They looked around the long, narrow store, at chipped figurines on scarred tables, old wooden toys, threadbare tapestries, tarnished silver-plated pitchers and bowls, dull glass, cracked plates, boxes of old buttons and stacks of dusty books.
Annie waved her hand and her gardening glove flapped. “Junk. How did she stay in business?” She looked toward the front of the shop. “Where’s her cash register? I don’t even see a counter.”
Max pointed—pine straw shook free from his glove and wafted to the floor—at the nearby Queen Anne table and easy chair, the cushions dented from long use. “That’s where she sat. I didn’t buy anything—”
Annie wasn’t surprised. Who would?
“—but another woman was paying for a Coca-Cola tray.” He stepped to the table, lifted the lid of a rectangular metal box. Coins glittered in their compartments, but the back of the box was empty. A pad of paper lay next to the box. Otherwise, the table was bare.
Annie bent over the desk. A single sentence was printed large on the top sheet:
Women’s Club van at four o’clock Thursday!!!!
Annie felt a wash of repugnance. There was something smug and distasteful in the deeply incised, flamboyant printing and the string of exclamation points, as if the writer took a particular pleasure in this pronouncement, a private glee not to be shared but to be savored. Annie shivered. Wasn’t she drawing an ugly conclusion from scant evidence? Her gaze swung around the room. “I don’t like this place.”
“Not high on the charm scale,” Max agreed. “But everything looks in order down here.” He turned toward the stairs. “I’ll go first.”
His boots squished as he walked and so, Annie realized, did hers. They were leaving a damp trail. But who would see and who would care? She smiled fondly at Max’s back as she followed him up the worn, squeaky wooden stairs. Although she had no intention of being a gothic heroine (saved by the white knight in the last chapter), she appreciated Max’s manly intent in taking the lead.
She watched with interest as he eased open the door at the top of the stairs, then gave it a sudden kick and burst through. She wondered if any studies had been done to gauge the effect of James Bond movies on American males.
When the ceiling light flashed on and he stood aside for her to enter, she noted his bright eyes and beaming smile. He was having a hell of a time.
But her answering smile slid away as she stepped into a room that would have made Hercule Poirot’s austere apartment look fussy.
Max followed her gaze. “Yeah. I’ve been in motel rooms with more personality.”
No rugs. A single sofa. An easy chair with a floor lamp on one side, a low table on the other. Nothing else. No paintings, no vases, no photographs, no bric-a-brac. Nothing. Unlike the room below, there was a cold cleanliness here, a faint smell of furniture polish, the floor shiny with wax. The only indication of habitation was a coffee mug on the small table, next to a copy of Architectural Digest.
And, of course, the floral tapestry carry-on and sleek brown leather briefcase on the dining room table. A matching tapestry suitcase sat near the front door.
Max glanced at the suitcase, then hurried toward the dining room table. Annie walked quickly past him toward a closed door. If anything reveals a woman, it is her bedroom. Somewhere in this featureless apartment, there must be a clue to Kathryn Girard.
Annie pushed open the door and switched on the light. It was easy to take in the whole room in a quick glance: a bare floor, a single bed covered with a white comforter, a plain wooden chest of drawers. No curtains, no mirror, no dressing table, no array of cosmetics or perfumes, no jewelry case, no pictures, no photographs, no books.
Kathryn Girard had existed. Annie knew that. She’d had casual conversation with Kathryn at a dozen social functions. Tonight she’d seen the battered head and still body bunched in the back of the Women’s Club van. But Kathryn Girard had to be so much more and so much less than Annie had ever realized to have lived in this featureless, bleak apartment.
Swiftly, Annie checked the chest of drawers. Empty. So what else was new? There was not even a stray button or a crumpled sales slip. It was eerie that Kathryn had left so little trace of her occupancy and no hint to her personality. The bathroom, too, was empty except for some tissues and a crumpled tube of toothpaste in the wastebasket. In the closet, a row of hangers hung unused. No clothes, no shoes.
Annie whirled and hurried back to the living room. “Max, this is crazy! She didn’t live here. She must have camped out, lived out of her suitcase. There’s nothing anywhere.”
“But there’s something here.” Max pointed at the table.
Annie hurried across the room, her boots slapping against the wooden floor. She stopped at the table and stared down at Max’s display: Two driver’s licenses and an open passport.
