Deadly Valentine

by Carolyn G. Hart

  “Come down, Agatha. Lovely girl. Dearest cat in the whole wide world.”

  Agatha’s amber eyes were pinpoints of fury.

  “Come on, love.” Annie held up a bowl filled with fresh mackerel. “You’re the only cat here, the only cat in the whole world.”

  Agreeable Dorothy L. had thought the cat carrier quite interesting and was still purring when Annie put the cushion-lined wooden carrier in the front seat of the car. (Maybe she should have named her Nancy P. after the charming first president of Sisters in Crime. Annie didn’t think the original Dorothy L. would have shown this much good humor.)

  “Your store,” Annie crooned. “All yours, sweetheart.”

  Agatha stood. And launched herself toward a nearby table.

  This would have been quite acceptable except that she had been resting on a line of collectible books standing on end atop the Rare Books section.

  Former President Johnson’s domino effect was illustrated in spades, or books. Six rare books (first editions, mint) tumbled down: The Fools in Town Are on Our Side by Ross Thomas, The Blunderer by Patricia Highsmith, The Woman Chaser by Charles Willeford, The Lolly-Madonna War by Sue Grafton, The Deadly Truth by Helen McCloy, The Ghostway by Tony Hillerman.

  Annie could have sworn the whiskered face sported a diabolic grin.

  By the time the court session was over, Max’s nerves were strung like a steel guitar. The agony of watching McClanahan posture (“Your Honor, it is my sincere pleasure and bona-fide delight to appear this morning in one of the greatest courts in the great State of South Carolina in defense of a noble lady whose Con-sti-tu-tion-al rights are in jeopardy”) was almost more than a reasonable man could bear.

  Even worse—Max sank down in his seat and tried to look as if he had no connection with McClanahan at all—was when the gnomish little lawyer stood on tiptoe to peer earnestly up at the judge. “Your Honor, my client—and she is the finest lady that it’s ever been my pleasure to represent—has shared with me a precept which will edify all of the honorable ladies and gentlemen of the bar of the great State of South Carolina, and I would like to close by sharing with you this lovely lady’s admonishment. She told me—and I extend this to everyone herein—that we should all ponder thoughtfully Teilhard de Chardin’s wonderful advice that “we make our way to heaven by doing the work of the world.’”

  The judge stared, gimlet-eyed, at the little attorney, cleared his throat, and mumbled, “Proceed, counselor.”

  The interminable—to Max—session finally ended in victory, the judge granting bail both to Laurel and to Howard. Now all Max had to do was go to the jail, pick up his mother, and return to Broward’s Rock. Restored to good humor at the prospect of soon being free of the feisty little lawyer, Max clapped him on the shoulder as they walked out of the courtroom. Max even managed to sound fairly sincere in his congratulations. “Great job, Jed. Well, you can go back to the beach—”

  “The beach?” McClanahan looked around in alarm at the clusters of dark-suited attorneys thronging the halls. “What would the world’s greatest trial lawyer do at the beach?” He beamed at everyone in general. “Hello there, Curtis. Richmond. Harry. Selina Bea. Joe Bob. Winston. Carrie Ann. Great to be back in this courthouse. Some of my grandest battles have been here.” A whispery laugh. “Right against some of you very ladies and gentlemen. Gather round, I want all of you to meet Max Darling, the son of one of my best clients.”

  Max’s plan to scoot from the courthouse to the jailhouse in record time went down in a welter of southern hospitality.

  Annie put the cat carrier down in the middle of the kitchen and opened it.

  Dorothy L. immediately popped out, purring, and frolicked into the sun room. Annie spread out an Island Gazette and opened a can of tuna. “Now, don’t think this is going to be standard fare. I just haven’t stocked up here with cat food. And you might as well count on being a house cat. There’s an alligator out in that pond who thinks cats are hors d’oeuvres.”

  Would Dorothy L.’s disappearance appease Agatha? Or was her sleek black feline friend irretrievably estranged?

  Annie glanced at the clock. After eleven. No wonder she was so hungry. But first she must see about her messages. Not, of course, that she was a slave to curiosity. But it might be important. Maybe her mail-order ticket had won the Illinois lottery. En route to the phone, she stopped in the downstairs bath to splash rubbing alcohol on her latest wound from Agatha, a two-inch scratch on the back of her right hand.

