Deadly Valentine

by Carolyn G. Hart

  Hope flickered in Annie’s heart. Was there a solution to the Great Impasse (or the advent of a new cat on an old cat’s turf)? Beneath Eileen Houghton’s number, Annie wrote: DOROTHY L., INGRID, NEW HOME???

  She was reaching for the phone to return the call from the general’s wife when the front door opened.

  “Where’s the prettiest girl in the world?”

  Annie began to smile.

  Max was home.

  “It’s nighttime,” Max said serenely. “Time for all good workers to rest from their labors.”

  Annie popped to her feet. “Max, listen, maybe I ought to try and catch the chief at home—”

  Max reached up and gently drew her back to her seat. “Dear love, Frank is probably making clam chowder right now.” He glanced at the green ceramic wall clock (could they possibly have too much green in the garden room?). “No, to be more accurate, Frank has finished his clam chowder and is now in front of his VCR watching the fourth game in last fall’s World Series.”

  Annie glared. That was right down on a level with subliminal advertising. Max knew how much she enjoyed watching last summer’s Cubs games on their VCR. Well, he might think he was subtle, but she wasn’t to be deflected from her duty.

  Even if the next tape in her collection was that wonderful June 5 game when they trounced the Mets 15 to 2. If that wasn’t a giddy moment for Cub fans!

  “Max, we can’t just do nothing tonight!”

  He smiled. “Of course we can. In the morning, we can report what you overheard to Frank. And, if you think about it, Annie, it isn’t much to go on. Certainly it isn’t proof that George Graham had anything to do with the murder, though it does indicate he knows something. As for Laurel, she’s quite safe—and won’t be here tonight.”

  Honestly, he’d go to any lengths to suborn her from duty.

  However, she had worked hard at it all day. And she’d come up with a lot. But she hadn’t even looked at Max’s bios of the suspects. She should get right into those. And she needed to keep an eye out for Joel’s return. Talking to the teenager and to his rather topped her list.

  Max delicately massaged her tight shoulders. “Tired minds do not work well, sweetie.” A pause. Then, as if an afterthought, he added, “The special at the club tonight is beef Wellington.”

  A sentry crow cawed an urgent alert—raccoon, danger, raccoon!—and the air was abruptly filled with shrieking, tar-black birds rising in a whir of gleaming wings. The grayish, ring-tailed predator stood upright in the early morning shadows at the edge of the pinewoods and lifted his Lone Ranger-masked face to watch the receding flock. Then he turned and eyed Annie and Max at their breakfast table.

  “Go home, fella,” Max advised. “Time to tuck in for a nap.”

  Annie had heard many of the wonderful South Carolina raccoon stories: the agile animals’ ability to manipulate even the most sophisticated garbage can cover, their enjoyment of television (could it really be true coons changed channels if bored?), the ease with which their clever black fingers unlatched doors and opened refrigerators. Jar tops posed no problem for them either. In her book Nature Watch, Charleston reporter Lynne Langley tells of one raccoon who showed up when a certain piece of classical music was played and departed for the woods when it ended. The Hilton Head Island Packet carried a story about a coon who learned how to enter a house and always headed straight for the bedroom where Godiva chocolate was kept on the nightstand (Annie’s kind of house, Annie’s kind of raccoon).

  Their dark-eyed, shaggy visitor completed a bold, measuring, thoughtful survey, dropped to all fours, and stepped toward them. It looked like she and Max were going to have an unwelcome guest for breakfast. But after a last, lingering appraisal, he turned and trotted back into the pines.

  And that reminded Annie of Valentine’s Day morning when another unwelcome guest, Sydney Cahill, had shattered their early morning idyll by the pool. And that, of course, revived the Calvinist imps in Annie’s mind that tried hard to keep her from having too much fun. Last night, she had succumbed to Max’s importunings that enough was enough and it was time to relax, that they would work even more effectively if they took the evening off. He’d stressed that it was just the two of them (not, of course, that he was happy with Laurel’s detention on the mainland, but after all, she’d brought it on herself), and he’d finally resorted to an out-and-out bribe, beef Wellington at the country club. Annie was too mellow when they came home to even think about investigations. (She was always mellow after imbibing the club’s triple chocolate delight, which included three kinds of rum, crème de cacao, whipped cream, Hershey syrup, butterscotch ice cream, and semisweet chocolate bits.) Max was quite correct in pointing out that although it was much too late to pursue their investigation, it was quite the right time for other, more sensual pursuits.

