Deadly Valentine

by Carolyn G. Hart

  “There’s a lot to find out,” Henny said happily. Annie could imagine her fox-sharp nose wriggling in anticipation. “You know, this may be one of those murders with many hidden motives. Well, painstaking detective work will succeed. Just like Police Lieutenant Joe Gunther.”

  Annie didn’t say anything. Gunther?

  Henny’s voice was silky. “Brattleboro police.”

  It didn’t ring any bells.

  “Why, Annie, don’t you know Gunther?”

  It wouldn’t do any good to fudge. Henny would back her to the wall, demanding title and publishing house.

  “No.” Short, crisp, irritated.

  “Oh my dear, I thought you kept up. Really so important to know the field.”

  “All right. What book? Who wrote it?”

  “Open Season by Archer Mayor. A first novel. Marvelously well done. I’ll have to send you a reading list, my dear.”

  Annie hung up on Henny’s chuckle. Then wished she’d snapped something about not having taken a trip around the world with a stock of new books. But the telephone talk had been useful, helping her organize the night’s events in her mind. She was just finishing her listing of times when the bell sounded as the front door opened.

  “Hey, Annie.”

  “Back here.” She felt the old familiar surge of delight upon hearing Max’s voice. Which was ridiculous, wasn’t it? After all, they’d been married almost five months now. But she hopped up to hurry and meet him.

  Max waved a sheet of yellow paper. “I’ve made a map.”

  Annie pointed to the table and her notebook. “Come look at my timetable.”

  Armed with freshly filled coffee mugs, they settled at the table.

  Max studied the timetable:

  TIMETABLE

  12:45 Laurel leaves house.

  12:47 Annie hears footsteps on the patio.

  12:53 Laurel reaches the Cahill gardens.

  12:54 Laurel is outside Cahill library and overhears angry exchange.

  12:54 Sydney hurries onto the terrace and takes path toward gazebo.

  12:54 Carleton storms outside and turns right, heading toward tennis court and pool.

  12:55 Laurel takes a path in the direction of the Darling house.

  12:56 Howard catches up with her and walks with her.

  12:56 Estimated time of Sydney’s arrival at the gazebo.

  12:57 Annie leaves Darling house.

  1:05 Annie is halfway down the path.

  1:05 Laurel enters the front door of the Darling house. Howard turns toward home.

  1:08 Annie hears a noise, yells for help.

  1:08 Annie’s cry arouses Gen. Houghton.

  1:09 Annie finds Sydney’s body.

  1:10 Bushes rustle, frighten Annie. She runs for home.

  1:12 Annie hears splash. (The weapon?)

  Annie looked over the map. She traced the golf cart path.

  “It isn’t lighted after dark, is it?”

  Max shook his head.

  “So if anybody came that way, they would have to have carried a flashlight.”

  “And worn a raincoat,” Max added.

  She looked at him in surprise. It hadn’t rained in almost a week.

  He tried not to look too proud of himself. “Checked with the club pro. Sprinklers turned on at midnight to take advantage of nonpeak usage period. Ran until two A.M. NO way anybody could have made it to the fourteenth hole”—Annie nodded; they could see that green from their patio—“without getting wet. Or leaving some kind of tracks. The pro was out early this morning. No indication anybody had walked over the course after the water started. No bike treads anywhere either.”

  Annie thought back to the gazebo, seen in the light of her flashlight. No puddles. No spots of water. Nothing to indicate the murderer had been splashed. She looked once again at the map, at the entrance to Scarlet King, at the road which dead-ended, at each house in order: the Houghtons’, the Cahills’, the Darlings’, the Grahams’, the Burgers’, and Dorcas Atwater’s.

  Then Max handed her a second sheet in his distinctive printing:

  Suspects in the Murder of Sydney Cahill (within compound at time of murder)

  GEN. COLVILLE HOUGHTON

  EILEEN HOUGHTON, general’s wife

  HOWARD CAHILL

  CARLETON CAHILL, his son

  GEORGE GRAHAM

  LISA GRAHAM, his wife

  JOEL GRAHAM, his son

  LEROY WILLISTON (BUCK) BURGER

  BILLYE BURGER, his wife

  JIM TOM MARSHALL (Live-in butler at the Burgers. Laurel’s watchman? Only live-in help in the compound.)

