White Elephant Dead

by Carolyn G. Hart

  Annie forgot about food. “Laurel? You called Laurel?”

  Emma deftly positioned herself between Annie and the vending machine, then loosed her grip. She opened her oversize purse and rummaged, pulling out an oblong card. She handed it to Annie.

  Annie studied the—to her—odd-looking, intertwined plants. The legend read: Balsam, Barberry and Bayberry. Being the best, you excel because of impatience, sharpness of temper and discipline. A P.S. theorized: Perhaps Marigold triumphs as a detective because she has suffered cruelty in love? Or dealt cruelty in love? Or is it because she has a restless nature? Whatever, Marigold is Marvelous.

  “An interesting combination of insults and flattery,” Emma observed, and once again a little smile twitched her broad mouth. “Laurel was presenting customized cards to some of us at the Women’s Club meeting last week. She’s quite enthusiastic about creating personalized floral note cards. That’s what she will do tomorrow.”

  “Laurel? You mean you’re going to send her to the houses near Marsh Tacky? What if she finds out something dangerous?”

  “Don’t worry, Annie. The woman is not such a fool as she appears. And she’s quite willing to do her part to help Henny.”

  “But the murderer may figure it out.” Annie felt herself being propelled across the waiting room.

  “So much the better. We are going to scare hell out of murderer if at all possible.” Emma was ebullient. “Oh yes. I’ve dealt with murder—”

  Annie had a sudden, creepy memory of the fact that there had been some question as to whether Emma’s philandering, much-younger second husband fell from Emma’s yacht some years earlier or was pushed.

  “—for a great many years.” Emma’s tone was confident. “Murderers are damn skittish. We don’t want ours to relax so we’re going to push every possible lever. We have to catch the murderer to save Henny. And we damn well are going to do it as fast as we can.”

  Soft-soled shoes slapped behind them. “Hey, lady, aren’t you a close relative of patient Brawley?”

  Annie whirled to face the emergency room clerk. Emma stood totally still, her square face bleak.

  The clerk tossed her head and her wilted ponytail quivered. “We can’t look after personal effects in emergency and they won’t take it in ICU. Here’s her stuff,” and she thrust a blue plastic bag into Annie’s hands, then turned and shuffled away on her soft-soled slippers.

  Emma’s eyes glinted as the steps faded away. “There goes my next victim. It will be a pleasure. I’m torn between a garrote and a toppling statue.”

  Annie clutched the blue plastic bag, wished her heart would stop thudding. “Or drop her into a pool with piranhas.”

  “I’ve done that.” Emma’s smile was as satisfied as an island alligator on a sunny bank. She pushed open the glass door.

  Annie looked back longingly at the vending machines.

  Emma was unmoved. “You can eat when you get home.” She gave Annie an encouraging shove onto the sidewalk. “I’ll give you a lift. I want to get to my office and organize for tomorrow.”

  The steamy air made Annie think of lifting the lid on a pot of chicken dumplings. Visions of delectable golden dumplings parted long enough for Annie to realize they were at Emma’s pink Rolls-Royce.

  Emma poked into her oversize canvas bag—

  Was there any food in there?

  —pulled out gold-plated keys linked to a medallion with a likeness of Marigold Rembrandt, and a couple of sheets of computer paper. “I went home and printed out Kathryn’s White Elephant pick-up list before I came to the hospital. Here’s a copy for you. I am puzzled by it, I must admit. You’ll see what’s wrong—”

  Headlights swept up the hospital drive. Max’s crimson Maserati slid to a stop behind Emma’s car. He jumped out, waved. “Hi, Annie, Emma. Got some dinner. Plenty for both of you.” He held up a picnic basket. Annie would have dashed to the food faster than Mary Daheim’s Judith McMonigle Flynn whipping up a feast, had it not been for Emma’s implacable grip.

  “—the minute you look it over. I’ll see you at the club in the morning. Nine sharp.”

  Annie would have promised to scale the Himalayas to win her release. “Sure. You bet. Nine.”

  Emma turned to greet Max, and Annie held out her arms for the picnic basket. She managed a thank-you before the first bite melted into delight.

  “Oh, no thanks, Max.” Emma declined a sandwich. “I had some vegetable juice earlier.”