  (The little Calvinist imps frowned darkly. What had happened to her commitment to duty?) Annie wriggled uncomfortably. Of course, she’d tried to talk to both Dorcas Atwater and Joel Graham yesterday evening. It wasn’t her fault that Dorcas hadn’t been home or that Joel had stormed off in his jeep. But she did have pangs of guilt over her failure to read Max’s bios last night. And she shouldn’t have acquiesced in Max’s acceptance of Laurel’s detention. (Here the imps totted up high scores on the selfishness range.) It was an incredible avoidance of familial duty to leave Laurel jailed on the mainland. Of course, Max said lazily, there was no real sweat. No appeals court would uphold the magistrate’s decision not to grant bail for Laurel. Frankly, they’d have to grant bail even if Posey charged both Howard and Laurel with murder. Obviously neither could be considered a threat to society and therefore their due process was being violated. But Max insisted they let Laurel stew for a while. Do her good. And surely Cahill’s lawyers were busy right this minute.

  As the sun peeked over the umbrella tops of the pines, lacing the night shadows with fingers of gold, it was time and past time to get to work. She looked sternly at her handsome husband and had a moment’s difficulty in keeping to her resolve. Honestly, an unshaven Max in rumpled blue-and-white-striped shorts had a definite appeal. Their eyes met and the unmistakable message in his threatened to sweep away her resolve, but first things first. (The Calvinist imps gave a sigh of relief. But remained alert.)

  “Max, we have to get Laurel out of jail!”

  The sun-drenched Maserati, windows shut, provided Max with a snug cocoon as the ferry chugged slowly across Port Royal Sound. He sprawled comfortably against the dark red leather and drowsily watched the mainland grow near. He wasn’t altogether convinced Annie was right in arguing that all possible measures must be taken to free Laurel. But it was a beautiful morning to be on the ferry, and it would be fun to lock horns with Posey. A frown touched Max’s face. If he could find Jed McClanahan …

  The Calvinist imps thoroughly approved of jogging. An aid to self-discipline and good digestive habits. Besides, it gave Annie a good excuse to circle the lagoon. The silky air in the night-cooled pines ruffled her hair, caressed her skin. The pale February sunlight poked into the shadowed woods. As she came to the clearing behind the Graham house, she slowed. A flock of tree swallows glided gracefully toward a massed clump of bayberry. The white-bellied birds with the blue-green backs and wings discussed their morning search in a high, liquid chatter that sounded just like a room full of women conversing as fast as possible. Annie was still smiling when she spotted Joel’s jeep in the shadows near the garage. Lights streamed from the garage apartment windows. Of course, he was up early to get ready for school. With only a single uneasy glance toward the main house, Annie veered toward the garage apartment. Hurrying up the steps, she knocked softly on the door.

  “Just a sec.” A gruff, sleepy voice. The door swung open. “Yeah?” His longish blond hair was plastered wetly on his head and water still glistened on his stocky shoulders. The towel wrapped around his midriff revealed a muscled chest, flat stomach, and well-built legs. His heavy-lidded, brown eyes widened in surprise, then
he smiled in satisfaction. “Oh, yeah.” His voice came alive. “You lookin’ for fun?” His full lips curled into a sensuous half smile.

  It hadn’t occurred to Annie that he would so completely misconstrue her appearance. Admittedly her nylon jogging shorts were short indeed and, enjoying the cool air, she wore only a T-shirt. Joel’s lascivious, up-and-down appraisal made her mad.

  As always, she spoke before she thought. “Down, Sonny.”

  “With you? That would be neat.”

  The towel rode lower on his hips.

  “Look, Joel, I’m a married woman and—”

  “Who isn’t? I like married women. And they like me. Why don’t you come on in and I’ll—”

  “I know one married woman who didn’t seem to buy your program.”

  “No way,” he said huskily. “I know how to make them happy. And I’ll do the same for you.” He reached out for her arm.

  Annie took a step back. “Then why did Sydney Cahill jerk away when she realized you were her partner at the Valentine ball?”

