Deadly Valentine

by Carolyn G. Hart

  “Oh, Henny.”

  “Yes. Cruel sport, Annie. I’m not prepared to like this murderer.” Henny cleared her throat. “Reba swears by Howard Cahill, said he is the kindest, most thoughtful man. Said he didn’t have much to do with Sydney, but he was always polite to her.”

  That, of course, would be preferable to outright ugliness. But what cold comfort on a winter’s night.

  “Anyway, why would Howard hand-place the damn thing on a table on his own patio?” Henny asked impatiently. “He’s supposed to be a corporate genius. You’d think he would have put it in the mail to imply the sender was barred from the compound.”

  “Double bluff?” Annie suggested.

  “Hmm, maybe. Well, I’d like to hook him up to Bihn’s lie detector—if it wouldn’t blow all the fuses.” There was a subtly Oriental lilt now to a calm, unhurried voice. “That would show Bihn that I admire his skill in police science and am willing to consider modern inventions.” There was the faintest stress upon “consider.”

  “Henny, isn’t enough enough?”

  “You don’t recognize it?”

  “It’s been a busy year.” She tried to keep the whine out of her voice.

  “Certainly, Annie. But you will enjoy Superintendent Bamsan Kiet. The protagonist in Pigeon Blood by Gary Alexander. Truly delightful. Such a shame you missed it. And the sequel’s already out. Unfunny Money.”

  Annie decided to distract Henny. “Howard’s out of jail.”

  “Hmm.” A thoughtful pause. “What’s Laurel up to?”

  Annie smiled at her mother-in-law, who smiled meditatively in return. “She’s going to go out in the middle of the lagoon and meditate.”

  “Hmm. I suppose that’s safe enough.”

  Annie felt a prickle of concern. “Why shouldn’t it be?” she asked sharply.

  “I don’t know,” Henny said slowly. “I just have bad vibes. I think somebody really nasty is at work. Really nasty. Take care of Laurel, Annie.” She spoke with such grave intensity that Annie’s prickle turned into a chill of foreboding. As the line went dead, Annie looked sternly at her mother-in-law.

  “Laurel, are you planning something I should know about?”

  The glow of innocence emanating from her mother-in-law would have done justice to Marian Carstairs’ children in Home Sweet Homicide. “Annie, I give you my word, I am simply putting myself in the hands of Saint Jude. And that shall be that.” A beatific smile.

  Shouldering her knapsack, Laurel started down the path to the lagoon. She only paused long enough to trill, “Oh, Annie dear, perhaps you should check the answering machine. Such an intriguing message from Chief Saulter.”

  Sixteen

  AS ANNIE HURRIED into the garden room, she tried to dismiss her uneasiness about Laurel. After all, what mischief could her mother-in-law get into in the middle of a lagoon? It was, in fact, an inspired spot for her. Meditation might be good for Laurel. Open her mind to new vistas. Annie suppressed a shudder. God knew, the vistas Laurel perceived were challenging enough. They scarcely needed for her to improve her reach.

  “Loony tunes,” Annie muttered, heading for the bamboo table and the answering machine. But at least Dear Old Desert Boots was now safely in the middle of the lagoon, whatever she might be contemplating. Annie glanced at the clock. Almost five. The good news was that Max would soon be home. The bad news was that her mind churned with facts, suppositions, and uncertainties. She felt no nearer a solution to Sydney’s murder than when she had begun the day, eager to sink her teeth into the bios. Surely somewhere in the mass of information she’d processed, there lay the clue that once perceived would lead unerringly to the murderer. Just like the locket in Caught Dead in Philadelphia. What she needed was time to analyze, correlate, and interpret. Instead, she’d been buffeted with surprise after surprise. Now there was Laurel’s somewhat enigmatic farewell. What could be intriguing about a message from Frank Saulter?

  Annie punched the Play button on her answering machine.

  “Uh. This’s Frank Saulter. About half past three Thursday afternoon. Uh. Listen, Annie, Posey’s madder’n a coon dog after a skunk bath. Judge reamed him out, wanted to know if Posey didn’t understand grounds for bail. Anyway, Max’s mom and Cahill are on the loose. But if they step out of line, Posey’ll clap ’em back in jail faster’n Charles Paris can down a drink.”