  Annie was inhaling the sandwich. She flicked a disbelieving glance at Emma’s girth. Veggie juice! And maybe some pork rinds and cashews on the side? Or did Emma eat bat wings and stewed entrails? No way did her ordinary dinner consist of V-8.

  Emma reported on Henny’s condition and the posting of the auxiliary by the ICU while Annie devoured the first sandwich and grabbed the second. She intended to alert Max that Laurel had her first undercover assignment, but she spotted the brownies.

  “…so we’ll get everything in full swing tomorrow.”

  As soon as Emma’s elegant car pulled away from the curb, Max reached for the picnic basket. “Come on, Annie, you can finish eating while we drive.”

  Annie grabbed the baggie with the brownies and wondered at the urgency in his tone. She settled in her seat and addressed the first raspberry brownie. As far as she was concerned, RBs combined the planet’s most exquisite flavors.

  “Sam Porter’s working the gate tonight,” Max said crisply.

  Annie licked a vagrant smear of raspberry from her fingers. “That’s nice,” she observed amiably. Sam was a grizzled Marine veteran who was fond of Parotti’s Bar and Grill (coldest beer, freshest bait) and surf fishing. “He’s part of the ground crew for the Confederate Air Force. He’ll be sorry about Henny.” Henny was a longtime pilot and often flew her restored P51 Mustang at air shows.

  “That’ll work.” Max was as delighted as Agatha Christie’s Miss Lemon upon vanquishing a stenographic challenge. “Okay”—the Maserati turned left—“when we get to the gate, you can tell him how she’s doing and what the doctor said and—”

  Annie glanced at Max’s handsome profile. He gripped the wheel, staring straight ahead, like a Manning Coles hero coming up on a German sentry. “Well, sure. But what’s the big deal?”

  He shot her a grin that was sheer Joe Hardy. “You’ll see. We’re going to act on information received—”

  Annie loved the police jargon.

  “—because it’s all up to us.”

  Navy slacks, navy tee, navy tennies. Max’s clothes were equally dark. The only exception was the gloves. It occasionally drops into the thirties during a Low Country winter, but mittens aren’t required so Annie scrounged around in the garage and found a couple pairs of white cloth gardening gloves.

  “That’s okay.” Max stood at a kitchen counter, scrawling a quick map. “We won’t need the gloves until we get inside. Look, here’s how we’ll go….” Max made a box for their house on Scarlet King Lagoon. “See, we can take the golf cart paths all the way to the bike trail that goes through the forest preserve—”

  The island Chamber of Commerce claimed that Broward’s Rock boasted more miles of bike trails than Hilton Head. Annie suspected the Chamber was counting some trails twice but certainly you could get quickly from one end of the island to the other on a bike.

  “—and skirt the gate. If anybody ever asks Sam, he’ll swear we drove past the gate about ten o’clock and didn’t come out again. Nobody will connect us with a break-in at Kathryn Girard’s store.”

  As they wheeled their bikes out of the garage, Annie dropped a flashlight in her basket. Max waggled a slender pencil flash. “This will show us enough to find our way and it will look more like fireflies.” As they rode, he occasionally pointed the narrow beam on the trail. It was like riding inside a black velvet bag. The storm had done nothing to ease the humidity and Annie felt sweat beading her face and sliding on her skin. The golf paths were fairly easy to follow but once they plunged into the fores
t preserve, the darkness was so impenetrable that Max said softly, “Let’s walk this portion, Annie.”

  She pushed her bike and followed the dip and slide of the sliver of light. She concentrated on keeping to the asphalt trail and tried not to picture their surroundings and the myriad of curious eyes belonging to bats and raccoons and snakes. A splat of something wet spangled her cheek. She doggedly marched on. It was nothing more than droplets of water from the forest canopy. Where were all the alligators? But surely an alligator would have something better to do with his time than loll around on a bike trail waiting to be bumped. “It’s asphalt,” she announced. Any self-respecting alligator would prefer a mud wallow.

  “What did you say?” Max paused and she swerved to avoid running her bike wheel into his heel. The wheel came up hard against a solid barrier. Annie’s heart lurched until she realized there was no movement. She must have struck a log. An alligator would have already made an hors d’oeuvre of her leg.