  The hot light in his eyes died, replaced by wariness. His hand fell. “No big deal,” he said quickly. “I guess she thought I was somebody else.”

  “She seemed upset.”

  “Who says so?”

  “I saw her pull free, run away from you.”

  He thought about it, then shrugged his muscular shoulders. “Maybe she needed to go to the John,” he said insolently.

  “Did you meet her at the gazebo?”

  “Hell, no. I didn’t see her after the party.”

  Oddly, she believed him, which made the undertone of worry in his voice just that much more interesting.

  “What did you see when you were out late after the party?”

  Joel tensed. “Who says I saw anything?”

  “I know you did.”

  For an instant, he was young and vulnerable, his eyes bewildered, his lips half parted. “Jesus, it’s all crazy. I didn’t see a goddamned thing. That’s what’s so crazy.” He was talking to himself, her presence unimportant. “That’s what gets me. I didn’t see anything. But the hell of it is, I don’t know where the hell everybody was.” His eyes focused on her and sharpened into a mean and spiteful gaze. “But I don’t have to tell you a goddam thing. So you can haul ass back to the police chief and tell him I don’t know anything.”

  “The chief? I’m not here for him,” Annie objected.

  “The hell you’re not. Everybody knows you’re a mystery nut.” The phone rang. He whirled and stared at it warily, then shot another hostile glance at Annie. “See you later,” and he slammed the door.

  The peal of the telephone broke off.

  Annie tried to eavesdrop, but the apartment was well built. She heard nothing more than an indistinguishable mumble.

  She jogged on around the lagoon (the imps would be satisfied with no less) and wondered just how irritated Frank Saulter was going to be with her.

  Annie consciously squared her shoulders. “Now, Frank, that’s not fair. I didn’t warn him about anything. His dad’d already told him to keep his mouth shut.”

  “For God’s sake, why’d you go see him this morning? Why didn’t you call me first?”

  Annie preferred not to admit that she was a creature of impulse. (The imps shook their heads in dismay at such dissembling.) “I’m calling now. And tell me the truth—if I’d called you earlier, would you have hurried out here to talk to him?” She picked up a pencil and in a few strokes sketched heavy-lidded eyes and a sensuous mouth in a frowning face topped by a brush of wet blond hair.

  Silence.

  “Frank?”

  An exasperated sigh. “I guess not. Posey’s closed the investigation. Says we have plenty to lodge a first-degree murder charge against Cahill.”

  “Closed it!”

  “Annie, Cahill’s had it. We found that mace. God, what a weapon. Spiked, for Christ’s sake!”

  She remembered all too vividly: the round metal ball, the wickedly sharp prongs, the age-smoothed, easy-to-grip handle. What recourse did Sydney have against a weapon like that? And what kind of hatred had propelled the hand that slammed those spikes into a woman’s face?

  Should she tell Saulter about Carleton and his claim that he’d found the weapon, thrown it into the lagoon? But that wouldn’t help Howard.

  “There’s no proof at all that Howard took that thing to the gazebo,” she insisted.

  “Nope. But it’s his jacket that’s drenched with blood. That’s for certain. And that’s not all. If the murderer sent that valentine to Sydney, it’s proof of premeditation. Right?”

  “Right,” she agreed cautiously.

  In the still of the night.

  Our hearts can take flight.

  How thrilled Sydney must have been. How eagerly she must have run down the oyster-shell path toward the gazebo, escaping from Howard’s anger, running to the enveloping arms of a lover.

  A homemade valentine.

  Who made it?

  “Yesterday afternoon we searched the Cahill house and everything in it. We hit pay dirt on the second floor. We found crumpled pieces and scraps of red construction paper, the newspapers used to cut out the letters for the words. Hell, we even found the glue. And the lab tests make it positive. The valentine was made with his stuff.”

  Annie drew scissors, dripping with blood. “Where’d you find it?”

  “Shoved down into one of those big blue Chinese vases.”

  Annie remembered them. She drew a huge vase, decorated with a frowning dragon. “Anybody at the party could have brought the scraps and hidden them in the vase.”

  “Sure,” Frank agreed. “But so could Cahill.”

  “When’s Posey going to arraign him?”

  “Later today, probably.”

  “Frank, what about Laurel?”