  The first message was from Eileen Houghton. Annie clapped a hand to her head. Of course, she should have called the woman first thing this morning. But Eileen Houghton was so confident of her social eminence, it apparently hadn’t occurred to her that she’d been ignored.

  “So sorry neither the general nor I were at home this morning to receive your call. I’m at the hospital for a board meeting and this is the general’s morning to have his checkup. I did talk to Howard Cahill’s son and Howard is still being detained. The general and I are appalled at the obvious miscarriage of justice that is occurring. Although I hesitate to interfere in the lives of others, I feel that I must reveal information which may affect the investigation. I have been unable to contact Chief Saulter or the circuit solicitor, so I will hope to utilize your good offices. Please meet me at two this afternoon at our pier.”

  The second message was from Henny and it lacked her usual pizzazz. “Haven’t found Reba yet. It’s her day off. Her mother thinks she went fishing. But I’ll find her.”

  Henny rang off without a reference to a first mystery. Annie hated to take pleasure in others’ discomfiture but—(The imps turned and, arms entwined, shoulders drooping, drifted sadly into the nether world inhabited by good intentions.)

  The third message was from her normally unflappable husband. Max’s usually mellow tone was absent. He sounded, in fact, both irritated, disgruntled, and a shade worried. “Annie, I’m at the office, waiting to hear the latest lab reports. Give me a ring as soon as you can.”

  Annie promptly dialed Confidential Commissions, and Barbie put her right through.

  Max went straight to the point. “Where’s Laurel?”

  Since he had left the island bright and early to spring his mother from the county jail, the question and its accusatory tone seemed a bit unreasonable to Annie.

  “How should I know? Did you get her out of jail?”

  A burdened sigh. “Yes, finally.”

  As Max described his morning, Annie stifled her giggle. She really did enjoy being married.

  There was a long silence after Max concluded his report. Annie, truly, could think of nothing to say.

  Max didn’t seem to notice, apparently still engrossed in his own thoughts. Finally, he asked plaintively, “Annie, do you suppose by work of the world, she meant going to jail?”

  Annie was glad she didn’t have to face him and answer. Some questions are far better left in rhetorical limbo. Especially if they concerned Laurel. She made a noncommittal noise.

  “Anyway,” he continued wearily, “it went okay in court. The judge agreed that not granting bail to Laurel and Howard was absurd. Posey immediately amended the charges to murder and conspiracy to commit murder, but the judge granted bail anyway. Said the accused were respectable members of the community, and the likelihood of their jumping bail was nil.”

  Annie wisely didn’t share her thought that the judge obviously didn’t know Laurel.

  “Thing is, McClanahan ran into a bunch of old cronies—I mean, they never told me in law school there were lawyers like these—anyway, by the time I finally shook free of the mob and got over to the jail, Laurel had already left. Now, dammit, Annie, don’t you think she could have waited for me? She should have known I was coming!” An outraged snort. “She did know I was coming. She left a message for me.” He breathed heavily.

  “Max, perhaps if you used your mantra …”

  Laurel had chosen a lovely mantra for Max when she was in the midst of her psychic
studies.

  “Annie, that is not funny.”

  She realized she might have gone too far. Instantly sympathetic, she cooed, “Laurel’s message?”

  “Annie, if you see Laurel, corner her until she explains. Here, listen to this note she left for me: ‘Dearest Max. And Annie, of course. So sweet of you to think of me. I’ve used this quiet period to direct an appeal to wonderful Saint Jude, the Saint of Those in Desperate Straits, the Saint of the Impossible. As you know, Saint Jude is always willing to help, but he does expect us to take charge of our own lives.’” Max heaved a worried sigh. “Annie, what the hell do you suppose she’s up to?”

  For once, the trite rejoinder suited: “The good Lord only knows,” Annie murmured.