  Annie smiled. Simon Brett was one of Saulter’s favorite authors. Saulter always stocked up on the latest books from Death on Demand when he went fishing.

  “Uh.” A lengthy pause, emphasized by the whirring of the tape. “Thing is, Posey’s got another string to his bow. Eyewitness says”—he cleared his throat—“says Sydney was all over Max Tuesday morning on your patio. Course”—now his words raced—“witness says you were there, too. Said you looked mad as a hornet. Now, maybe you ought to give me a ring about this.”

  Annie yanked up the receiver, then paused and took several deep breaths. All right, all right. She was going to keep her cool. No way was she going to lose it. Calm, cool, collected, a woman far above petty jealousy in regard to her husband, even when provoked by licentious witches.

  Max frowned at the busy signal. He replaced the receiver, and leaned back in the luxurious embrace of his red leather chair. “At least,” he said plaintively to Annie’s picture, “you are finally home.” He quirked a blond brow. “I don’t suppose,” he addressed her serious, responsible gaze, “that I can lure you out to the club two nights in a row? After all, I did spring Laurel today, which entailed spending entirely too many hours in the company of the greatest trial lawyer in South Carolina. Something I would only do for my mother. Now look, Annie”—he offered his most charming and persuasive smile—“everything’s okay for now. Right? Laurel’s out of jail. Howard’s out of jail. Posey’s on the mainland.” A frown replaced his smile. “Laurel.” Max sat bolt upright. “Annie, I feel it in my bones. Laurel’s up to something!” He grabbed for the receiver.

  “Yeah, Annie. ’Preciate your calling back.”

  Annie tried to keep her voice neutral. “How’s ev—”

  Just as the chief launched into speech. “You try—”

  A silence.

  Saulter cleared his throat.

  Annie, proud of her hard-won control, opted for a lateral approach. “Anything happening, Chief?”

  “Posey’s sweating.”

  “Does he think he made a mistake, charging Howard?” She picked up a pen and sketched a pig mopping its snout.

  “Naw. Posey’s sure he’s guilty as hell. But he’s afraid of Howard’s influence. A lot of calls are coming in. Howard’s got friends in high places.” A pause. “So does Max’s mom. Would you believe the Archbishop of Canterbury?”

  Annie would.

  “Sheesh. Posey kept calling him ‘Your Eminence.’”

  “Wrong church. And only for cardinals.”

  “Whatever. Posey’s nervous. He knows his case is circumstantial. I mean Harry K. Thaw, they had him dead to rights. This one’s more like the Cullen case in Fort Worth. But Posey’s got the physical evidence, Cahill’s jacket with his wife’s blood on it, the mace with his fingerprints.”

  Annie drew a mace, the prongs dripping blood. “It’s Howard’s mace, so why shouldn’t it have his fingerprints on it?” she asked reasonably.

  “Oh, sure. Defense counsel can make arguments. Then there’s his alibi. Posey thinks it’s a put-up job, but he’s afraid of the effect Laurel might have on a jury.”

  “God knows,” Annie said simply.

  “Right.” Saulter sighed unhappily. “So maybe you and Max better get prepared.”

  “Max and I? Why?” She didn’t intend to make it easy for him.

  “Uh, Tuesday morning.” His voice faded away in embarrassment.

  Annie could imagine Saulter’s ears. She drew a hound with drooping, ears, fished around in the telephone table, found a red pencil, and added color.

  “Somebody—uh—saw it all.”

  So far
as she knew, she and Max had been unobserved, enjoying their morning together on the patio until Sydney arrived in her almost sheer negligee and honed in on Max like a Sidewinder missile. “So who told you?” She tried to keep her voice smooth, but it twanged like barbed wire.

  “Can’t reveal the name of a witness.”

  Obviously, his source had to be a resident of Scarlet King. And she would find out. She hadn’t spent her youth devouring mystery fiction from Anthony Abbot’s About the Murder of the Clergyman’s Witness (pen name of Fulton Oursler, who is much better remembered for having written The Greatest Story Ever Told) to Dornford Yates’s Blind Corner (a jolly novel typical of British upper-class reading between the wars) to be stymied in this quest. But there was no reason to fuss at Frank. He was male and did have this pukka-sahib mentality about not violating confidences. But she would find out.

