by Carolyn Hart
“Why, it’s a geranium.” She might have been presenting a bucket of gold. She strode to the desk, used one hand to move the folders to one side, the videocam to the other. She noted the tabs on the folders: McIntosh, Hammond, Carlyle. With a flourish, she placed the plant precisely in the center of the desk.
“It’s not for me, lady. You can take it back.” He pointed to the hall.
She looked at him doubtfully, “You are Mr. Buckley?”
He folded his arms. “You got the wrong room, lady.”
She smiled brightly and with determination. “This is room 214.”
“Yeah, yeah. 214. Hal Kramer. You got the wrong guy.” His voice was clipped.
“Oh, dear.” Her lips pouted. “You’re sure it’s not for you?”
He was holding the door, jerking his head toward the hall. “Try somebody else, lady.”
Laurel glanced at the desk. It would be very interesting to know the contents of the folders. “Mr. Kramer, the plant seems meant for you. Whatever will be, will be. Do enjoy the lovely geranium,” and she was to the door and out into the hall.
“Lady—oh hell, forget it.” The door slammed.
Laurel nodded to herself as she hurried down the hall. Hal Kramer was going to have some explaining to do to the Broward’s Rock police. She was pleased—and, truth to tell, relieved—to hear the wail of a siren as she drove out of the inn drive. The investigation into the murder of Jay Hammond would now officially begin. As for her unofficial investigation, it was progressing splendidly…
Laurel waited in line at the desk. The pro shop at the Island Hills Golf and Country Club bustled with red-faced golfers in from their rounds and ready to shop.
“Yes, ma’am.” The stocky tow-headed pro was attentive. And eager.
Laurel offered a beguiling smile. What a nice young man. Perhaps she should take up golf again. It was never too late…oh yes, focus. “Is Mark here? I’m looking for a new putter for my son…” She gazed toward the offices behind the counter.
“Oh, gee.” The golf pro’s pleasant face creased in a worried frown. “Mark’s sick.” He took a deep breath, pointed at the racks along the east wall. “This morning, he was right over there hanging up some new polos and he just keeled over. Dr. Willis was in here. He’d just finished playing and he gave Mark CPR and Paula—” he pointed at the plump-cheeked brunette behind the cash register “—called Clarisse and she got here about the time the ambulance did. Clarisse called a few minutes ago. They’ve done a triple bypass, but they think he’s going to be okay.”
Laurel pressed her fingers against her cheeks. “When did this happen?”
“Oh, it was right about eleven o’clock…”
Laurel’s thoughts raced as she purchased the putter. Max would surely be adventurous and give it a try. In her car, she hesitated for a moment. But there was one more possibility.
The artist held the brush poised near the canvas. The painting was almost finished, a swallowtail butterfly hovering above a magnificent orange zinnia. The black-and-yellow pattern of the butterfly glowed like tiger stripes. The zinnia was as bright as a splash of morning juice.
“How lovely,” Laurel murmured. The patio behind the house was shaded in the afternoon, but the easel was set up in a clear patch of sunlight. The colors on the canvas competed brilliantly with the blues and reds and golds of the flowers blooming in the small but magnificent garden.
Hugh Carlyle looked around. “Hi, Laurel. What can I do for you?” He was as unlike the popular conception of an artist as possible, burly, broad-faced with a short crew cut, thick lenses in heavy horn-rimmed glasses, stubby fingers on big hands.
Laurel smiled at the painting. “Butterflies. I’ve always felt they are a whisper from God.” She looked toward him. “Do you feel that way?” Before he could answer, she clapped her hands together. “Of course you do. That’s why you paint them, isn’t it?”
He placed the brush on the palette and used a bunched-up cloth to wipe his face, leaving a smear of red paint on one cheek. “God. Beauty. Life. However you want to look at it.”
“Hugh,” she looked at him soberly, “I’d like to ask you a question and I don’t want to say why.” Laurel wasn’t willing to spin a tale, not to this man, not to the man who’d created a painting she knew she must own. “Will you answer?”
He looked at her curiously, his eyes magnified through the thick lenses. “Ask away.”
“Where were you at eleven o’clock this morning?” She watched his broad freckled face and there was no hint of unease.
“Eleven?” His face furrowed. “Let’s see. I was painting—”
Laurel’s heart sank. There was no one in his combination house–studio to oversee this patio.
