Henry Farrell, Chelsea’s father, had nothing but praise for Howard. “Finest son-in-law a man could ever have had. Chelsea was happy every day of her marriage. And Howard’s the finest businessman it was ever my pleasure to know. A hard man in a deal, but honest and fair. He may have made enemies from succeeding where others failed, but he never made an enemy from bad faith.” Farrell is incensed at any suggestion that Cahill could have murdered his second wife. “Look, between the two of us, it was a damn unwise marriage. A pretty girl, but no substance. But Howard—it just about killed him when Chelsea died. So he made a mistake. But Howard never broke his word, never welshed on a contract in his life. He wouldn’t start now. You can take my word for it.”
Cahill rarely drinks. Keeps fit by jogging three 9-minute miles four times weekly. Plays tennis twice weekly. Has exceptionally strong overhead smash (Doubles partner: “I’ve seen a ball go 30 feet straight up”). Ambidextrous; switches racket from right hand to left, in effect playing two forehands. Health excellent. No history high blood pressure or heart disease. Considered remote figure by employees; no intimate friends. However, well liked by those who know him socially. No one can recall seeing Cahill angry. Always controlled, temperate, and reasonable.
His doubles partner, Sam Cohen, said absurd to suspect Cahill of wife’s murder. “Look, this is a decent man. So damn decent, in fact, he didn’t dump Sydney. I think he felt sorry for her. It was an infatuation thing. You have to understand that on a short-term basis Sydney was irresistible. Thing is, Howard’s the marrying kind, and by the time he came to his senses, it was too late. But he was too loyal ever to talk about her, although he couldn’t have helped knowing what was going on.”
Cahill sued three years ago by former employee, Robert Milton, who was fired for allegedly tipping off competitor to Med-Pacifico’s strategy in a takeover battle. Milton claimed Cahill blacklisted him in shipping industry. Cahill defended notifying major shipping companies of Milton’s betrayal to competitor on basis that Milton treated his employer treacherously and other companies had right to know full employment history. Jury decided in favor of Cahill.
In the margin, Max had scrawled: Not a man to trifle with.
And if he would go to these lengths when an employee broke faith, what would he do about a faithless wife?
Annie placed the report to one side. On her scratch pad, she wrote: Cahill’s not accustomed to losing. What happens to people who never show anger? But he was openly angry with Sydney, shortly before she died. How upset must he have been to lose his customary control?
Annie poured a cup of coffee and reached for a cookie. (The imps wrung their hands, but they couldn’t expect to win them all.) Max’s report didn’t, of course, contain the results of Annie’s conversation with Carleton, and her conclusion that Cahill was refusing to cooperate with Posey because the magnate was protecting his son. But that could be an elaborate double bluff.
Her hand flew as she recorded her queries: Would Cahill use his own son as a smoke screen? Is Cahill truly concerned about his son? Or is he a desperate murderer who wants everyone to think he’s nobly protecting Carleton?
What about Carleton? she thought. Could he possibly be bitter enough at his father’s remarriage to kill the woman he saw as a usurper? She shuffled through the reports.
CARLETON CAHILL—b. 1962. Only child. Artistic, emotional, hot tempered, selfish. Scoutmaster: “not a good camper.” Excelled in art, mediocre in other subjects. “Bright, but lazy” recalls high school counselor. Usually involved with one or more women. Marriage when just out of college ended in divorce less than two years later. Played competitive tennis both at Broward’s Rock Preparatory School and in college; never made the top rankings. BFA art, Emory; MFA, University of Louisiana; working on PhD, University of Georgia. Presently teaching in suburban Detroit prep school. Lives in luxury condominium; expensive lifestyle. Receives trust income from mother’s estate. Rumored to be involved with wife of local attorney. Ex-wife says spoiled rotten. Headmaster describes work as satisfactory, says Cahill not dedicated teacher. Cahill jogs sporadically; accomplished sailor.
Annie sipped at her coffee. So Carleton wasn’t quite the wimp she’d taken him for, but he was certainly no prize.
On her sheet, she wrote: Why did Carleton give the jacket to Laurel? Was he really afraid the police would find it? Or did he want the police to find it?
