Motherhood Is Murder

by Carolyn Hart

  Cheerful music resonated from the speaker phone. Laurel pictured Pooh’s expression upon discovering the Heffalump prints. Prints. Perhaps her time here was limited. She felt a desire to be elsewhere. As quickly as possible. But Ginger must be dealt with. “I left Mr. Kramer alive and well and took steps to bring him to the attention of the police. I was sure that he shot Jay.” But sometime between her helpful call to the hotline and the arrival of the police at the inn, Mr. Kramer met his violent end. Why?

  “Oh, Laurel,” Mimi’s voice burst over the phone. “I told Ginger it was just a coincidence.”

  “Why?” Laurel smoothed back a tendril of golden hair. “Why was Mr. Kramer shot?” The second murder changed everything.

  Ginger shook her head. “I don’t know. But if I hadn’t been at the beach with Mom and Teddy, I’d be in jail right now. It turns out Kramer was watching us, me and Jay and Hugh.” Ginger paced back and forth. “Billy Cameron was grim as death when he came this morning—and I’ve known Billy since we were six years old. How could he even think…but he’d found out about Jay and me fighting at Raffles. Billy said it was obvious Kramer was keeping track of me and Jay and this morning he must have followed Jay and he must have seen who killed him—”

  Laurel’s eyes opened wide. Of course. Billy didn’t have it quite right, but he was close. Last night Kramer had heard Jay Hammond’s threat to come to Cypress Cottage. Probably Kramer had arrived at the cottage this morning and hidden, awaiting Hammond’s arrival. But Kramer didn’t know another person had also arrived secretly. Hammond parked in front of the cottage. He walked up onto the porch and the murderer shot him. Yes, Kramer saw the crime. What then? Obviously Kramer didn’t alert the authorities. Laurel considered the call that brought Billy to the cottage. It could have been made by Kramer. Why didn’t Kramer contact the police directly?

  “—And Billy said Kramer must have threatened the murderer.”

  “Blackmail.” Laurel’s tone was stern. That explained everything. Kramer had chosen to contact the murderer, not the police. Therefore, as Laurel had first deduced, it was the murderer who informed the police of the body at Cypress Cottage. It was important to the murderer that the crime have a ready culprit, Ginger McIntosh.

  “Billy demanded to know where I was between a few minutes after one—that’s when the horn on Jay’s van started beeping—and two-twenty when the police found Mr. Kramer’s body. I was signing up for a beach umbrella at one o’clock and we were on the beach until we left at three. Billy called and tracked down the concession guy. When it turned out I was there and plenty of people saw me, Billy was so relieved.” Huge eyes stared at Laurel as if she might at any moment swing aboard a broomstick and vanish. “But if it weren’t for my renting an umbrella, I’d be in big trouble. Because I got mad when Billy told me about Mr. Kramer—oh, when will I learn not to lose my temper—and yelled about how hateful it was that the McIntoshes—I knew it had to be them—were sneaking around and spying on me. Billy got it all out of me, how worried I am about losing Teddy. That’s the only time it was like we were old friends. He reached out and patted my arm and told me I was running scared for no reason, that he’d read the files and all of Mr. Kramer’s reports to the McIntoshes said how good a mom I am and how responsible and how I’d dumped Jay Hammond when I found out he was married and how nice Hugh is and how it looked like Hugh and I might get together and how Mr. Kramer was worried that Jay was trying to harass me. And there was a note in there from Mr. McIntosh—Preston’s father—about how they were going to come to the island and hoped they could meet me, that they’d had the wrong impression but Preston had done that to them before, told them bad things about people because he was jealous and didn’t want his folks horning in. And I’m so dumb, I stared at Billy like he was talking Turkish and if I hadn’t had an alibi, he’d have thought I shot Jay and been blackmailed by Mr. Kramer and killed him.” She sagged against the wall.