  “How are we going to get inside?” Had Max brought any tools? What if Kathryn Girard’s store had a burglar alarm?

  Max repeated Billy Cameron’s ambiguous answer. “I don’t think we’ll have any trouble. Besides, I think there’s a balcony over the front porch. We’ll find a way.” Max was moving on up the trail. “I dropped in last Christmas to try and find something for Mother. You remember her musical pig phase?”

  Annie remembered Laurel’s musical pig phase. Annie had scoured Web sites around the world in search of a miniature pig playing a saxophone and wearing a porkpie hat, only to receive it in time for Laurel’s birthday and be greeted with a sweet smile. “Dear Annie, so kind of you.” A vague wave of a beautifully formed hand with the palest of pink nail polish. “Those little dears are somewhere about. Yesterday I awoke and looked out my window and do you know what I saw?” Annie had doubted if the scene included pigs playing instruments. Laurel’s smile was beguiling. “I saw flowers. It was simply an epiphany. What speaks to us? Life, my dear. And what tells us more about ourselves and our world than glorious flowers?”

  “Talking flowers,” Annie blurted now at her husband’s back.

  “No, no. It was pigs—Wait a minute, Annie.” Max jolted to a stop.

  Annie’s wheel swerved and she skidded into a fern that showered her with moisture.

  Something moved in the brush to their right. Branches thrashed. Max swung the pencil beam. A raccoon paused a few feet from them, his intelligent eyes surveying them calmly. Then he turned and loped away.

  “Wonder if he’d loan us a mask.” Annie loved the quick, confident creatures. She was smiling as they wound through the rest of the forest preserve. But a mask wouldn’t be a big help if they got caught. She doubted Chief Garrett would cut them any slack. Would Frank Saulter provide character references from deep in a rain forest?

  It was easier going once they were out of the preserve. The trail wound past St. Mary’s Church, its parking lot empty, the asphalt shiny from the recent rain. Tendrils of fog wreathed the steeple. They followed another trail past soccer and baseball fields and reached the edge of Main Street. All the businesses were shuttered except for Parotti’s. Bright red neon along the roof line bathed the nearly full, foggy parking lot in a pinkish glow. Keeping to the far side of the road, they pedaled fast and within a half block were again in darkness. The rutted dirt road curved inland, out of sight of the bar and grill. Tall pines pressed to the edge of the road.

  Annie rolled to a stop. “I see some kind of light,” she whispered.

  Max’s answer was equally soft. “Let’s leave the bikes here.” Shielding his light, he flicked it briefly off the road. “Behind those palmettos.”

  While Max stashed the bikes, Annie used her light to scuff around and build up a pile of sticks on the road to mark the hiding place for the bikes. It wasn’t high-tech but she had no intention of walking home. She tucked the flashlight in her pocket.

  They moved quickly, Annie stumbling once in a deep rut. Max caught her before she fell. A dim glow came ever nearer. Annie gripped Max’s arm. “It’s the front window of the shop.” That was the only glimmer of light. The two-story wooden building sat by itself, tucked into a grove of towering pines. There was an empty turnaround just past the store.

  They reached the deep shadow of the pines about ten feet from the front steps. An owl shrieked, a wild scream that resounded in the clearing. A chuck-will’s-widow skimmed past, looking for flying insects. But there was no other movement, no other sound. The wooden steps creaked beneath their weight. Annie fished in her pockets for her gloves. Max pulled on his gloves and they eased up to the plate-glass window.

  In the back of the long narrow room, crowded with tables and dishes, a single unshaded bulb dangled from the ceiling.

  The light went out.

  Annie clutched Max’s arm. “Who turned it off? Max, what—”

  “Shh. Hurry. Over here.” He hustled Annie to the side of the porch. As they jumped to the ground, he pointed at a rain barrel. “Hide behind it. See if anyone comes out the front way. I’ll go around to the back.”

  He was gone before she could protest, before she could remind him to be careful, to be very careful. No one had any business in Kathryn Girard’s apartment and she doubted anyone else was there in response to a tip from Billy Cameron.