“—But a little before eleven my next door neighbor, Mrs. Kincaid—” he pointed at a tall hedge of sweet scented pittosporum “—asked if I’d help start her lawnmower. The carburetor was missing, and I had to…”
“Of course you did.” Laurel’s interruption was exuberant. “Thank you, Hugh. Thank you so much.” She started to turn, then paused, pointed at the canvas. “Is that painting sold?”
He glanced at the almost finished canvas. “This one? No.”
“I’ll buy it.” A final smile, then she whirled to leave.
He called after her. “But you haven’t asked the price.”
She paused at the gate. “I can’t afford to pay what it’s worth, but I will pay whatever you ask.”
“Hey…” As she hurried up the path, she heard puzzlement turn to pleasure. “That’s damn nice,” he called after her. “Hey, thanks, Laurel.”
A shaggy red setter just out of the surf slapped across the boardwalk. The dog paused near the outdoor pay phone, shook himself, and cold spray spotted Laurel’s slacks. Absently she reached down, patted a wet head. “Reduction,” she informed the dog. “Just like cooking. Boil everything down.” The porch had yielded four suspects. Three were now in the clear. Ergo, the villain was revealed. She gave the dog a gentle shove. Spatters were one matter, sopping slacks another. “That’s what I’ve done. Reduced the facts to their essence. It will be such a help to dear Billy.” The dog gave an amiable woof, wriggled again, and loped back toward the water. Shouts and squeals rose from a volleyball game on the beach. A helicopter whined overhead. Offshore a motorboat roared.
Laurel dropped two quarters into the slot, dialed the Crime Stoppers number. When the connection was made, she spoke in a deep but loud whisper—would the truth ever come out about Deep Throat?—to record her carefully thought out message: “In regard to the murder of Jay Hammond, the murderer is Hal Kramer, room 214, Sea Side Inn.”
Laurel brushed pine straw from the bottom of the scooter, slipped it into its box. She studied her selection of wrapping papers. Cerise stripes? Magenta balloons? Oh, perfect. She quickly wrapped the box, placed it with the other gifts resting on the piano bench. She ticked them off in her mind: the scooter for Ed, a jaunt over the Nantucket coast in a hot air balloon for Deirdre, a beauty spa day for Gail, a golf sweater for Kenneth, a gift certificate to a gourmet shop for Jen and Harry, both gastronomic adventurers, the new putter for Max, and the transformed photograph of her mother for Annie. The boys had been surprised the first year she included them in her Mother’s Day gift list, but now everyone understood. They were all, each and every one, precious to her and how could she better express her Mother’s Day happiness than by remembering all of them! And, of course, they always brought the most amusing and thoughtful gifts to her. After all, as everyone knew, there could never be too many presents.
She bent to pick up more pine straw. Her thoughts—as they were wont to do—fluttered…such an odd beginning to her day…quite a responsibility…had she forgotten anything…surely by now Billy was questioning Mr. Kramer…Hartford, Richmond, Sparta, New York…
Laurel walked slowly to her desk, glanced down at her list, reread number 8: Hartford, Richmond, Sparta, New York…Jay Hammond owned an antique store. Mr. Kram
er wore a cheap brown suit and was carrying a gun. Rather crooklike, actually. Now, if Mr. Kramer was a crook, would could be his connection to Jay Hammond? Guns…crooks…link…stolen antiques…
Laurel frowned. Surely Billy would open the matchbook. Oh, of course he would. Billy would try to solve the enigma of the list. But it wouldn’t hurt to make one further inquiry…Laurel punched a familiar number.
“Lucy Kinkaid Memorial Library. Edith Cummings. How may I help you?” The staccato greeting was polite but impatient.
“Dear Edith,” Laurel caroled. Edith was a skilled research librarian and a good friend. “Such energy. Such vim. Such vigor.”
A whoop of laughter. “Such soft soap. What do you need, Laurel? The latest pipeline to the Other Side? Stock quotes? A vacation rental in Malta? A list of edible flowers?”