  Mimi said worriedly, “If Kramer saw the murder, do you suppose he saw us—”

  Ginger pushed away from the wall, plunged toward the speaker phone. “Mother! Listen, you need to get Teddy to preschool—”

  “Mimi! That’s a very good point, but shall we explore the ramifications at another time…” Even as she chattered, Laurel appreciated the importance of Mimi’s question. But Kramer had not contacted any of them—or at least, he had not contacted Laurel—so her conclusion was swift: Kramer saw the murder and immediately left the scene and was unaware of the departure of the van and its grisly burden. Kramer had other fish to fry. Laurel wondered how much money he had demanded for his silence.

  Call waiting beeped.

  Laurel punched the connection bar. “Hello.”

  “Mrs. Roethke.” Billy Cameron’s voice was stern. “I’m on my way to see you. Please wait there.” It was not a request. It was a command.

  Laurel punched the connection. “Mimi, I have to go now. Please don’t worry. Everything will be all right.” She clicked off the speaker phone, swung toward Ginger. “Is your car—”

  Ginger shook her head. “I came on my bike. I left it behind the crape myrtle.”

  “Good. I suspect Billy called on his cell phone and will—”

  The front door bell pealed.

  Laurel pointed toward the archway to the kitchen. “Hurry. There’s a pantry just through there. You can wait inside.”

  Ginger moved fast.

  Laurel strolled to the door, pausing only long enough to fold the morning paper, place it face down on the hall table. She opened the door, shaded her eyes from the sunlight. “Billy.” Her voice combined pleasure, surprise, and a hint of inquiry.

  Billy’s gaze was cop official, his uniform crisp, his body language determined. “Mrs. Roethke, I am here on official business in regard—”

  She swung open the door. “Come in. I’ve just made a pot of fresh coffee. And it’s rather wonderful. Sumatran. I always have a sense—” she looked up at Billy, her gaze warm and confiding “—of mountain passes and crisp air when I drink it. You must tell me if your experience is similar.” She led the way into the terrace room. “Make yourself at home, Billy, and I’ll get the coffee—”

  Billy remained standing in the center of the terrace room, formidable as a Sumatran mountain. “No coffee. Thanks. Sit down, Mrs. Roethke. Please.”

  Laurel wafted to the sofa. She settled comfortably in one corner, waited expectantly.

  Billy looked at her, alert and wary. “I am here in regard to the murder of Harold Kramer, who was found dead yesterday afternoon in room 214 of the Sea Side Inn.”

  “The Gazette said he was shot.” Laurel flipped a tassel at the end of the cushion.

  Billy’s eyes never left her face. “Yes, he was. Mrs. Roethke, please explain your contact with Mr. Kramer yesterday afternoon.”

  Laurel might on occasion entertain a swirl of thoughts, some conflicting, others unrelated. But under pressure, she was able to focus. Dear Max. He would be proud. She sorted out the pertinent facts in a flash: Billy had identified her fingerprints. He’d likely shown a photograph to the chambermaid. She was, in short, on the spot. It was the moment for sharing. Laurel enjoyed sharing. No talk show guest could match her enthusiasm. Or creativity.

  “I didn’t know he was Mr. Kramer.” Her gaze was earnest. “Billy, it was the most amazing thing. I saw him—it turned out to be Mr. Kramer but of course I had no idea who he was, if you can understand that—and I thought it was Bob Buckley.” She clapped her hands together. “I was thrilled. Dear Bob. From so long ago. Oh Billy, the islands—” she glanced at him “—Hawaii.” She pronounced the syllables with a liquid island lilt. There could almost be heard the champagne music of Don Ho and the rattle of palms and the susurrus of the sea. Laurel swayed on the sofa, harking to the graceful motion of hula dancers in the wash of the moon. “Bob. Eyes dark as midnight. A man of grace and delight.” Laurel pictured a romantic sea captain, strong, silent, enigmatic. Bob was more real to her for an instant than the
sun-drenched terrace room. She sighed. “Why, it must have been twenty-five years ago.” She blinked, then said hurriedly, “I was a mere child. But old enough for love. And to see Bob again. Here!” She flung out her hands. “I knew we must recall those days of old. I sped after him, saw him enter room 214. But of course, one does not greet old friends without ceremony. I dashed, truly a quick sally, into the gift shop at the inn and bought a lovely lemon geranium. And of course, the presence of that bloom in the shop was a clear signal to me that my reunion with Bob was a matter of fate. I’m sure you know that a lemon geranium signifies an unexpected meeting?” She looked inquiringly at Billy. When he did not respond, she said gently, “No matter. Not everyone is conversant with the hidden language of flowers. However, it certainly was an omen.” She paused, slowly her face puckered, “So you can imagine my disappointment, my utter shock when it wasn’t Bob after all.”

