White Elephant Dead (27 page)

Annie smiled in return. “Camellias,” she said pleasantly.

“Camellias?” Fred and Max spoke in unison. Laurel watched Annie carefully.

“So many meanings,” Annie said carelessly. “But I know that camellias always signal good luck.” As well, Annie knew, as a gift to a man.

“Luck,” Laurel trilled. “How thoughtful of you, Annie. And certainly, we shall think camellias for dear Ruth.” She clapped her hands together. “Of course, the moment I knew that the gun belonged to Ruth, I foresaw great tribulation for her. As soon as I got home, I set right to work.” She pointed at the stack of painted cards. “Blackthorn represents so clearly dear Ruth’s difficulty. The sweet-chestnut blossom demands that she be done justice. The gladiolus represents her friends ready-armed to defend her, and hazel reveals that our hearts are agitated. Lantana trumpets our unyielding commitment.” She thrust a card at Max.

He dropped in a twenty and they moved on with a final smile to Fred, who once again stood behind Laurel’s chair. Close behind. As they reached the end of the buffet line, Annie observed mildly, “I’m never quite sure about your mother.”

“She’s definitely
ma mère
,” he replied.

“Oh, I don’t doubt that.” Her eyes swept his blond hair and lake-blue eyes and masculine version of Laurel’s elegant regular features. Was her tone faintly regretful? Or resigned? “It’s her incredible capacity to appear…” She paused, decided “looney tunes” lacked tact, and said, “…utterly guileless when she’s engaged in a deliberate ploy.”

“Ploy?” Max’s eyebrows rose.

Annie pointed across the room. Pamela Potts, festive in a blue dress that she probably first wore as high school valedictorian, stood in the center of a clot of rapt listeners.
“I’ll bet you the rest of my Pamela Branch firsts that Pamela Potts is busy spreading the fascinating news about the four houses on Kathryn Girard’s list while Laurel tugs on everybody’s heartstrings about Ruth. It’s all part of Emma’s grand plan to put pressure on the murderer. Emma thinks she can spin a plot the way she does for Marigold Rembrandt. I don’t think so. But”—she shrugged—“we’ve done our best, so we’ll give Emma her chance and we shall dance the night away.”

Max grabbed her hand and in a moment they were on the dance floor. Annie loved to tango with Max. It always made her feel like a dark-eyed seductress with a rose in her teeth. When the music ended, they glided out onto the terrace with its magnificent view of the eighteenth green. They walked to a glass-topped table near the low wall. Moonlight silvered the green.

In the lagoon that served as a hazard, frogs croaked—not the frenzied chorus of midsummer, but a respectable enough din, from a frog perspective. Max was fond of pointing out that all those deep bleats meant, “Come on, sweetie, let’s get it on.” He would then sigh and exclaim, “Isn’t nature wonderful!” Tonight he flicked a salute toward the lagoon, murmured, “Go for it, boys!” then looked at Annie. “What would you like to drink? Champagne?”

“No, thanks. I don’t feel that festive tonight.” Yes, it was wonderful to tango with Max, but Ruth Yates was in a cell and Henny must feel equally trapped, though
Marigold’s Pleasure
was surely an elegant cage. “Club soda with lime.”

Max touched her hair. “Maybe we’d better tango again. Asceticism doesn’t become you.”

She flashed him a bright smile. “Don’t worry. I’m simply keeping the gray cells alert.”

Max disappeared through the French doors into the ballroom now ablaze with color and sound and movement.

Annie hummed along as she slipped into the webbed chair. The lyrics for “That Old Black Magic” bubbled in her mind. That’s what they needed, some old black magic—or
white or pink would do. They needed magic because dogged application had so far yielded enough information for five Marigold Rembrandt mysteries and not a single hard fact pointing to a murderer. The hard facts, like the croquet mallet and the gun, pointed at Ruth and Ruth alone.

And here came Emma. Could anyone else look quite so majestic in a golf cart? Her hair, piled atop her head, sparkled in the moonlight. There had to be twenty rhinestone pins poked into the beehive that tonight shone with a purplish hue.

Emma parked the golf cart at the end of the path. She climbed out and her white silk caftan with a crimson band at the hem swirled around her ankles. She marched briskly up the steps, her head bobbing in response to greetings. The rhinestone pins flashed and the hem flared. She moved across the terrace like a queen greeting subjects, and paused only long enough by Annie’s table to murmur, “I’ll speak at eight o’clock. Watch our suspects.”

Our suspects. That definitely had a proprietorial tone. Did Emma become possessive about the suspects in a Marigold Rembrandt adventure?

Annie described the moment when Max returned with their drinks.