“Edible flowers,” Laurel mused. Visions of brandy-laced petunias intrigued her for an instant. But would Pernod be more piquant? Her eyes stopped on a lovely studio portrait of Max. Oh yes, of course. “Edith, I have a project for you. Now,” Laurel slipped gracefully onto the sofa, propped herself comfortably against a fluffy pillow, “let’s pretend—” playing “let’s pretend” had always fascinated her children. Deirdre adored being a dragon. Gail explored faraway places from Mongolia to Muscat. Jen dreamed of winning the James Beard prize. And Max, dear Max, enjoyed being a castaway on Gilligan’s Island. Her mind touched on the joys of scantily clad beauties. Such a dear, vigorous boy. “—that a series of crimes have been committed.” Her voice was dreamy. “I’d like a list of all major larcenies that occurred in Hartford, Connecticut, on March 18, 2000; Sparta, New Jersey, on August 19, 2000, and Richmond, Virginia on February 22, 2000.” Laurel decided not to include New York City. Three should be sufficient. “I have an idea the stolen goods may include antiques.”
“Antiques…” Edith cleared her throat. “I was on my break a few minutes ago and saw the news flash that a body was discovered in a van this afternoon. Happened to be Jay Hammond. Hammond Antiques.”
“What a curious coincidence,” Laurel observed brightly.
“Yeah.” Edith’s tone was flat. “Uh, Laurel, I’ll see what I can find out.” A pause, then a rushed, “Be careful,” before she hung up.
Laurel smiled at the telephone. Dear Edith. So conscientious. So perceptive. So discreet. So prone to needless worry. Laurel didn’t have a care in the world. Ginger McIntosh and her son Teddy were freed from the nightmare of a police investigation. The relocation of the body, thanks to Laurel’s careful planning, had been achieved without sacrificing any clue that might aid the police. And Edith was busy scouring whatever research librarians scoured for information. Laurel had no doubt Edith would discover something important. Furthermore, the Mother’s Day presents were wrapped and ready to mail. Dear Annie had volunteered to take them all to UPS. What a helpful child. All was well. So, it was time to celebrate. She turned toward the kitchen. There was that new recipe for baked sweet potatoes with a rum-gingersnap topping…
Annie paused to watch a snail ooze across the rock step, glistening with water from last night’s shower. “You’re beautiful,” she called softly. She carefully stepped over the elegant little creature and bent to retrieve the morning paper. She carried it unopened around the side of the house.
On the terrace, Max finished wiping the remnants of the gentle rain from the lawn chairs by the glass-topped table. “Breakfast coming up,” he called out as he went back into the house.
Annie dropped the paper on the table. She retrieved dry cushions from a plastic chest, tied them in place. Max came down the kitchen steps with a tray, coffee, orange juice, sliced papaya, and French toast.
Annie settled into her chair, relaxed, cheerful, and eager for the brilliant spring day to begin. She was sorting recently arrived titles in her mind, trying to decide which her sisters-in-law might most enjoy. Oh, of course, the new Tamar Myers for Deirdre, Mignon Ballard’s latest for Gail, and the most recent Carola Dunn for Jen. She picked up her mug of steaming Kona coffee and opened the paper. The headline jumped out at her:
ISLAND POLICE DISCOVER DOUBLE MURDER;
Antique Dealer, Private Detective Slain
Acting Police Chief Billy Cameron confirmed Tuesday that two men were found shot to death on the island and it is unknown whether the crimes are linked.
Chief Cameron said Jay Hammond, 32, was found dead at approximately 1: 15 P.M. in the back of his business van. Cameron said the second body, identified as that of Harold Kramer, 47, a private investigator from Atlanta, was found at 2:20 in his room at the Sea Side Inn.
Police said Hammond’s body was discovered by Sean Ripley, owner of Raffles Restaurant and Bar, in the restaurant parking lot. Police report that the van’s horn was stuck. When Ripley investigated, he told police he found the keys in the ignition. He turned off the horn. Ripley then noticed the back door of the van was ajar. He looked inside and discovered the murder victim.
Police said Kramer’s body was found when officers responded to a telephone tip. Chief Cameron declined to estimate the time of the deaths though he said present indications are that both men had been killed within a few hours of their discovery. Cameron has asked that anyone who may have seen the Hammond van Tuesday to contact authorities. Cameron said evidence in the van suggested Hammond’s body had been moved after death.
Police are also seeking an unidentified blond woman in her forties or fifties who was seen by a maid in the hallway near Kramer’s room. The woman was described at strikingly lovely and wearing a peach silk slack suit…
Coffee spattered from her mug as Annie slammed it on the tabletop. She made a strangled noise. “Max, oh my God!”
“Forties!” Laurel’s voice was a pleased coo as she clipped the story from the Island Gazette. The dear chambermaid. Laurel was a firm believer in the French approach: wine improves with age, and so do women. Nonetheless, it added a cheery note to a morning that was likely to become a trifle challenging.