  The question was sharp. “You didn’t know Hal Kramer?”

  “Absolutely not.” Answering truthfully was such a pleasure. No one would question the veracity of her answer. She leaned back at ease against the cushion.

  Some of the tenseness eased from Billy’s posture. He walked to an overstuffed chair, sat down. “So it was nothing more than a case of mistaken identity.” He frowned. “Why did you leave the flowers?”

  “Oh Billy,” she sighed, her expression commiserating, “imagine the disappointment. A knock at the door, a woman bearing flowers, an expectation of a gift—and then—” she flung out her hands “—it is all a mistake. And,” she concluded briskly, “since it wasn’t Bob, I had no use for the flowers. I wished Mr. Kramer well and departed.”

  Billy rubbed his cheek. “The card said, ‘Missing you. Wiladene.’” His stare pushed against her.

  Wiladene. Laurel folded her hands together. “Oh yes. That’s what Bob always called me. ‘Wonderful Wiladene.’ An endearment.” Her eyes were soft, almost misty.

  Billy cleared his throat. “Yeah. I see. But your finger prints are on the folders on the desk.”

  “I moved the folders and the videocam to make a place for the geranium.” Once again truth rang like sterling.

  “Videocam! You moved a videocam?” Billy placed his big hands on his knees, leaned forward.

  “Why, yes. In a brown leather case. I put the folders to the left and the camera to the right and put the flowers right in the center.” A triumphant smile.

  Billy fished a notebook and pen from his hip pocket, flipped to a clean page, began to write. “Okay.” He was pleased. “That’s a real help, Mrs. Roethke. There was no videocam when we found the body. I’ll bet Kramer filmed the Hammond murder. By God, that’s what he did. Now we know what to look for. We’re going to get a search warrant…anyway, what else did you see?”

  Laurel described the room in painstaking detail, but the only missing object appeared to be the video camera.

  Billy shut the notebook, but he made no move to leave. “Mrs. Roethke, I want you to think hard about when you were leaving. Did you see anyone—anyone at all—on your way downstairs? Or in the parking lot?”

  Laurel slowly shook her head. “Not to notice,” she said regretfully. “I was thinking about other things.” Such as how to call the Crime Stoppers number to report a murderer.

  “Yeah. Well, we’ve got a suspect in custody. He claims he was working—alone—during the critical time period from one to three. But he doesn’t have any proof.” Billy frowned. “It would be helpful if we could place him near the scene of the Kramer murder. We’ve got a witness who heard him threaten Jay Hammond last night. There was bad blood between Hammond and the suspect. We’re close to making an arrest, but I needed to clear up your presence at the inn.” Billy heaved to his feet. “It’s pretty clear that Kramer must have followed Hammond to the spot where he was killed. We haven’t located the site of the crime, but we’re checking out some leads.”

  Laurel forced herself to remain calm. A suspect…bad blood…of course Sean Ripley had related to Billy everything that had happened at Raffles last night, including Hugh Carlyle’s anger with Jay. Billy understood that Kramer’s surveillance of Ginger and Jay might easily have led him to follow Jay Hammond in light of Hammond’s threats to Ginger last night. From the tenor of Kramer’s reports to the McIntosh family, it might seem reasonable to Billy that Kramer would consider it his duty to protect Ginger from harassment. In any event, Ginger’s impeccable alibi led Billy to fasten on Hugh Carlyle as the killer. Oh dear, oh dear.

  Billy was moving toward the hallway. “Thanks for your help. I’ve got to get back to the office, see what the autopsies have turned up. Since the maid saw you talking to Kramer around one-thirty and he was found at two-twenty, we have a good time frame for his death. The suspect can’t account for that time period.”

  Laurel heard the creak of a door in the kitchen, Ginger coming out of the pantry. Oh no, she mustn’t.

