Deadly Valentine
Page 9
Laurel patted her lips with her napkin. “What a delightful repast, my dear. Now, I believe I will—”
Footsteps crunched on the crushed oyster-shell walk to the side of the house, and Chief Saulter came up to the patio.
“Morning, Max, Annie. Mrs. Roethke. Glad I found you all here. Like to get your statements about last night, if you don’t mind.”
Annie bent to one side to look past Saulter, but glory be, Posey wasn’t there.
Max stood and walked forward, offering his hand. “Sure, Frank. Come have some coffee.”
“That’d be mighty fine.”
Annie brought not only a cup and saucer but a plate and a basket filled with croissants.
“How’d you know I hadn’t had any breakfast?” Frank asked. Then he looked reluctantly at Laurel. “Guess I’d better tell you folks about Mr. Cahill first. You might not want to invite me. Posey arrested Cahill this morning as a material witness.”
“Posey’s an ass,” Max said calmly. “Howard has an alibi.”
“He certainly does,” Laurel agreed. “Oh dear, I suppose I’d better run over to the mainland, make it clear—”
“Uh, I wouldn’t do that,” Saulter said quickly. His weathered face crinkled in embarrassment. “Not a good idea. In fact, Mrs. Roethke”—he cleared his throat uncomfortably—“Posey said if you repeated that, uh, that claptrap—that’s what he called it—he said he’d throw you in jail too on a charge of conspiracy.”
Laurel frowned. “I am puzzled. Hasn’t Howard given a statement yet, agreeing with mine?”
Saulter shook his head. “His lawyer came, flew in on a private jet from Atlanta. Don’t know what they talked about, of course, but the upshot is—Cahill won’t say a damned word. Not a word about what happened after he and Mrs. Cahill had that spat in the library. Won’t even admit to that. Posey says he’s guilty as hell, must be, otherwise why would he clam up? So Posey thinks you made the alibi up.”
Max frowned. Laurel looked thoughtful, rather than outraged, which increased the niggling worm of suspicion wriggling in the back of Annie’s mind. Not, of course, that Laurel would ever deliberately tell a falsehood. But Laurel had an incredible capacity for seeing the world precisely as she wished it to be. However, if the alibi was fake or—to be charitable—mistaken and Howard was guilty, why didn’t he leap on it? It was a little difficult to picture a ruthless businessman as overburdened with rectitude. George Washington, maybe yes; Howard Cahill, probably no.
Annie’s mind gnawed on the problem.
1. Was Howard keeping quiet because he expected to be arrested and tried and would not testify—the defendant is not required to do so—counting on Laurel’s testimony to convince a jury of his innocence?
2. Wasn’t that hypothesis incredibly convoluted?
Not, she decided, for a man who had the wit and Byzantine abilities to run a worldwide shipping business.
Unfortunately, Annie had too lively an imagination and could foresee dire consequences if that scenario unfolded and was successful (Laurel marrying a man who was really a murderer). She recalled with a shudder Leslie Ford’s Trial by Ambush.
Annie grabbed another peanut butter cookie. For mental invigoration.
Laurel thoughtfully tapped beautifully manicured fingers on the tabletop and gave a vexed sigh. “Dear Mr. Posey, so sure of himself. And we all know what goes before a fall!”
Saulter eyed her warily.
“In fact”—she leaned closer to Saulter—“it sounds very much as though the circuit solicitor has no suspect other than Howard. Am I correct?”
“Uh. The investigation is continuing,” he replied carefully.
“Of course it is. And that’s why you’re here.” She clapped her hands gaily. “You are in need of aid.”
The chief moved uncomfortably in his chair. “Actually, I want to take your statements.”
Laurel placed a hand over her heart. “I shall do my utmost to serve justice.” She looked dreamily toward the lagoon. “Chief, it is up to us—all of us—to preserve our dear circuit solicitor from embarrassment, humiliation, and obloquy. I cheerfully accept that charge.” She hitched her chair closer to his. “Here are your suspects: George Graham, his wife, General Houghton—” She looked at Saulter inquiringly. “Is your pen broken?”
Saulter licked his lips and began to write.
“Carleton Cahill, Buck Burger, and Billye Burger.”
There was total silence when she finished. Max looked at his mother admiringly. Annie stared at her in astonishment. Saulter gaped.