  “Oh, well,” she said carelessly, “it doesn’t really matter.”

  Saulter heaved a sigh of relief. “Sure glad you understand, Annie.”

  “No problem.” Any woman would have seen through the false geniality in her voice.

  “Great. I kind of thought this might make you kind of mad.”

  “Mad. Why should I be mad? It didn’t amount to anything anyway.” Only Max and Agatha knew better and, thank God, considering their present relationship, Agatha hadn’t yet progressed from growls to speech. As for Max, he’d been pretending nothing had happened since the episode occurred. “I suppose I did look a little grouchy. I’m not a morning person.” That, at least, was the truth. “It wasn’t Sydney’s silly behavior that irritated me, it was being interrupted on my own patio with my own husband in time that belonged to us. It was outrageous.” Annie took a deep breath and reminded herself that she mustn’t speak with such an edge in her voice. Dulcet, that was the ticket. She inserted a soft laugh. “You can imagine, Frank, how it would bug you to have someone drop in unexpectedly at breakfast.”

  Saulter spit it out in a rush because, obviously, he hated having to say it.

  “The witness said she was in her nightgown and she sat on Max’s lap.”

  “So difficult to be accurate when spying,” Annie trilled, then realized with a pang of horror that she sounded just like Laurel. Was it catching? But Frank’s words were evoking Tuesday morning in her mind and she lost it.

  “Listen, Frank, Sydney was a slut who made passes at anything in pants!” Annie knew she shouldn’t lose her temper, but my God, she’d hardly ever been madder in her life! “And you can tell Posey for me that no female will ever get her slimy paws on Max. Not while I have a single breath left in my body. That bitch! Sashaying over to my house, ignoring me, talking to Max, and batting her eyelashes like Theda Bara with palsy! Then turning to go and taking a little stumble, right into Max’s lap. I mean, it was disgusting!”

  She tried to catch her breath.

  Saulter sighed.

  “I mean, actually, I felt sorry for the poor thing,” Annie said stiffly.

  The chief’s sudden bout of coughing sounded suspiciously like suppressed laughter. “Yeah. Sure. I mean, obviously, nothing to it. Thing is, though, Annie, you might want to phrase it a little different when you talk to Posey.”

  “Talk to Posey?”

  “Yeah. He’s been on the phone with—with the witness. He’s coming over to the island tomorrow morning. To finish up his investigation.”

  “No sweat,” Annie snapped, slamming down the receiver.

  Which was dumb. Frank couldn’t help it that one of her neighbors wanted to make her a laughingstock—or maybe send her to prison.

  Annie stalked into the kitchen and riffled through her papers on the breakfast room table. She found the map of Scarlet King Lagoon and the surrounding properties.

  Annie saw it in a glance. Their patio couldn’t be observed from the Cahill, Houghton, Burger, or Graham properties. And it hadn’t been the general on his morning perambulation because he had passed by more than a half-hour after Sydney finally left.

  But straight across the lagoon was the Atwater house.

  “Dorcas Atwater.” Annie said it aloud. For some reason, a vision of Agatha flashed into her mind, Agatha with her eyes blazing, emitting a growl that rivaled the Daytona 500.

  Max frowned as the message came on. “We are unable to answer the phone right now.” He almost hung up, then caught the start of a new message. “Max, I’ll be back in a few minutes. Going to talk to Dorcas Atwater. Listen, Laurel’s okay.” Max tensed. “She’s out in the middle of the lagoon. Meditating. See you in a little while.”

  Meditating? It sounded innocuous. Actually, it sounded delightful. Laurel in the middle of the lagoon.

  Max replaced the receiver, straightened his desk blotter, and began to hum. Time to go home. Annie would be there soon. And tonight the special at the club was mulled-down shrimp served piping hot over grits, a low-country specialty, a mixture of cooked bacon, onions, brown sauce, and shrimp. Annie loved it!

  As the sun dropped behind the pines, the temperature rapidly chilled and Annie was reminded that it was still February. She shivered and wished she’d grabbed a sweater. As she hurried along the darkening path, a fetterbush quivered and a black snake flashed deeper into the undergrowth. Annie bolted ahead. She knew it was harmless, but there was something in her that didn’t like a snake. Her pace redoubled when a little ground skink darted across the path. She burst out of the woodlands onto the Atwater grounds just as a water turkey flapped past.