“In her briefcase.” Max’s eyes gleamed.
Annie almost spoke, then her eyes widened and she gazed in disbelief. Yes, each held a familiar picture, Kathryn’s heart-shaped face with the big dark eyes and a slight half smile, but one license was for Louise Carson, resident of Chicago, and one for Miriam Gardner, resident of Los Angeles. The passport was in the Gardner name.
Max’s gloved hand pushed forward a Visa credit card, also in the name of Gardner.
Max pointed at the carry-on and suitcase. “Why don’t you check them out. There’s more stuff in the briefcase. Here’s a copy of her lease. Did you know Ben Parotti owns this place? And here”—he pointed to a stack of envelopes—“are her bank statements. She closed out her account yesterday. And look at this!” Max held up an airline ticket, opened it. “Apparently, Mrs. Gardner was flying to Mexico City on Saturday.”
Annie felt like they’d lifted the lid on a bucket to expose a writhing mass of snakes. She didn’t know who Kathryn Girard really was, but Annie had a firm conviction that there was nothing good to be discovered.
Annie opened the carry-on and found a couple of paperback books, a Robert Ludlum thriller and a collection of crossword puzzles, some unlabeled medicine bottles with pills that could be for anything, a sack of M&M’s, face cream, tissues, a black sweater, bottled water, throat lozenges, sunglasses and a small leather photo album. Photo album! Annie grabbed it, flipped it open. The album had plastic sheets for photos to be fitted front and back. She stared at the top picture, a rather ordinary color photo of the Broward’s Rock harbor. She turned the page. The second print was another harbor shot from a different angle. She flipped through the pages, more and more puzzled. Every page was full, photos of the library, a sailing schooner that had visited the island over the Fourth of July, the ferry, a half dozen marsh shots, a wood ibis on a piling, the rotting hulk of a bateau, a beach umbrella, a formation of pelicans. There were no people in any of the shots. The photography was unremarkable, no dramatic sunrise or sunset, no artful lighting or telling shadows, just ordinary, run-of-the-mill, snap-a-shot photography.
The store was shoddy, the apartment spooky, but the photo album seemed strangest of all. Annie tossed the peculiar little album into the carry-on and fumbled with the zipper, the thick gloves making her hands clumsy. She stopped, frowned, pulled out the album and tucked it under her arm. Who would know that it was missing? Certainly not Chief Garrett. She glanced at Max, who was busily writing in his small notebook. Maybe he could make some sense out of the album.
She was still frowning in thought as she tipped the large case on its side, unzipped it. When she lifted the lid, some of the tension eased out of her body. Actually, it wouldn’t have surprised her to find a shrunken head or bags of bones. That would be in keeping with the weirdness of the apartment and the somehow sinister banality of the album. But the clothes—four skirts, a half dozen blouses, two pairs of slacks, panty hose, lingerie, a gown—were perfectly ordinary and of good quality. Kathryn Girard apparently always dressed in black and she pref
erred one hundred percent cotton. Even the shoes were black: flats, sneakers and house slippers. Annie shivered, realizing she was touching clothes that now dead but recently living hands had folded and arranged. She ran her fingers in the elastic pouches on either side. One held a leather identification tag. Annie opened the flap and saw a photo of Kathryn, but the name read Miriam Gardner.
She jumped to her feet. “Look at this!” She held open the flap for him to see.
Max nodded, flipping his notebook shut. “Makes sense because the plane ticket’s in that name. My guess is that she used the Gardner name when she traveled. Maybe it’s her real name. Or as real as we’ll ever know about. But we’ve got enough now to track her.” He carefully eased the papers back into the briefcase.
Papers.
A folder.
Annie’s eyes widened. “Max.” She dropped to her knees beside him. “There’s something missing.” She pressed fingers against her temple. “Whoever it was—tonight—that’s why I couldn’t see the face!”
Max understood finally. The fleeing figure clutched a folder or folders. “Annie, think!” Did Poirot use that impatient tone with Hastings? “Was it large? A lot of papers?”
Try as she might, she couldn’t dredge up another detail, just the shielded face, hidden behind oblong, stiff paper. “A folder,” she said stubbornly, “that’s all, maybe several folders.”
“A folder. Or folders!” he repeated excitedly. “Annie”—he pulled her to her feet—“that tells us a hell of a lot. Don’t you see?”