He laughed. “And then are we to charge forward at a guilty cower and clap handcuffs on the perp?”

“Who knows? Marigold Rembrandt always triumphs.” She glanced at her watch. “But that gives us plenty of time for dinner.”

Annie loved the buffet: crab meat au gratin, scalloped oysters, glazed Cornish hens with orange and avocado slices, baked baby sweet potatoes, broccoli with peanut butter sauce, cheese grits, black-eyed peas and squash soufflé. There was a separate table for desserts: apple pie with rum sauce, chess pie, pineapple-studded white cake, chocolate chip pie, key lime pie and sherbets They settled at a table inside, near the stage. The band concluded a mélange of
Gershwin tunes. The musicians put down their instruments and filed off stage.

Annie spooned a smooth lump of chocolate chip pie. Max was eating rainbow sherbet.

Annie eyed his bowl. “Went all out there, didn’t you?”

“A life on the wild side,” he murmured. “It’s—” He broke off, put down his spoon. “Here comes Emma.”

Emma mounted the low steps to the stage and moved to the center. She lifted her hand and white spotlights closed on her. Head high, she gazed out over the dance floor to the tables, her square face confident. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the annual Fall Revel, which marks the successful culmination of yet another superb Women’s Club White Elephant Sale. Usually it is my pleasure to thank our committee heads and to report on the activities our fund-raiser will make possible in the coming year. Instead that report will be mailed to you. Tonight, I wish to focus on a crime which has directly affected our organization, the murder on Thursday evening of Kathryn Girard—”

If ever Emma held an audience it was this one. There must have been two hundred people in the room and the silence was absolute.

“—and the loss of one of the Island Hills Country Club’s most accomplished golfers and outstanding members, Jake Chapman. I am making this extraordinary statement because one of the most respected members of our Women’s Club, Ruth Yates, has become the focus, most of us believe quite incorrectly, of the police investigation into these murders. Let me recap for you the events of the last three days. On Thursday afternoon…”

Annie leaned close to Max, quickly whispered, “Emma better be careful. Dave Pierce probably has at least two lawyers in the audience and he’ll go after her if she mentions him,” then scooted her chair so that she had a clear view of the entire ballroom. As Emma’s brisk voice continued, Annie quickly scanned the sea of watching faces. Vince Ellis stood motionless next to a potted palm. The shadow from a palm
frond fell across his face, but didn’t hide the hard ridge of his jaw. A blue spot bathed Gary and Marie Campbell, who sat alone at a table for four. Gary’s dinner jacket fitted him awkwardly and his tie was askew. He hunched in his chair, his bony face alert, his arm tight around Marie’s slight shoulders. She leaned forward, her elfin features bleak. Janet and Dave Pierce were the obvious host and hostess of a table for ten. Oh yes, the Pierces had a houseful of guests. And the vibrant redhead with the merry laugh and the incredibly large gold necklace must be Adelaide’s old friend from Coral Gables. She was still wearing her ancient gold necklace, obviously. She nodded toward the stage and Janet leaned close to whisper to her. Yes, it would be quite an exciting story for a houseguest, a great mystery near enough to provide a thrill, but certainly not close enough to threaten. Janet’s hands flashed as she talked, and she seemed to be enjoying relating her commentary. In marked contrast, Dave Pierce was totally, soberly, intently focused on Emma.

“—apparently the van was scheduled to visit Sea Oats Circle, Porpoise Place, Ship’s Galley Road and Mockingbird Lane—”

So Emma was smart enough to skirt the possibility of slander by mentioning the streets but not the addresses.

“—and was found, as I’m sure most of you know, on Marsh Tacky Road. My request is for anyone who saw the van after four o’clock on Thursday afternoon to report where and when. You may call my number and leave your information. Please also leave your name and telephone number. My hope is that one of you”—that broad stubby hand swept the room—“may have observed some fact that will lead us to the identity of the murderer and…”

Annie’s gaze swept the room. Vince Ellis folded his arms over his chest and slowly shook his head. Gary Campbell looked warily up at a man who had clapped him on the shoulder and was asking an excited question. Marie Campbell stared at their inquisitor with a fixed smile. Janet Pierce stirred her coffee. For an instant her bright social manner
slipped away and her eyes were intent as she stared at her husband. Dave adjusted his glasses, his face creased in thought.

Annie whispered, “I’ll give Emma some credit. She sure as hell has everybody’s attention, but it won’t prove anything even if somebody saw the van parked in one of their drives. Darn it, we already know where Kathryn was going. No, we need someone who was behind Jake Chapman’s house. I wonder if she’ll ask about that? We know the murderer passed his house sometime after six.”

Annie almost pushed back her chair to go to the stage and join Emma when a heavy figure, head down, shoulders tensed, stumped across the dance floor and climbed the steps.