But Annie knew an opening when she saw it. “Chief, that’s not all. Add Dorcas Atwater. And Joel Graham, George’s son.”
Saulter obediently wrote the names, then tried to regain control. “I sure appreciate all this help, but, thing is, I got to get your statements and get back to the mainland.”
“Certainly, certainly,” Laurel agreed. “We are cooperating to our utmost.”
Annie had to hand it to the old girl. Laurel cooperated with the élan of the Saint scaling a chateau wall. Despite Saulter’s occasional efforts to redirect her, Laurel succeeded in her objective.
Annie could see Saulter’s scrawled notes:
GEN. HOUGHTON—Obsessed with sex. Nasty temperament. Accustomed to killing (war record). Did he want Sydney or want to rid the world of Sydney? Act in bringing down alcove curtain almost unbalanced. Very handy on the crime scene.
JOEL GRAHAM—When Sydney recognized him, she pulled away. Why?
GEORGE GRAHAM—Obviously involved with Sydney. Lovers’ quarrel?
LISA GRAHAM—She saw Joel and Sydney together. Did she see Sydney in her husband’s arms? (“She’s the jealous type,” Annie offered. “She keeps a close rein on George on the tennis courts.”)
CARLETON CAHILL—Hated his stepmother. Why? Ugly scene at bandstand. (Saulter didn’t write down Laurel’s summation of Carleton: “Actually, a dear boy, I’m sure. Just so emotionally vulnerable.”)
BUCK BURGER—Involved with Sydney? (Laurel had no doubt. “You see, Chief, I know a great deal about love. And men. And the way Mr. Burger”—she cleared her throat delicately—“touched Sydney was quite revealing. Not for the first time, I’m quite sure.” Annie didn’t look toward Max at all during this portion of Laurel’s statement.)
BILLYE BURGER—Jealous as hell? (Laurel put it more delicately: “Some women’s entire existence is defined by the man whom they marry. His loss through divorce could be shattering!”) Tenuous.
As Laurel concluded her statement, she heaved a delighted sigh and looked quite angelic. “So you see, dear Chief Saulter, there are ample suspects in addition to Howard. And I cannot reiterate too often my utter conviction that the timing was such that Howard had no possible opportunity—”
“Fine, fine, Mrs. Roethke. That’s enough—I mean, thank you for your cooperation.” He turned in relief to Annie.
Annie affirmed Laurel’s observations. “She’s right, Chief. Lots of people might have wanted Sydney dead. And listen, I want to tell you about Dorcas Atwater. She hated Sydney. And Dorcas is—odd. Maybe more than odd.”
He was interested in Annie’s description of Dorcas, lurking near the Cahill shore in a rowboat, though he pointed out the time difference.
“She could have come back, Chief,” Annie insisted.
“Or maybe she never left,” Max suggested.
“Such an unhappy soul,” Laurel murmured.
Saulter was glad, finally, to get to the crime scene itself.
“Now, Annie, if you could tell me what you saw.”
It didn’t take long, but she was startled by Saulter’s excitement when she described the splash she’d heard as she ran toward home.
“A splash? Hey Annie, wait a minute. What kind of splash? Different from a frog startled by your running?”
Annie struggled to remember. At the time, she was frantic to be gone, to get away from that ominous rustling of the shrubs—“The bushes—the bushes made a noise!”
“No. Someone was there, I’m sure of it.” She hadn’t realized until she said it with such conviction, but she was positive somebody had been there. The murderer?
“Oh, hell,” Max said grimly.
“But what would anyone throw—” Annie looked sharply at Saulter. “The weapon! What killed Sydney?”
“You didn’t see a weapon when you found her?” Saulter asked.
“No.” She shrugged. “But I didn’t really look. It was dark in the gazebo, and I wasn’t thinking about it. I just carne close enough”—she paused, swallowed—“to see that Sydney was beyond help.”
She remembered the scene too vividly. But there was no weapon where she had looked.
“Didn’t you find anything, Chief?” Annie tried to envision what implement had been used. What could have caused such enormous damage to Sydney’s face? A bat? No, the skin had been gouged and bones shattered. An ax? A blade would have cut, not gouged. An ax head? Perhaps. The gruesome possibility made her shudder.
“Nothing,” Saulter admitted. “Not a trace. Deputies from the sheriff’s office are searching the house now. We got a warrant.”
