts, we can all go to the Fall Revel tonight and laugh and drink champagne; the investigation’s complete.”

Annie said slowly, “Ruth. The gun. The croquet mallet. A secret that could put her in jail. Two plus two equals four.” Her eyes narrowed, then she said in a rush, “And you know what? I don’t believe it for a minute. Ruth’s gentle and indecisive and long-suffering. That’s what you mean, isn’t it, Max?”

“Right. We can have all the facts in the world, but what it comes down to is character. Tell me about this murderer, Annie.” He looked at her intently.

Annie understood. There was a design to the death of Kathryn Girard and there could be no doubt that the impression of the murderer’s mind was there to find. “All right, there are two possibilities. If Ruth Yates killed Kathryn, she grabbed up the croquet mallet in a rush of anger after Kathryn took the gun away. But if Ruth didn’t kill Kathryn, it’s a very different matter.”

“Very different.” Max rested his chin on his folded arms. The raft tilted up and over a swell. “In that event, the murderer figured that Ruth Yates was a blackmail victim because of her attitude toward Kathryn. The murderer decided ahead of time that Kathryn would die when she came to make her last call.” He frowned. “But why kill her at all if she was going away?”

“This murderer,” Annie said crisply, “must have had a reason. Maybe it wasn’t possible to come up with the money, maybe Kathryn demanded it on too short notice or maybe the murderer didn’t believe Kathryn’s demands would stop. This is important, Max. We know the mallet killed Kathryn. The murderer must have taken it earlier in the week from the Yateses’ house.”

A shrimp boat, nets drawn up, passed a hundred yards away. “Here’s what we know.” Max was precise. “The mallet is stolen in preparation. The murderer kills Kathryn when she arrives and puts her in the back of the van. If Ruth is innocent, that’s when the murderer saw the gun and took it. The murderer drives the van to Marsh Tacky Road. Henny arrives. The murderer attacks Henny, but misses. Henny runs away. The murderer—”

Annie interrupted. She was the one who’d found the tilted vase at Jake Chapman’s house. “—takes the bike trail and bumps the vase at the Chapman house, maybe it was raining so hard the bike skidded, whatever. Late that night, the murderer goes to Kathryn’s to see if there’s any incriminating stuff and finds some files. We arrive and the murderer shoots at me. The next day, Chapman calls about the vase—”

Max broke in. “Wait a minute. When Garrett punched redial, the phone rang Ruth’s house.”

Annie nodded solemnly. “Yes, it did. That means one of two things: Either Ruth is the murderer and Chapman did call her and she was too upset to think about erasing any trace of the call to her, or”—Annie shivered—“the murderer knew Ruth was a blackmail victim, so after killing Chapman, the murderer dialed Ruth’s number, setting her up to be the suspect.”

“A cold devil,” Max observed. “Damn cold. We’d better remember that.” He ticked off the points on his fingers. “If Ruth is innocent, the person we’re looking for is capable of careful planning, has no scruples about putting an innocent person in jeopardy and acts swiftly if threatened.”

“Not Ruth.” Annie spoke with conviction.

Max called the roll. “Vince Ellis? Marie Campbell? Gary Campbell? Janet Pierce? Dave Pierce?”

Annie knew who had her vote. “Dave Pierce.” But was it prejudice or instinct? She continued almost without pause. “Vince is tough, too. And all he has left in the world is Meg. Gary Campbell has a hell of a temper. If he was the one
who came out of Kathryn’s place, he wouldn’t wait a minute to shoot. Marie’s a mother. Backed into a corner to protect Kate, she might do anything. Janet Pierce was a top-rank executive. She could plan an invasion of Mars. And I know she stole that jewelry. Oh Max”—it was a wail—“all we really know is that Ruth didn’t do it and I don’t know how we’ll ever find out who did!”

They stood in the foyer, admiring each other.

Annie twirled, the tiered skirt of her black georgette dress flaring, then reached out to smooth Max’s lapel. “Honestly, a white dinner jacket is as sexy as a baseball uniform. I like it so much better than an old black jacket.”

Max’s dark blue eyes studied her. “I thought we watched baseball because it’s such a complex game, so much going on, both on the field and off, the runner at second trying to pick up the signals, the manager deciding between relievers on the basis of the lineup, right-handed bats or left, the infield charging if there’s a suicide squeeze on. Am I under a misapprehension?”

Annie’s smile was demure. “And those things, too.”

His lips quirked. “Do I detect a shameless hussy?”

“You might.” Her eyes sparkled.

“Good. How about—”

The phone rang.

“I’ll check caller ID.” Annie rushed to the kitchen. “It’s Emma,” she called out. “Hello, Emma.”

Max lounged in the doorway.

Annie punched on the speaker.

“…glad I caught you. Not that I think there’s anything we can do. Garrett’s arrested Ruth as a material witness. He’ll probably have her arraigned for murder on Monday.” Emma sighed. “Can’t say I blame him. Ruth’s fingerprints are on the gun that killed Chapman. Her fingerprints are on the mallet that killed Kathryn. And that damn fool husband of hers dumped the rest of the croquet set in the harbor and Ben Parotti fished it out and called Garrett. Turns out every
one on that list denied that Kathryn came by in the van. Except poor old Ruth, of course. I’m going to make an appeal to the community at large at the festival tonight. And Laurel and Pamela will work the crowd. But I’ll have to admit I’m stymied. Problem is, there aren’t any damn clues. I always provide Marigold with plenty of clues.” She slammed down the phone.

Strings of white lights decorated a welcoming arch at the Island Hills Country Club. The lights spelled out
FALL REVEL
.

Women in shimmery dresses and men in white dinner jackets and black trousers were streaming onto the broad veranda. Japanese lanterns bobbed in the gentle breeze.

Annie and Max waved at friends, called out hellos, were in a group heading for the main ballroom as the band swung into a sensuous tango, the dance which had swept the island this past year. Many of the tables were already filled as guests moved slowly past a sumptuous buffet. The ballroom doorway filled and the forward pace slowed to a crawl.

“You hand in your tickets when you get in the buffet line.” Annie was puzzled. “And there’s plenty of room in the ballroom. I can’t imagine what’s holding everyone up.”

Max craned to see. “There’s a bottleneck just past the main door. I don’t—Oh.”

The couple in front of them turned. “Some kind of appeal,” the woman said.

Annie stood on tiptoe. Laurel was holding out a card and accepting a five-dollar bill, which she dropped into a bowl. A banner was pinned to the wall behind her:
RUTH YATES DEFENSE FUND. BUY A BOUQUET FOR RUTH
.

By the time they reached the table, the bowl was half full. A ruggedly handsome man in his sixties with the stalwart air of Ezio Pinza in
South Pacific
stood with one hand on the back of Laurel’s chair.

“Dear Max, Annie.” His mother beamed. “I am so eager for you to meet Fred Jeffries. Fred, this is my son and my dear daughter-in-law.”

Jeffries stepped around the table, pumped Max’s hand, smiled at Annie. “Marvelous woman, your mother. She’s opened up a new world to me.” Then he added hastily, “Flowers, you know.”