The next report was on Sydney. She picked it up eagerly. She needed to know all about Sydney. As Poirot always pointed out, the character of the victim was all-important because in that particular life were sown the seeds of death.
SYDNEY WHEELER CAHILL—b. 1955, Branson, Mo. Four years old when parents, John and Claudine Wheeler, divorced. Father left town; no further contact with Claudine or Sydney. Claudine manicurist local barbershop, sang country music on weekends at local bar. Entered Sydney in beauty contest when she was six. Sydney won first place. By time Sydney graduated from high school, she’d won seven beauty contests. Super athlete; played basketball, softball, tennis in high school. Claudine died from cancer spring of Sydney’s senior year. Sydney won tennis scholarship to local junior college. Attended one year. Quit school to marry a boy she’d dated in high school, Dick Rivers. Rivers deserted her 1976. Assistant tennis coach Branson resort 1974–80. Engaged twice but each time fiancé ended relationship. Came to Broward’s Rock 1980; children’s tennis coach Island Hills Country Club. (Carleton Cahill on country club team; knew her as did Howard and Chelsea Cahill.)
Starting six months after Chelsea’s death from cancer in 1983, Howard Cahill played tennis obsessively. Married Sydney 1985, apparently unaware of her reputation as the favorite after-dinner indulgence of the club’s male members. List of men she knew intimately lengthy. Friend, Susie Dunlap: “Sydney was always in search of love. With every new guy, she was sure true love had entered her life. Each time, the man broke it off, and she grieved until a new one came along.” Hairdresser Maggie French: “Sydney didn’t know how to keep her mouth shut. I mean, I heard about every man she ever slept with and what he thought about his wife and the club and the motions in front of the Town Council and any other damn thing he let drop, but she never meant any harm. Think of what could have happened if she’d had it in for people? Still, a guy had to face it, a tumble with Sydney would be hot news around town pretty soon. I guess old Howard didn’t know because he was a close-mouthed sort and people must not have opened up to him. But people who liked gossip, I tell you, they loved Sydney.”
A few people who knew Sydney genuinely liked her. The tennis pro: “She was sweet, always remembering everybody’s birthday.” The manager of the tennis store: “Sydney was always willing to help out. If she didn’t have a clinic scheduled or a lesson, she’d offer to work behind the counter if we needed an extra hand.” The president of the bridge club to which Sydney belonged: “Not a very good player, really. She never could keep track of the cards, and, of course, it drove some of our members mad to have to play with her. But she was fun to be around; she always knew the latest about everyone.”
An appended list contained the membership of the bridge group. Annie scanned the names. She underlined three: Lisa Graham, Billye Burger, and Eileen Houghton.
She grinned. Did Max actually think one woman might murder another over bridge?
Her smile fled as she read the final paragraph:
Private services for Sydney tentatively scheduled Thursday afternoon Houlihan Funeral Home, contingent upon Howard’s release from custody. Body to be transported to Branson, Mo., for burial next to mother, Claudine.
Annie drew a coffin and a truck. So Sydney was going home. Because Broward’s Rock had never been home here, had it? Annie felt confident there was a plot in the Broward’s Rock cemetery for the Cahills, but no room in the family plot for Sydney. Somehow, that seemed the unkindest cut of all.
The telephone rang. Annie jumped up and moved eagerly toward it, suddenly hungry for the sound of a living voice.
&n
bsp; • • •
Max scowled and slammed shut the sticky phone book. He pulled out his handkerchief and scrubbed his fingers. His nose wrinkled. It couldn’t have smelled worse if the phone booth had been the site of a six-day indoor athletic contest such as the one described by Peter Lovesey in Wobble To Death. Max glowered at the phone. Where the hell was Jed McClanahan staying? Max had checked all the hotels. McClanahan wasn’t registered. Darn it, Laurel never should have hired the blustering, whiskey-fond trial lawyer. But Max was stymied. Laurel had hired McClanahan so no one else could represent her as long as she retained him. Max’s scowl intensified. Serve her right if she had to spend a month in jail. He shoved open the folding door, then paused on the threshold. Dammit, Annie would go from Shapiro—mournful eyes to Bertha Cook—furious if he didn’t get Laurel out of jail. With an exasperated sigh, he stepped back into the stuffy booth, reopened the tattered phone book and flipped again to the yellow pages, this time to Clubs.