“There wasn’t time to hide … Oh, that’s the point. The murderer could have thrown it in the lagoon.”
Saulter nodded. “Can I use your phone?”
Max took him inside to make his call, and Annie looked at the milky green lagoon, basking in the unseasonable warmth. Cattails and sawgrass rimmed the bank. She wouldn’t want to scuba dive among the tangle of water lilies. Two American egrets, spectacularly lovely with their flowing plumes and snow-white color, poked bright yellow bills into the murky water, searching for minnows, frogs, or even young cottonmouths. It was a scene of quiet island beauty, the kind captured on a thousand canvases.
She looked to her right, even though she knew the Cahill house, gardens, and gazebo weren’t visible from their patio because of the pinewoods. The trees ran all the way to the lagoon. The path that circled the lagoon and linked all the properties cut through the woods. The recreation areas behind each house had been cleared, of course, affording an excellent view of the lagoon.
A chair scraped.
Startled, Annie looked around, then jumped to her feet. “Laurel, where are you going?”
Laurel paused, “My path is not yet clear to me. But direction will come.” She patted Annie’s cheek. “As our dear American saint, Elizabeth Seton, once wrote, ‘Troubles always create a great exertion of my mind and give it a force to which at other times it is incapable.’”
On this utterly disturbing note and with a final benign nod, she headed toward the house.
Annie was uncertain of her proper course. She hated like fury to leave Laurel unsupervised. But, after all, Howard was in jail. Therefore, if he was the killer, Laurel was safe. If he wasn’t, surely Laurel wouldn’t do anything to alarm the murderer, who would be as somnolent as a sunning alligator with Howard taking honors as the prime suspect. Besides, Annie couldn’t attach herself to Laurel like Harold Merefield to Dr. Lancelot Priestley’s telephone. So, despite her concern, she and Max adhered to their regular schedules, parting on the boardwalk, not foggy this morning, with Max en route to Confidential Commissions and Annie hurrying to Death on Demand.
As she unlocked the front door and flipped on the lights, an eager bundle of white fluff launched itself from the cash desk and landed on Annie’s shoulder.
“Dorothy L.!” she exclaimed. The kitten wobbled unsteadily on her perch, tiny claws fastening to her cotton sweater. A huge purr rumbled in Annie’s ear. Laughing, she reached up and unhooked the kitten. “You are a sweetheart,” and she nuzzled a white ruff.
A gut-wrenching growl erupted, louder than the roar of exhaust from Black Beauty, the Green Hornet’s miracle automobile.
Guilt-stricken, Annie immediately thrust the kitten behind the cash desk and turned to reach for Agatha, who stood on the special display table in the middle of the central aisle.
The black cat hissed, sounding like an enraged hognose. However, unlike that fairly charming nonpoisonous reptile, which will roll over on its back, poke out its tongue, thrash about, then play dead if its hiss doesn’t succeed in scaring off an approaching human, Agatha met Annie’s hand with unsheathed claws, scored her palm, then, with another hiss, turned and careened through the February book exhibit. Books tumbled in every direction. Which was deliberate as hell, Annie knew. Agatha was totally sure-pawed.
Dorothy L. rubbed up against Annie’s ankle.
As Annie hurried to the coffee bar to wash her hand and hunt for some Band-Aids, she called out, “Bite the hand that feeds you. That makes a lot of sense.”
It was dark in the American Cozy area, between the south wall with its shelves full of mystery classics and the angled bookshelves holding the Christies, Espionage/Thriller, and Romantic Suspense, but Annie could see two eyes glowing like the fires of hell.
“Agatha, love,” she said gently, and slowly, very slowly, she walked forward, unwounded hand outstretched. When, finally, she held the slender black body in her arms, she massaged behind the delicate furry ears until a tiny, grudging purr began.
Laurel was right. Love wasn’t easy for anyone, not even cats.
Of course, the tentative rapprochement didn’t last long, because Dorothy L. rollicked into view. Agatha stiffened, hissed, launched herself with a massive kick from her back paws into Annie’s stomach, and chased the kitten up the corridor.
“Friends, girls,” Annie called. “We’re all going to be friends.”