  DORCAS ATWATER

  “Max, this is terrific!” She paused, then added, “And scary.”

  “A pretty short list. But one of those people did it.”

  Annie didn’t question his certainty. Any approach to the Scarlet King compound from other than the road or the golf course would entail crossing pathless, trackless pinewoods and swamps.

  “Right,” she said crisply, echoing that favorite rejoinder of Lieutenant William Weigand of New York Homicide. Annie reached for a fresh sheet of paper.

  “Okay, Max, here’s what we need to do.”

  Nine

  THE NEWSROOM OF the Island Gazette radiated tension even though there was very little sound. Annie did note the muttered expletives erupting from the occupant of the third desk along the left wall. The nine-year-old Gazette was quite proud of its modern newsroom, the clatter of typewriters long ago replaced by the noiseless video display terminals. The printer did clack at the far end of the room, spewing forth copy on long continuous perforated paper sheets. Vince Ellis, editor and publisher, discouraged use of the printer, since all editing was done on the VDTs, but reporters had a tenacious desire to see their work in hard copy.

  Annie and Max hesitated in the doorway, feeling like intruders.

  “Shit!” Marian Kenyon’s fingers flew over the keyboard as she listened to the phone wedged between her ear and shoulder. “Shit. Shit. Sh—No, no, Ralphie, not you, sweetheart. It’s the goddam time! That horse’s ass knows we go to press at noon. So who’s he playing to? The wire services? The New York Times) No, no, go on. I’ve got a few minutes.” Her fingers never slackened as she talked, and she continued to swear in a steady monotone as she listened and wrote.

  Vince clawed at his curly red hair (clearly from its untidy state it was not the first time), then gingerly tapped Marian’s shoulder and pointed at the wall clock.

  Marian ignored him. “Okay, okay. Got it.” Banging down the receiver, she shot a single withering glance at Vince. “If I go any faster, I’ll self-destruct.”

  Vince nodded and backed away. He almost spoke again, then shrugged, and turned toward Annie and Max.

  “On deadline,” he explained unnecessarily, crossing to meet them. He shook Max’s hand, but his eyes were on Annie.

  “What were you doing in your neighbor’s garden at one o’clock in the morning?”

  Not knowing what information had been released by the police, Annie felt at a distinct disadvantage. She murmured vaguely, “Oh, a noise. Then when I went down the path, it came out at the gazebo and I found Sydney.” She doubted that even Laurel could have managed it better.

  But Vince looked like he’d been gashed by a stingray. “You found the body! Oh God, the stuff we got says Howard found her.” He swung around. “Wait a minute, Marian!”

  Annie grabbed his arm. “Hold on. It’s okay. He must have come on the scene right after I’d left, because he called the police. I had run home and was going to call for help.”

  “Jesus Christ almighty,” Marian bellowed, her voice rasping like a nail file. “I can’t write if—”

  “Okay, okay,” Vince soothed. “Go with it. We’ll stick to the official version.” He looked at the wall clock. Three minutes to noon. “Come on,” he said to Annie and Max. “Let’s go to the coffee room. I need something to eat.”

  They settled at a Formica-topped ta
ble, Vince with a Coke and a Baby Ruth from the candy machine, Annie with a root beer and a Hershey bar, and Max with a Perrier and a sack of peanuts.

  Max glanced at her selection. “Temporary surge of energy,” he commented.

  “I’ll take it,” she replied.

  Vince drank the Coke halfway down and bit off a good third of the candy bar. “What a morning,” he mumbled, “but we’ve got a hell of a story. Marian even managed a sidebar with ‘intimate’ details of Sydney’s life. Poor bitch. Now”—he took another bite and continued indistinctly—“what can I do for you?”

  “Let us in on whatever you got from the cops,” Max said quickly.

  “You mean, like extra background that’s not for pub right now?”

  “Everything,” Annie urged. “And we’ll give you the inside scoop on what the crime scene looked like.”