  Liverwurst had such a delicious tang. (Dorothy L. obviously agreed; she clambered atop the tiger-pine breakfast table three times before Annie surrendered and put a slice in her bowl.) Time was when health fiends urged consumption of organ meats as a source of all-important iron. Annie was not a fairweather friend. This anticholesterol craze was obviously out of control. She tucked in another sliver of Vidalia onion, finished the sandwich, and nobly resisted the impulse to fix a second. However, a delicious lunch deserved a cup of excellent coffee. She brewed several cups of Irish Creme, washed the dishes and settled at the table with her coffee and the stack of bios. She picked up Dorcas Atwater’s and skimmed to the end:

  The church is the place for unhappy souls. But she says she can’t bear to have people looking at her. Frankly, she needs a psychotherapist, but she became almost hysterical when I broached it during a visit and since then she’s never answered the door when I call.

  Atwater’s children and stepchildren refuse to visit because her erratic behavior frightens the grandchildren. Sue Ann Atwater Danforth said tearfully, “I just don’t know what to do about Mother. She won’t talk to any of us. And whenever we mention Dad, it’s dreadful. She just goes to pieces.”

  Annie picked up the next bio. Oh yes, that charming fellow, the general, with his ashen face, icy gaze, and arrogant demeanor.

  LT. GEN. (RET.) COLVILLE SINCLAIR HOUGHTON—b. 1923, Prescott, Ariz. Oldest son wealthy ranching family, which traces ownership to Spanish land grants. West Point graduate 1944. Second lieutenant under command Gen. George S. Patton, Jr. Full colonel at 33, multi decorations for European campaign World War II, including Bronze Star, Silver Oak Leaf. Promoted brigadier general at 42. Served in Korea, wounded Heartbreak Hill. Completed career in Pentagon as lieutenant general. Ret. 1978 Ft. Lauderdale, Fla. Still extensive family holdings in Arizona. General reputed to have an income excess $200,000 yearly aside from retirement benefits. In 1948, married Lucille Bernard, daughter Lt. Gen. Milton Bernard, met at Ft. Leavenworth while attending Command and General Staff College. Two sons, Robert, graduate of West Point, killed as captain Vietnam, and Anthony, who committed suicide 1979.

  Annie drew her breath in sharply. One son dead in the war, one son dead by his own hand. No wonder the general was such an embittered man.

  She read on:

  Anthony involved in peace movement after Robert’s death. Jailed during riots at 1968 Democratic Convention in Chicago. Excelled as student, completing doctorate in physics at Berkeley. Taught at several well-known colleges, but Anthony’s drug use, begun during 60s, debilitated him. Fired from last academic post. Anthony sought drug treatment but had no medical insurance and didn’t have the $12,000 it costs for 28 days of treatment at most facilities. Public treatment center had six-month waiting list. Anthony contacted his father and asked for help. General said no. Anthony checked into local hotel, found dead of self-inflicted gunshot wound. Widow Susan Houghton said, “The money wouldn’t have meant anything to the general, but it was the difference between life and death for Anthony. He needed treatment. He needed it immediately. His father might as well have loaded the gun Anthony used. I called the general to tell him about the funeral and he wouldn’t even come to the phone. His second wife said, ‘The general declines to accept this call. As far as he is concerned, he had only one son, Robert.’”

  Dorothy L. jumped into Annie’s lap. Annie scooped up the kitten and pressed the soft ball of fluff to her cheek and felt the warmth of the little creature and the rapid flutter of her heartbeat. Life—vulnerable, irreplaceable.

  And the general, unforgiving and heartless.

  Annie gave Dorothy L. a kiss and dropped her gently to the floor.

  The general, of course, has no need to worry about payment for his hospital stays, enjoying full military pension. Used private fortune, however, to avoid stays in VA hospitals. Health began to deteriorate several years ago. Now on heavy-dose medications. Suffers from hypertension, heart disease, moderate emphysema, arthritis, gout. Has had two moderate heart attacks, undergone triple bypass. During convalesence from latter met second wife. The former Eileen Berry, physical therapist. Married 1977 and bought present home in Scarlet King compound.

  Annie slapped down the general’s bio. With a quiver of distaste, she searched through her stack.