“If you keep digging, you can come up with the dirt. Even if it’s years old.” Henny’s voice was triumphant. “Just like James Willop.”
Annie’s eyes narrowed like Agatha’s sighting Dorothy L. She didn’t say a word.
“Dig, dig, dig. Persistence pays off. That’s the hallmark of any outstanding reporter.”
“Enough is enough, Henny.”
“Why, Annie.” Injured innocence oozed from the beautifully modulated response.
Dammit, Henny could pack more meaning into two words than most people could manage in several paragraphs.
“I mean, I can’t read every new book that comes out!”
“Not even the Edgar winners?”
Annie scrambled through a welter of titles. But James Willop still didn’t ring any bells. Of course, it would be another first novel.
Might as well get it over with. “I give up.”
“Carolina Skeletons by David Stout. First rate.”
“I would imagine so,” Annie said politely. “They don’t give Edgars for less.”
“Anyway”—Henny’s voice dropped conspiratorially—“I’ve been digging and guess what? Dorcas Atwater hated Sydney like poison!”
It may not have shown great character, but Annie couldn’t resist. “So what else is new?” (The imps agreed they really had their work cut out for them.)
“You know?” It was fair to say that Henny’s tone was deflated.
“Oh yeah. I’ve known that for a while.” Annie did resist insinuating it was common knowledge on the island. (The imps weren’t impressed.)
“Oh, well. And, uh, the reason?”
It was Annie’s turn to be brief. “Don’t know.”
“Don’t know?”
“No.”
“Well,” with an entirely different inflection. “You certainly haven’t made much progress if you don’t know why they hated each other.”
“I’m working on it, and I expect to get the facts very soon,” Annie said blandly.
“I’ll bet I can find out,” Henny challenged. “I’ve got friends who know all the gossip on Broward’s Rock. I’ll get after it. And I want to find out where that valentine came from.”
“The police found remnants of the material it was made from hidden on the second floor of the Cahill house yesterday afternoon.”
An irritated sniff. “You’ve discovered quite a bit,” Henny admitted reluctantly.
Annie took pity. “I talked to the chief a while ago. He told me. But I haven’t found out whether anyone saw Sydney with it that evening. Maybe you could check with her maid.”
“I’d already thought of that.” Henny hadn’t totally lost her spirit. “I’m trying to track Reba down right now.”
Annie held her breath. Would there be yet another reference to a first novel in Henny’s farewell?
“I’ll give you a ring after I talk to her,” Henny promised.
Annie relaxed. Perhaps Henny’d realized the joke had gone far enough. It was scarcely sportsmanlike to continue rubbing it in that Annie was so far behind Henny in reading the latest crop of new writers.
“Great. We’ll put our heads together.” Annie felt a warm glow of camaraderie. It was damn nice of Henny to go all out for the investigation. “Max and I certainly appreciate your efforts to help Laurel out of this mess.”
“And you didn’t even hold a twelve-gauge to the back of my head,” Henny drawled in a deep voice. “Course, that particular case, I guess I should’ve had my brains examined.”
Annie’s hand tightened on the receiver. Her fingers itched for that talented larynx. She made no response at all. Had Henny no shame?
Apparently not. In high good humor, the island’s most disgustingly well-read mystery fan confided, “A Joe Hannibal mystery. The Burning Season by Wayne D. Dundee. A hell of a good read. Starts in a cemetery. The gal with the shotgun has a bad mouth and a good heart.”
And the connection was broken.
Annie grinned and settled down again with the bios. She thumbed through the stack until she found the one she sought.