A sibilant hiss rippled across the room. Annie reached out, clutched Max’s arm. Even Emma, who was well-known in mystery circles for her poker face and ability to win big pots at mystery conventions, appeared startled. But she quickly managed a welcoming smile. “Brian, I want you to know we all believe in Ruth.”

Brian Yates wasn’t wearing his clerical collar. Despite his wrinkled sports shirt and slacks, he had a somber dignity as he stared out at the once again silent ballroom. “They arrested Ruth. They say she killed this Girard woman to keep her quiet about my father’s death. They say Ruth killed my dad. I want to tell you something.” His eyes were dark with misery; his deep voice wavered. “Ruth loved Dad. Nobody ever had better care. Nobody. She was at the hospital a lot more hours than I was. She hated the way Dad was suffering. She hated it. After he died, she blamed herself but there was nothing that could have been done. Nothing that she didn’t do for him. I deal with families in pain and I’ve seen it happen over and over again, taking blame where there’s no blame. That’s what Ruth did. I suppose that woman heard something Ruth said to someone, found out how upset Ruth was and took advantage of her. But I know Ruth never killed anyone. Ruth is about love. All she’s ever
done in her life is to give love. But someone who wanted to kill that woman came to our house and took away a croquet mallet. The police say Ruth’s fingerprints are on it. Of course they are. I’m asking all of you to think back, remember this past week. If you came by Sea Oats Circle, who did you see there? I want every name of everyone who was seen at our house. Because one of them is the true murderer. Not Ruth. Never Ruth. And it’s going to be up…”

Annie pulled on Max’s arm. She rose and ducked behind a line of potted palms and hurried out to the terrace. Max followed and watched her as she paced up and down at the end of the terrace. “I couldn’t stand another minute. It’s terrible, Max. That poor man, his heart is breaking. And dammit, it’s not going to work. None of that’s going to save Ruth.”

Max looked back toward the bright windows. “There’s a chance someone saw the person who got the mallet.”

Annie planted her hands on her hips. “All Brian is going to get is a bunch of names and nothing to connect that person to the actual crime. What we need is concrete, specific, physical evidence….” She stared out at the golf course and facts whirled in her mind:

The weather was perfect the day Lynn Pierce took her final sail.

Someone stole a boat from Parotti’s in the morning before Lynn sailed.

What kind of impact would it take to dislodge the terra-cotta vase on the wall behind Jake Chapman’s house?

The murderer planned ahead, so Marsh Tacky Road was decided upon in advance.

King Snake Park abutted the golf course and so did Jake Chapman’s house.

“Specific physical evidence.” Annie’s heart thudded. “Oh God, Max, I should have known when Emma came tonight in her golf cart! And it’s just as you said, it all comes down to the people. Dave Pierce is cold and dangerous.
Gary Campbell blows up, but then it’s over. It’s Dave Pierce who is implacable.”

Max’s face crinkled. “Annie, what does Emma’s golf cart have to do with—”

“Not Emma’s golf cart.” Annie spoke calmly because now she could see it all in her mind, the four houses where Kathryn Girard planned to stop, the golf cart path running behind the Pierce house, skirting the various holes, passing behind Jake Chapman’s house and the bike path there, too, the bike path that led to King Snake Park and would equally well serve a golf cart.

Annie grabbed his arm, headed for the terrace steps. “Max, you know this course. Which house belongs to the Pierces?”

“The sixteenth fairway runs behind their house. Annie, are you sure?” He hurried to keep pace with her.

“We’ll know in just a minute. A golf cart, Max. That’s why the van was left on Marsh Tacky Road. That’s why it didn’t matter that Henny’s car blocked the way. That’s why Mark Stone didn’t see anyone come out of Marsh Tacky Road. The golf cart was hidden on Marsh Tacky Road earlier on Thursday. But it was still raining and the path behind the Chapman house must have been slick or maybe the cart was going too fast. That’s what happened, the cart slid into Chapman’s terrace wall and knocked over the vase. It had to be a golf cart. A bike wouldn’t have knocked the vase loose. And the only people who live on the golf course and who play golf and who very likely, just like Emma, have their own cart are Dave and Janet Pierce. If that’s what happened, there has to be some trace on the cart. And Max, that’s all we need. One piece of solid physical evidence and Ruth will be free. Because if it is the Pierces’ cart that knocked over the vase, there can’t be any other explanation. And I’ll bet if Garrett looked hard enough, even with all the people who came to Marsh Tacky road that night to hunt for Henny, I’ll bet there will be a track of the cart’s wheels.
It had to have been put in deep shrubs so no one would spot it on Thursday.”