  “They’d taken Sydney to Charleston for an autopsy before we even heard about the murder,” Vince groused. “We don’t have a shot of the gazebo. We used a file photo of the house. Saulter could have called me.” Vince thought for a moment, then stuck out his hand. Annie grabbed it, then Max. “It’s a deal.”

  A heavy throbbing shook the building.

  Vince grinned triumphantly. “The press run. Hold on a minute, and I’ll get us a paper.”

  He returned waving it triumphantly and with a dark smudge of ink across his freckled nose.

  “God, look at this. Terrific, huh?”

  The entire top half of the front page was absorbed by the crime. A three-column photo of the Cahill home ran in columns 1,2, and 3. Inset at lower left and right were mug shots of Howard and Sydney. A three-column headline topped the lead story.

  Island Socialite Brutally Slain in Own Gazebo:

  Police Hold Husband as Material Witness in Valentine Death

  By Marian Kenyon

  Sydney Cahill, 34, was found beaten to death Wednesday in the early morning hours by her husband, Howard Cahill, 59, millionaire owner of the Med-Pacifico Shipping Lines and a resident of Broward’s Rock since 1973. Mrs. Cahill’s bludgeoned body was found about one A.M., crumpled on the steps of the gazebo in the famous Cahill gardens.

  Circuit Solicitor Bryce Willard Posey announced Wednesday that Cahill was being held as a material witness. The prosecutor declined to state whether the detention was an effort to protect Cahill or whether Cahill was considered a suspect in the brutal murder of his second wife. His first wife, Chelsea, well known on the island for her charitable works, died of cancer in 1983.

  Although no motive has been established for the brutal slaying, police have ruled out theft as the victim’s jewelry, a necklace and matching bracelet of intertwined strands of diamonds, emeralds, and rubies, was still in place when the body was discovered.

  The Cahill mansion had been the scene Tuesday evening of a spectacular Valentine Ball, with more than 100 guests in attendance.

  A grisly footnote to the holiday celebration was the homemade valentine found clutched in the dead woman’s hand. Police attribute her presence in the gazebo at the late hour to the valentine message:

  roses are red,

  violets are blue

  wait in the gazebo,

  i’ll hurry to you.

  in the still of the night,

  our hearts can take flight.

  when the clock strikes one,

  our time will have come.

  YOUR SECRET ADMIRER

  When and how Mrs. Cahill received the valentine, if known, has not been revealed by the authorities. Neither has its author been identified. The Gazette has been unable to reach the widower for a statement.

  The Cahill mansion, built by the shipping magnate in 1974, is a part of the exclusive Scarlet King compound, which may be entered only with permission and is not open to the public. The only road into the compound is barred by an electronically operated gate. Only residents possess the number code which operates the gate. The police report states the gate was in place Tuesday night before Mrs. Cahill was killed.

  Annie scanned the rest of the story. Nothing they didn’t know—the body to Charleston for an autopsy, the lack of a weapon at the crime scene, the short list of residents of the compound, and the to-be-expected pompous declaration by Posey:

  An intensive investigation is underway. As soon as it is completed, I shall file charges. Island residents may be assured that no stone will be left unturned in the search for the perpetrator of this heinous crime. Anyone with information that might pertain to this brutal slaying or who can aid police in their search for motives is encouraged to contact the circuit solicitor’s office. Neither high estate nor low shall affect the course of my investigation.

  But the zinger was the valentine clutched in the dead woman’s hand.

  Annie pointed at the paragraph. “Was the valentine printed, typed, or written?”

  “They were being cagey about that,” the newsman explained. “Actually, I was surprised they gave out the info at all, but Marian said she figures they want to stir up people who know anything about Sydney’s extracurricular activities.”

  “The obvious implication,” Max observed, “is that Sydney went to meet a lover in the gazebo.”

  “And either Howard followed and killed her in a jealous rage or the lover, for reasons unknown, did away with her,” Annie added. “I don’t suppose her secret admirer’s going to sally forth and bare his breast.”

  Vince raised a bristly red eyebrow. “You’ve got to be kidding. Has to be a married man.”

  “Oh now, how can you say that?” Annie objected. “With her winsome ways, it could be damn near any male on the island.”

  “The gate. Oh, the famous gate,” Max said softly.