Yes, challenging summed up her situation. She’d been confident that she’d discovered the murderer. Now she had to rethink the entire situation. It changed everything entirely that Mr. Kramer was a private detective. What had he been detecting? Moreover, he was a victim, so clearly he was not the villain. She wandered to her desk, picked up the Raffles matchbook. The other matchbook…cities and dates…private detective…
The front door bell pealed.
The telephone rang.
For an instant, Laurel felt beleaguered. But as she’d enjoined Ginger, it was time to be lively. And, truth to tell, if one were simply positive, one could usually find a way out of any predicament. She slipped the matchbook into the pocket of her skirt and moved toward the phone to check caller ID. She made no move to answer. She doubted she would care to hear what Max had to say. Max could be almost as dour as his late father when faced with…Should she say anomalies? Yes, that was as good a term as any.
There was a sustained knocking at the front door.
“Desperate sounding. Therefore, not official,” she murmured. In that event…Laurel hurried to the door, flung it open.
Ginger McIntosh, eyes stricken in a distraught face, wiry hair disheveled, orange blouse clashing with yellow cropped pants, burst into the foyer. She stared at Laurel much as she might have gazed at a cobra. She held up her cell phone. “If I don’t call Mother in five minutes, she’ll send the police.” She planted her thongs firmly on the Florentine gold tile flooring in a half crouch, apparently ready to flee.
Laurel took a moment to glance in the hallway mirror. She was pleased with her latest hairstyle, her golden tresses loose and casual for summer. Her new Irish linen fuschia blouse and flowered skirt had been an inspired choice. She looked crisp and felt empowered. Oh, was that too nineties a term? One never wanted to be dated. Which sounded rather like milk at the supermarket. Forties…Laurel smiled. “My dear, of course you must call your mother. Do come in. We’ll make it a conference call.” She turned and walke
d briskly to the terrace room. Sunlight flowed through the French windows. Laurel smiled at the wrapped presents, marched to the desk, dialed Pinxit Photos, turned on the speaker phone.
“Hello?” Mimi’s voice was high and frightened. In the background a mellifluous voice recounted Pooh’s search for the Heffalump.
“Mimi.” Laurel’s greeting was robust, irrepressible, and confident. “Dear Ginger appears discomfited. Perhaps you can explain.”
Mimi asked quickly, “Ginger, are you all right?”
In the background a little boy called, “Grandma, can I have another cookie?”
“Shh, Teddy. In a minute. Ginger?” Mimi’s voice rose.
“I’m here.” Ginger edged into the terrace room, still clutching her cell phone.
“Now,” Laurel smiled at Ginger and spread her hand toward an easy chair, “let’s be comfortable.” She sat on the sofa, looked inquiringly at her guest.
Ginger remained standing. She demanded, her voice hoarse and shaking. “You told us to go to the beach. You said to be there from one to three. How did you know that man was going to be shot?”
“My dear,” Laurel’s laughter was a light trill, “I do not foresee the future. That deadly possibility never occurred to me. I wanted you and your mother to be publicly visible during the time when I—” Laurel paused; perhaps rephrasing would be wise. “—when the van was driven to Raffles.” The passive voice was so useful. “I had lunch at Raffles and discovered the identities of several persons who were on the porch last night. Clarisse and Mark Whitman. And, of course, Hugh Carlyle.” Laurel’s glance was chiding. “My dear, you could have told me about them. I scouted around and it turns out the Whitmans are in the clear. He had a heart attack this morning and she went with him to the hospital near the critical time. Hugh was helping a neighbor with a faulty lawn mower—”
Ginger’s face brightened. Her relief was unmistakable.
“—And his time is definitely accounted for. The other person on the porch who overheard your quarrel with Jay was a man with a big nose and a mustache who was wearing a cheap brown suit. When I saw a man who fit that description in the parking lot of the inn, I wanted to find out his name. I was rather clever about it though a maid must have glimpsed me in the hallway.” Forties…though the description was surely not definitive enough to lead the police to her, Laurel felt a sudden qualm. Had she left fingerprints? Oh, dear. She’d moved the folders and the videocam. And of course, she’d carried the flower and the red foil around the pot likely took a beautiful impression of her hands. She glanced down at her fingers, perfectly manicured, the pale pink polish soft as spring. She had a vivid memory of having her fingerprints taken—how mussy those ink pads were—during the investigation into the murder of Howard’s wife.