  A long hesitation. Then, wearily, “I’m not sure. The accessory charge will still stand. At the very least.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” she snapped, “and you know it.” But Annie knew this was a world rife with injustice. What if Posey charged Laurel with murder? That was a far cry from an accessory charge. What would be the effect of a capital criminal charge on a sensitive nature such as Laurel’s? She suppressed the cynical snort from her subconscious and the traitorous supposition that Laurel would enjoy the experience to the hilt. “So you’re telling me you aren’t going to even talk to Joel? Or his dad? Or anyone?”

  “All right, Annie.” The chief’s voice was somber. “I’ll stick my neck out. After all, nobody’s been charged yet. I’ll talk to the Grahams, but I want you to cool it.”

  This time she was silent.

  “Annie”—he sounded genuinely worried—“if you keep poking at a wasp’s nest, you’re going to get stung.”

  The valentine scraps nagged at Annie. She had a short, unpleasant phone call with Carleton Cahill—“Hell, how should I know whether there’s usually any red construction paper here!”—but she obtained the name of the housekeeper and was connected through to her.

  “Mrs. Gaffney?”

  “Yes’m.”

  Annie introduced herself as a new neighbor and stressed her conviction that, of course, Mr. Cahill was innocent of the dreadful crime.

  Mrs. Gaffney relaxed. “I tell you, Mrs. Darling, they never was a nicer man than Mr. Howard and he would never have hurt Mrs. Sydney. No, ma’am.”

  Red construction paper?

  “I sure don’t think so. Not that I’ve ever seen anywhere. No, ma’am. And if those police found anything like that in this house, they done put it here. I tell you, I dusts inside and out. Any house I cleans is clean”

  As for the day of the party, “Mrs. Sydney, she was so excited. She loved parties. But I didn’t see anything like a valentine. Not in her room or anywhere. And I went home at five, like usual, ’cause the caterers, they took care of everything for the party. But you can ask Reba.”

  “Reba?”

  “Reba Mason, Mrs. Sydney’s maid.”


  It took Mrs. Gaffney a little while but she found Reba’s telephone number.

  Annie dialed immediately, but there was no answer.

  A temporary setback—she’d catch Reba this evening. Annie was raring to go. This vigorous plunge into detecting invigorated her. She hurtled into work, determined to wrest any helpful bits of information about the suspects from the stack of bios Max had left behind. She counted them. Twelve! Max had certainly worked hard yesterday afternoon, accomplishing a prodigious amount of research. (The Calvinist imps sighed at the tiny glisten of jealousy in Annie’s eyes and her unworthy thought that surely Max hadn’t outworked her!) No matter. She was ready to take on the world and that included Circuit Solicitor Bryce Willard Posey. She felt as tenacious as Cyril Hare’s Inspector Mallet. Perhaps, with brilliant insight and rapier-like thought, she could be as successful as Alan Hunter’s Chief Superintendent George Gently at coming into lives at a moment of crisis and bringing about a resolution. (The Calvinist imps conferred concernedly about bigheadedness.)

  She placed a full thermos of Colombian coffee beside the plate of peanut butter cookies. So she had enthusiasms. It was unkind of Max to say that she fastened on a new favorite taste like a hungry squid. Comfortably settled, she resisted the impulse to start with two cookies (the imps congratulated themselves) and picked up the first folder.

  HOWARD CAHILL—b. September 3, 1930, Shreveport, La. Father, Ed, owned dry goods warehouse. Family financially secure until Depression when business failed. When Cahill was 6, father committed suicide. Mother, Beatrice, worked as a seamstress to take care of Howard and his younger sister, Marie. Finished high school 1948, took job in local shipyard. At 21, assistant foreman. Worked night shift and started college. Took six years. Also supported mother whose eyesight was failing. Business degree 1957. Joined Farrell Shipbuilding. Rest, as they say, is history. Married Chelsea Farrell, owner’s daughter, 1960, promoted to vice president; four years later took over as president. By 1970, Fárrell Corp. had absorbed half dozen smaller shipbuilding firms and shipping lines, culminating with takeover of Med-Pacifico. Amassed fortune conservatively estimated $47 million. He and wife bought cottage on Broward’s Rock when first married. Holidayed all over world, but always came to Broward’s Rock twice yearly. Moved full-time to island 1973; built Scarlet King mansion 1974.