  Annie crouched behind the rain barrel, her cheek pressed against the splintery wood. The smell of dank water mixed with a faint odor of creosote. Why would anyone come here? And why now? The second question was easier to answer. It was late, nearing midnight, a good time to move unnoticed around the island just as they had. As for why, Kathryn’s apartment had to contain something of enormous importance to the intruder. But what could it be? Annie had a sudden vision of a bag of diamonds or a stolen Titian or—

  Rusty hinges rasped.

  Annie’s heart thudded. She peered around the barrel. If only she’d brought her cell phone. But even if she could have called Billy Cameron, he wouldn’t arrive in time.

  The front door opened. A dark figure darted across the porch and moved swiftly down the steps.

  Annie didn’t think. Or actually she did, in a disjointed, unconnected way, sure that this mattered, that she had to know who was there, that Henny’s safety and perhaps her freedom depended upon Annie. Annie pulled out her flashlight, turned it on. She glimpsed a dark coat, a dark cap.

  The figure whirled, face shielded with a handful of folders, and lifted the other arm.

  Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was a childhood memory of High Noon. Maybe it was her recent rereading of an Eve Gill adventure by Selwyn Jepson. Whatever, Annie dived behind the rain barrel, scrabbling like a land crab as the gun cracked.

  Face down on the uneven ground, she smelled the acrid tang of cordite as well as rotting leaves and pine straw. Water gurgled out of the barrel, splashing against her leg, cold as the frozen tundra in Alistair MacLean’s Night Without End. Annie welcomed the icy wetness and the gouge of a root against her cheek. She was alive.

  “Annie!” Max’s shout shattered the night quiet. A beam of light speared into the night from behind the house. His feet thudded on the ground.

  Her shoulders drawn tight, as if that would help against a bullet, Annie crawled on her hands and knees along the side of the house, then pushed to her feet. “Max,” she yelled, and if a bullet came, it came. “Stop, wait. Don’t go in front. Max, don’t!”

  They crashed together. Annie pushed and they fell, sliding on the slick pine needles. “Quiet, Max, quiet. Shh.” She pulled the flashlight out of his hand, turned it off.

  Max tugged at her arm and they crawled over the slippery pine needles until they were hidden behind a thicket of ferns. “Annie.” His whisper held love and fear and a terrible relief.

  She gripped his hand, felt herself begin to shake. His arms came around her.

  “The door opened. Someone came out.” She took a deep breath. “I thought I had to see.” She lifted her head, strained to see through the night. “
No one’s there now. But Max”—her voice was stronger—“now we’ve got something to tell Chief Garrett.”

  Max got up on one knee, helped Annie and they both stood, looking toward the shop. “I wish we did.” His voice was grim.

  “But Max, why would anybody shoot at me? Garrett has to listen to that.” She tugged on his arm, eager to get to a phone.

  “How do we explain what we’re doing here?” He resisted her pull, staring through the dark toward the road.

  She got his point. “So what can he do, throw us in jail?” She was trying for defiant, but it came out sounding uncertain.

  “No. But he’ll claim we’re trying to divert attention from Henny.” Max absently brushed pine needles and leaves from his trousers.

  “The bullet in the barrel!” Quickly, she told Max. “That will prove…” Her voice trailed off. Sure, there was a hole in the barrel. Water was trickling out. But it didn’t prove anyone shot at her. “Damn.” And she couldn’t even say whether the shooter was a man or woman. She squeezed her eyes shut for an instant, trying to re-create that fleetingly seen figure. Dark clothes, shielded face, that moving hand. No, she’d seen too little too quickly. It could have been either a man or a woman. Wouldn’t Garrett sneer at that description!

  “No. I’d like to call Garrett,” Max said. “But we have a choice, Annie. We call Garrett or we look in the apartment.”

  Eve Gill would never hesitate. Annie started for the front porch.

  Chapter 4

  M ax used his flashlight to find the switch for the dangling bulb.

  As the dim light spilled down, Annie waggled her garden-gloved hand toward the plate-glass window. “Somebody might see it. We did.”

  “That’s okay.” Max looked as comfortable as Perry Mason with Della Street at his elbow. “The cops have already been here. As for anybody else, if they’re on the sly like we are, they’ll wait until we leave.” Not even Mason could have elucidated the proposition with greater clarity.