  Billy strode into the hall.

  Laurel turned toward the kitchen. When Ginger appeared in the doorway, Laurel semaphored violently, pointed toward the kitchen, shook her head, then whirled and ran after Billy. She caught up with him, hurried to open the front door, and prayed that Ginger was obedient to her elders.

  Billy clattered down the front steps.

  Laurel shut the door and turned to face a frantic Ginger.

  “Mrs. Roethke, Billy’s talking about Hugh.” Ginger struggled for breath, the words thin and desperate, “I’ve got to tell Billy about Jay. We know when Jay was killed and Hugh has an alibi then. And if he didn’t kill Jay, he would have no reason to kill that detective.”

  “Yes.” Laurel’s husky voice was somber. “This is most unfor—”

  “Unfortunate…” Ginger clawed at her throat. “It’s awful. We can’t let Hugh be arrested. We have to tell Billy when Jay was shot. We have to tell Billy what really happened.”

  Laurel sighed. “I wish it were that simple.” She held up a hand as Ginger’s mouth opened. “No, wait. I understand your concern—and the dreadful irony. If we hadn’t moved the body, Hugh would be safe. But think for a moment, what would have happened had we called the police this morning?”

  Ginger’s face looked stricken. She didn’t say a word.

  Laurel nodded. “Yes. You understand. You would be in jail now and Teddy would be safe but dreadfully frightened to have his mother gone.”

  “I can’t let Hugh be arrested.” Ginger spoke through stiff lips, forcing out the words, but she lifted shaking hands to press against her cheeks. “Oh God, Teddy. And if it comes out that we moved Jay, the McIntoshes will think I’m awful. They might try again to take Teddy away. What am I going to do?”

  “Moreover,” Laurel’s voice was gentle, “no one will believe us. Billy will think you made up the story to protect Hugh.”

  “But you and mother—” she began.

  Laurel clapped her hands together. “Enough of this. We shall not be defeated. And truly, it is such a simple matter, really.”

  “Simple?” Ginger stared at Laurel.

  Laurel beamed. “All we have to do is solve the crime.”

  Max put his finger on the doorbell, held it there. The shrill peal rang within. And rang. And rang. His blue eyes held a determined look. His jaw jutted forward.

  Despite her concern—Laurel’s proclivity for untoward activities wasn’t quite on a level with Evelyn Smith’s Miss Melville, please God, but Laurel was capable of any manner of unconventional behavior—Annie took a quick moment to admire her husband, tall, blond, handsome, and sexy, then edged off the steps to peer in a living room window. “No lights are on.”

  Max yanked open the screen door and banged with his fist.

  A red-bellied woodpecker halted his drumming on a wax myrtle and cocked his head.

  Annie touched Max’s arm. “She must not be here.”

  “Or she’s pretending she’s an ostrich. Or an Easter island monolith. Or a Flemish tapestry.” His tone was unyielding. “Dammit, I’ve got to talk to her.
” He turned and strode to the flowerpot, rustled among the black-eyed Susan, fished out a key, marched to the door.

  Annie followed. “Max, do you really think we should—”

  But he was in the foyer, calling out. “Ma? Ma, are you here? It’s me. Listen, we’ve got to talk…”

  But within a few minutes, it was clear that Laurel wasn’t in the house.

  Annie stood in the terrace room. There was a sense of recent occupancy, the cushion on the sofa depressed, wrapping papers and scissors and tape on a desk, a stack of presents on the piano bench, the scent of fresh coffee recently brewed.

  But no Laurel.

  Annie shivered. Was this how the grim-faced seamen felt when they boarded the famed Mary Celeste, the captain, his wife and child, and the sailors never to be seen again?

  Max jammed his hand through his wiry hair. “We’ve got to find her, Annie. Don’t you see? Mother was at the hotel around the time that guy was killed. Now her description’s in the Gazette. What if the murderer sees it? What if the murderer thinks she might have seen him?”

  The Lucy Kinkaid Memorial Library drowsed in the shade of live oaks. The majestic three-story Greek revival home had been donated by its late owner to the library. Inside, there was a rich smell of books, old varnish, and never-quite-vanquished mold.