Annie tried to ignore the clatter the cats made. Surely Agatha wouldn’t really harm a kitten. She slapped the Band-Aid onto her palm and put the coffee on. When it was done, she returned to the front of the store and began to set the February exhibit to rights. Five famous mystery writers were born in February: Janwillem van de Wetering, February 12, 1931, in Rotterdam; Elliot Paul, February 13, 1891, in Maiden, Massachusetts; Georges Simenon, February 13, 1903 in Liège, Belgium; Gregory Mcdonald, February 15, 1937, in Shrewsbury, Massachusetts, and Ralph McInerny, February 24, 1929, in Minneapolis, Minnesota. She picked the books up, two by each author: Van de Wetering’s The Corpse on the Dike and The Mind Murders, Paul’s The Mysterious Mickey Finn and Mayhem in B-Flat, Simenon’s The Methods of Maigret and Maigret’s Boyhood Friend, Mcdonald’s Fletch and Confess, Fletch, and McInerny’s Her Death of Cold and (writing as Monica Quill) And There Was Nun.
She stepped back, admired her arrangement, then found a fresh notepad (from a competitor, Scotland Yard, Inc., but Annie loved the pads with the quote from Philip Guedalia at the top in green script: “The detective story is the normal recreation of noble minds”), filled a coffee mug (inscribed with the title Before the Fact), and settled at the table nearest the bar.
There was much to be done. First, the timetable. She wrote Timetable with a flourish, glad to address facts for a moment. Reggie Fortune would have approved. As he so often stated, he had a simple faith in facts and utter disdain for imagination. Annie wouldn’t quite go that far, but it was nice, for the moment, to deal in times and logistics.
Not that it was easy. In fact, she crumpled three pages and was at work on the fourth when the phone rang.
She would have ignored it—Death on Demand wasn’t open yet—but she lacked the self-control of Leonidas Witherall, who found it quite easy to ignore a growing pile of Western Union telegrams in Dead Ernest.
“Death on Demand.”
“Annie, why didn’t you call me? I can’t believe I had to find out from the radio.” Henny’s voice throbbed with outrage.
The radio. Oh, of course. There would have been nothing in the morning papers, but this afternoon’s Gazette would have the story. “Henny, it was two o’clock in the morning before we got home and—”
“Did you find her? What happened? Who bumped her off? Is Howard really in custody? What the hell was she doing in the gazebo at that hour? What wa
s the weapon? It said she was bludgeoned to death. Did you know they’re calling it ‘the Valentine Murder’? And what’s the cryptic bit about ‘material at the crime scene indicated the lovely Mrs. Cahill was anticipating a romantic rendezvous’? Annie, what’s going on?”
Annie felt a pang of sympathy for her best customer. Henny was always on top of the news. To be forced to admit she knew nothing was a terrible loss of face. Moreover, Henny was as determined as Christie’s Inspector Slack ever thought about being. So, taking a deep breath, Annie began, “I heard footsteps on our patio about a quarter to one …”
The heart-shaped balloons from Annie bobbed cheerfully in a corner of Max’s office, stirred by his passage as he paced up and down on the elegant rose and cream Persian rug. So yesterday he’d hoped for a problem. He should have known Laurel’s arrival would result in more problems than anyone would care to face. Not, of course, that Sydney Cahill’s murder was Laurel’s fault. But Laurel was totally involved emotionally. She was trying to alibi Howard Cahill. If the police refused to believe her, she would go to any lengths to prove his innocence. And that, Max said to himself, was where he came in.
Dropping into his well-padded, high-backed swivel chair, he ignored the controls (the chair could be tilted almost horizontal and contained a vibrator and heating element) and reached for a legal pad and a pen. His hand flew as he printed in block letters:
COMPOUND GATE CLOSED 12:50
ROAD UNDER OBSERVATION UNTIL SAULTER’S ARRIVAL AT 1:33
Ergo:
MURDERER DID NOT ARRIVE BY CAR
Inference:
MURDERER A RESIDENT OF SCARLET KING COMPOUND
Any other ingress possible?
BY FOOT OR BICYCLE FROM GOLF CART PATH?
It took almost half an hour, because Max took pains with it, but his map—to his eyes—was a thing of beauty upon completion. He studied it, then made a couple of phone calls. And narrowed down the list of suspects to a frightening few. Wow, did he have news for Annie!
“And that’s all you know?” Henny demanded.
Annie’s throat felt as dry as St. Mary Mead when it was after hours for the Blue Boar. “That’s it.”