  Which brought them back to the short list, the very short list, of residents in the Scarlet King compound.

  “Except,” Annie pointed out, “for Howard’s son, Carleton, and the Graham teenager. What’s his name?”

  “Joel,” Max supplied absently. He tapped the paper. “Looks to me like Posey’s already decided on Cahill. I wonder why he hasn’t charged him yet.”

  Vince gulped down the rest of his Coke and crushed the can. “Let’s huddle with Marian. She can read Posey like a palm.”

  Marian sank into a plastic chair like it was a hammock, shook her curly gray hair away from her face, took a cup of coffee black, and, between drags on an unfiltered Camel, assessed the prosecutor’s case.

  “Dead cert Posey’s going to charge Cahill. But Posey’s got the willies. I mean, Cahill’s the Onassis of the U.S.A. Posey knows he’d better play it right. What if the guy’s innocent, for God’s sake.” She jerked her head to blow smoke away from her listeners. Marian had a dried-up face like a prune and brown eyes that glittered with intelligence and more than a little malice. “But Jesus, what’s with this stonewall routine? Baby, you don’t play that game when you’re riding with the angels. Anyway, I think that’s why Posey went public with the valentine. See, that will get the calls started, the whispers about who Sydney played house with, and, once the public gets the idea this was a roundheeled broad, they’ll figure Cahill’s guilty as hell and the pressure will build up for his arrest. That’s the way I see it.” She puffed at her cigarette; smoke wreathed her face. “And if they can find the weapon and pin it to Cahill, he’d better hire himself a street brawler of a lawyer.” Taking a final deep drag, she stubbed out her cigarette, pulled a small notebook from her pocket, and fastened hungry eyes on Annie. “Listen, the cops won’t ante much on the crime scene itself. They said the body was on the steps. Well, where? Was she going up, coming down, standing at the top. Where was the blood?”

  Haltingly, Annie described what she had seen, and Marian sketched, prodding her with more questions. “Face up, face down? On her side, back, front? Where were her hands?”

  When Annie’d finished her description, she checked Marian’s sketch. “That’s right. Except her right hand was hidden beneath her right leg. It was bunched up a little bit.”

 
; “Valentine in that hand.”

  The reporter’s brusque comment made Annie wince. Valentines. She had a heart full of memories of valentines, silly, cute, sweet, simple, gaudy, or elaborate, but one and all brimming with vitality.

  Annie knew she never wanted to see the valentine that Sydney had held so hopefully.

  “Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah,” the reporter muttered. Eyes narrowing, she erased, redrew, then jerked her head at Annie. “Get down on the floor. Pretend this is the top step and this chair”—Marian jumped up, pushed her chair to Annie’s left—“this is the first pillar as you walk up.”

  Macabre as it was, Annie understood Marian’s objective as soon as she took the pose. Dr. Thorndyke would have been proud of them.

  Scrambling to her feet, Annie pointed at the drawing. “Oh my God,” Annie exclaimed, “I can see it now. Sydney walked up the steps into the gazebo and wham, the murderer bashed her. See, look at the blood on that pillar to her left. She sagged into the pillar and the murderer hit again and she toppled backward down the steps. She was lying with her feet on the top step, her legs and torso on a diagonal and slightly turned to the right. That accounts for her right hand being hidden from view.”

  “She never had a bloody chance,” Marian rasped. “The bastard was waiting for her. Premeditated all the way.”

  Max said grimly, “If Cahill killed her, it wasn’t a jealous rage. He planned it.”

  “But how could Howard have reached the gazebo first?” Annie protested. She hesitated, then told Marian and Vince about Laurel’s arrival outside the library. “After Sydney started down the path to the gazebo, Laurel headed for our place. Howard caught up with her pretty quick.” Annie hauled out her timetable. “Look, Sydney probably reached the gazebo about twelve fifty-six. If the murderer attacked her immediately, she was dead by twelve fifty-nine. Laurel said good night to Howard about five past one. So it can’t be Howard.”

  “No way,” Max agreed.

  Marian fished out another cigarette, lit it. “Depends,” she said, mildly for her, “if this Laurel was telling the truth.”