  The house huddled in darkness as it had the evening before.

  Annie’s eyes adjusted to the deep dusk, and she could discern the pitch of the roof, the darker masses of azalea bushes, the ghostly grayness of the pier.

  A red dot glimmered for an instant among the shifting shadows in a grove of willows. A faint sour smell of cigarette smoke drifted on the light night breeze. Annie recalled the flashes of brightness that afternoon as she and Eileen surveyed the lagoon. Binoculars, no doubt.

  Dorcas was there. Hidden in the shadows. Spying. Morning and night. And telling tales.

  When she wasn’t paddling about the lagoon in the dark reaches of the night.

  “Mrs. Atwater.” Annie’s voice rang out angrily. Oyster shells crackled beneath her feet as she strode up the path.

  The cigarette glowed brightly, subsided.

  The mournful cry of a loon wavered in the chill night air.

  The cigarette flared again and then a bright brief arc traced its path into the water.

  Annie’s neck prickled, but she kept on going. When she reached the willows, she could discern a figure slumped in a deck chair behind a screen of trailing branches.

  “Mrs. Atwater, you were spying on us Tuesday morning, I don’t like being spied on.”

  “I wasn’t watching you. I don’t care about you.” A simple statement of fact, utterly convincing. “I was watching the slut.”

  Annie didn’t need to ask who Dorcas meant.

  A heavy sigh. A thin hand fumbled wearily in the pocket of the terrycloth robe. Dorcas put a cigarette in her mouth, fumbled again. A click. In the flash of the lighter, lank hair framed dull eyes, flaccid cheeks, the downturned gash of a mouth.

  “She’s dead.” There was the faintest hint of satisfaction in the toneless voice.

  “And you’re glad, aren’t you? Did you kill Sydney? Did you row back across the lagoon that night and find her in the gazebo and beat her to death?”

  The cigarette glowed. Dorcas inhaled deeply, blew out the sour cloud of smoke. “I could have, couldn’t I?” A little high giggle began, then trailed away. “But I never thought about her being dead. I always thought about her surrounded by males, ready to pounce. That’s what men are. Animals. Hanging around women like her. She was—” Vile words spilled out in an ever increasing tempo, her voice hoarsening. She went after every man. Every one of them. She killed my husband.” She peered up at Annie. “You never knew Ted, did you? He was—I always thought he was wonderful. But he wasn’t, was he?
Everybody laughs, you know, about Ted. It isn’t funny. It was ugly. So ugly. Ted died and it didn’t matter to her. She just kept on going, every man she could find. Old, young, it didn’t matter to her. Not if they could screw. She would have had your man, too. You don’t need to think she wouldn’t.”

  Annie didn’t bother to answer that. Her trust in Max would only underscore Dorcas’s betrayal. Instead, she demanded, “Why did you tell the police about Tuesday morning? Are you afraid they may start to wonder about you? And what you were doing on the lake the night Sydney was killed?”

  “The police.” Her voice crackled with hatred. “I hate the police. They thought it was funny, too. The way Ted died. I’d never talk to the police. I don’t have to tell them what I did that night. I’ll never tell them what I did. I’ll never tell the police anything.”

  Annie’s neck prickled again. Because she believed Dorcas Atwater. So who had told Saulter about Sydney coming on their patio Tuesday morning?

  Dorcas giggled again, a high, snuffling noise. “I was watching her. And you. And I watched the general watch you. He sneaks around in the mornings, looking in windows, don’t need to tell me he doesn’t. Goes to bed early. I know. I watch everyone. But he has night blindness. That’s what the general has. Night blindness. Silly old fool. He’d go after women, too, if he could. So it serves him right. Silly old night-blind fool. Just a nasty old man. But all men are nasty, that’s what’s true. Ted, too. Ted.” And the giggles splintered into sobs.

  Annie could have gone the other way around to go home, gone past the Houghton house, told the general she knew what he’d done.

  But she didn’t.

  She was, she realized soberly, as she hurried across the bright white no-man’s-land at the Burgers, more than a little afraid of the general.