DORCAS MAXINE FRENCH ATWATER—b. 1933, Clearwater, Fla. Miss Clearwater 1951. Graduated local business college 1952. Secretary two years to bank president. Moved New Orleans 1954, worked downtown bank. Active in church activities, women’s circle, Sunday school. In 1956 married bank president, Theodore Wilburn Atwater, widower, superintendent Calvary Baptist Church Sunday school program. Atwater native Memphis. First wife, Alma, died car wreck 1954. Two children that marriage, Harold and Joan. Two children by Dorcas, Jimmy and Sue Lee. Atwater retired 1984; he and Dorcas moved to Broward’s Rock, house in Scarlet King compound. Atwater died 1987, heart attack. After Atwater’s death, Dorcas withdrew from social activities. President Broward’s Rock Bridge Society said she’d never much liked Dorcas, but she was okay until Ted died. “My God, from one minute to the next, you never know what she’s going to do! Scream at you one minute, sob the next. Grief’s all very well and good, but this is outside the norm. And she decided everybody was making fun of her behind her back! For heaven’s sake, you know how women are at bridge! They talk faster than they deal—unless they’re fanatics. But we play bridge for fun, so there’s a lot of kidding around. Dorcas only came twice after the funeral. Too bad. She was a good player.” Pastor local church: “We’ve tried and tried to persuade Dorcas to come back to us. The church is the place for unhappy souls. But she—”
The phone rang.
Annie creased the corner of the page to mark her place. (This maddened Max. What, he demanded, were bookmarks for?)
“Hello.”
“Annie, I’m really worried about Agatha.”
Annie felt a sharp pang of guilt. She hadn’t even thought about Death on Demand or its feline occupants this morning. Of course, she knew Ingrid would be there, coping. Still, she should have called. “Oh, Ingrid, is Agatha still unhappy?”
“Unhappy? She’s about as cheerful as Chick Graham in The Man With My Face. Similar trauma in a way. There he is, not a care in the world, and he goes home to find a man who looks just like him claiming that he’s the real Chick Graham. Annie, Agatha’s lips are trembling and she’s growled so hard she’s hoarse.”
“Ingrid, I’ll be right there.”
Fourteen
THE BEACH ON a February morning—even one that promised uncommonly warm weather—was little populated. Joggers, of course. Max considered jogging an excessive activity, right on a par with overworking or overeating. He espoused moderation in all things. (Almost all things—afternoon delight, on the other hand …) But as far as sweat-producing exercise was concerned, he was convinced an amble along the strand was quite enough. Shading his eyes, he surveyed with a jaundiced eye and an inward sigh the jiggling bodies that passed by. What a waste of energy. And surely the waitress at the Good Times Bar and Grill was wrong in suggesting that Jed McClanahan—Max’s eyes widened. By God, who would believe it!
McClanahan, his back to the beach, stood ankle-deep in the gently surging water, arms cross
ed behind him, white duck pants rolled up to the knees. His balding head gleamed in the sunlight.
The air temperature might be deceptively warm, but Max knew the water was damn cold. He hoped McClanahan’s toes were turning blue.
“Hey Jed! Jed!”
The diminutive trial lawyer slowly turned.
Max tried to interpret the expression on McClanahan’s wizened, red-veined face. It looked like a cross between bemusement and idiocy.
McClanahan’s thin lips cupped in a gentle smile; his red-rimmed, watery blue eyes shone with fellowship. “Max, come join me in a moment’s meditation.”
Max’s scarcely-contained irritation with Laurel for hiring the whispery-voiced, grandstanding old windbag boiled over.
“Meditation, hell! We need to get to the courthouse before they call the docket and see if we can get Laurel out on bail!”
The South’s gift to the trial bar responded with a pious look tinged with condescension and splashed to shore. “My dear fellow, we will go at once. I can see that you are in dire need of counseling by your remarkable mother. As she pointed out to me, and I have taken it to heart—I’m writing poetry, now—we must always remember the wisdom of Saint Fulgentius of Ruspe: ‘He who walks in love neither can go astray nor be afraid.’”
“Oh God,” Max moaned.
McClanahan looked heavenward in dismay. “As Saint Francis Xavier so aptly remarked, ‘How many souls are led astray from the path of glory simply because of their indifference.’”
Deadly Valentine Page 18