  EILEEN MORGAN BERRY HOUGHTON—b. 1948 Pensacola, Fla. Graduate Florida State. Physical therapist seven years; quit to marry Johnnie Berry, stock car racer, killed Florida May Day rally 1977. Berry previously married, father of three. No children second marriage. Berry good-looking, stocky, coal-black hair, quite a ladies’ man until married Eileen. She always toured with him; marriage apparently happy. Couple enjoyed white-water rafting, scuba diving, spelunking. After his death, Eileen returned to work and that’s how she met general. Quit work again at second marriage. Expert bridge player. Physical fitness enthusiast, attending aerobics classes three times a week. According to Kris Thompson at Figure Fair, Eileen good enough to be leader and certainly good enough to be in advanced class. “I keep telling her she should come to the six o’clock session. I mean, those are people who can do. But she just shakes her head. Once she said something about her husband preferring for her to exercise with women. She said, ‘The general has such old-fashioned views.’ I thought she ought to tell the old jerk to stuff it, but she’s really into this Madame General thing.”

  Annie knew about that six o’clock coed class. Bodies of steel. She liked exercise, too, but there was a limit. So Eileen Houghton was on that level. How wearisome to be saddled with an unpleasant, old husband.

  The rest of the report listed Eileen’s club memberships. A lot of them, including bridge. The president of the Audubon Society said, with a just detectable note of disdain, “Mrs. Houghton seems to be quite aware of her status as the general’s wife. Unfortunately, it hasn’t occurred to her that this is a resort community, not an army post.”

  The phone rang.

  Annie reached for it. “Hello.”

  “Annie, has Laurel shown up yet?”

  “Not yet, honey. Why?”

  “We definitely need to keep a leash on her. It’s looking blacker for Cahill every minute, and who knows what she may try to do to help him. No wonder Posey filed the murder charge! I just got a copy of the lab report. The blood on Cahill’s jacket has definitely been identified as Sydney’s. Plus they found his fingerprints on the mace.”

  Annie recalled Laurel’s message, the Saint of Those in Desperate Straits. She had a feeling that Laurel did indeed know all about that lab report—and who knew what else?

  But, of course, the duty of a wife is to reassure her husband in times of difficulty. “Oh, Max, everything will be all right. You know Laurel.”

  She realized, when she hung up, that her answer could scarcely have consoled her worried husband. Oh well, there were sure to be marital failures as well as successes.

  Annie was settling again at her desk, reaching for another bio, when a disquieting thought struck. Was Laurel even now at the home of a man who had been accused of first-degree murder?

  Surely not.

  Surely even Laurel had the good sense not to make a bad situation worse. Annie could imagine Posey at the trial, glowering at a winsome Laurel on the
witness stand: “Mrs. Roethke, on the night of Sydney Cahill’s murder—the night that beautiful young woman was viciously and sadistically battered to death—did you enter the gardens of the Cahill mansion with the express purpose of visiting—and this was after midnight—with Sydney Cahill’s husband, Howard? Answer yes or no, Mrs. Roethke, yes or no.”

  Annie stifled a sigh and popped back to her feet.

  Annie hesitated when she reached the Cahill drive. A black limousine was parked near the front steps. She almost turned back. Then the frightful thought occurred: What if Laurel went to the funeral with Howard? Shoulders squared, Annie marched past the limousine and up the steps.

  A mournful-faced middle-aged woman in a dark, rustling dress opened the door.

  “Hello. I’m a next-door neighbor, Mrs. Darling, and I need to speak briefly with Mr. Cahill. Would you—”

  “Why, yes, ma’am. You step in here right now.” Her voice dropped conspiratorially. “I’m Mrs. Gaffney and we talked earlier today and I know all about you and that nice husband of yours and I know you’re doin’ all you can to help Mr. Howard. You just wait right here and I’ll go see if he can talk to you.” Her shoes scraped on the stone floor as she turned away.

  The entryway, with only the lights in the wall sconces burning, had an uncannily funereal air. Annie didn’t look toward the suit of armor. She didn’t want to remember the mace.

  But she did.

  The heavy metal head studded with inch-long prongs; the smooth wooden handle worn shiny by years of touch.

  “If you’ll—”

  Annie jumped convulsively.

  “Mrs. Darling, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you to death.” Mrs. Gaffney’s face drooped even more. “Oh my, I don’t blame you a bit. This is a scary place now. Everywhere I look, it seems to me I can see Mrs. Sydney, and her pretty face is all streaked with tears. And poor Mr. Howard. Only a few minutes now and he has to go to the service. Just him, it’s going to be. And I think that’s a cryin’ shame, too. Nobody else there to mourn for Mrs. Sydney. But you come with me. He’ll see you before he goes.”