Folders. Annie prided herself on her deductive abilities. Why should Max act like Mike Hammer spotting a blonde upon learning that their armed intruder escaped with folders most likely filched from Kathryn Girard’s briefcase?
Folders didn’t take up much room…Kathryn obviously was involved in something illegal…what could…Annie nodded suavely, restraining her impulse to shout eureka. After all, she was the detective here. She tapped her chin reflectively. “Why, it’s obvious. It can’t be drugs. Or stolen jewelry. Or anything bulky. What fits in folders?”
“Papers,” he said grimly. “Papers someone was willing to kill for.”
It was almost one o’clock in the morning when they eased their bikes into the garage. They pulled off their muddy boots, which had slogged through all kinds of detritus this night, and dropped them by the steps. Annie reached into the bike basket for the leather album. When they stepped into the kitchen, they looked at each other and laughed. Max had a cottonwood tuft in his thick blond curls, his navy blue polo sprouted pine straw and his pants were splotched with mud. Annie looked like a refugee from a pig wallow, her hair tangled and her face smudged. She tucked the little leather album under one arm and brushed ineffectually at her slacks.
Max glanced at the album. “What’s that?”
She held it out. “It was in Kathryn’s carry-on.”
Max flipped through the album, then shrugged and dropped it on the kitchen counter beside the crumpled plastic bag with Henny’s clothes that Annie brought home from the hospital. “Maybe you can frame it as a souvenir, but it’s pretty worthless as a clue.”
Annie stopped at the sink to wash her hands. Did he think he was Anthony Boucher’s Fergus O’Breen? He certainly sounded as cocky. Well, she wasn’t going to have her discovery belittled. As was once observed by a long-ago detective, Harvey O’Higgins’s John Duff, every crime has a psychological origin. Duff was describing the murderer, but it applied equally well to the victim. “That album’s an anomaly, Max. It has to be important. When we know why she carried it, we will know why she was murdered.” With that sweeping announcement, Annie moved toward the refrigerator.
Dorothy L. pranced into the kitchen, round white face alert, eyes bright, tail waving.
“No, sweetie, it isn’t time to eat.” For cats. Annie opened the refrigerator. What was an evening’s end without vanilla ice cream topped with fresh raspberries and chocolate syrup? So it was a little past the usual time for an evening repast. Was she in a rut? “Want some ice cream, Max?”
“Now? Actually, I—” He bent down. “Are you hungry, honey?”
Annie thought his tone of incredulity when speaking to her was in marked and not very attractive contrast to the sugary concern when addressing Dorothy L.
“Are you a hungry, starving, mistreated little girl?”
Annie grimly dipped into the ice cream while Max opened the lower cabinet to retrieve cat food.
When her dessert was ready—so yes, she’d gone for three dips, what the hey, it’d been a long night—she settled at the breakfast bar. The first bite was exquisite. She looked fondly at Dorothy L., who was burrowing her little pink nose into a mound of chopped fish. To each his own. Annie lifted her spoon.
The phone rang.
Annie’s eyes swung to the clock over the kitchen window. One-eighteen.
Max reached out and snatched up the receiver. “Hello.” As he listened, his body relaxed and he began to smile. He looked toward Annie and turned a thumbs-up. “So she doesn’t remember anything, huh? Well, that’s probably safer. Get the word out, Emma. Yeah. Thanks for calling. Right. Tomorrow. Thanks.”
Max fished a couple of oranges out of the fruit basket, peeled them and tossed them in the juice crusher. “Henny’s lucid. Has a hell of a headache, but otherwise fine. No vision problems.” The crusher noisily crushed.
Annie smiled and spooned. Fresh raspberries coated in chocolate with an ice-cream base might just be the best taste in the world. Tomorrow she’d fix up a goody hamper for Henny and take her the books that had just arrived. And she’d toss in her newest prize collectible, Ngaio Marsh’s Death of a Fool. And she would go by Henny’s house and get a gown and some clothes. Annie reached for a telephone pad and made a note: Henny/books/clothes/snacks.
“…moved her to Room Two Eighteen.” Max held a glass under the spigot.
Annie felt a quiver of unease. “Is she going to be safe there?” A room certainly wasn’t as closely observed as the ICU.
Max drank thirstily. “Not to worry, Annie. Garrett’s stupidity comes in handy here. Emma said Pirelli’s on duty out in the hall. And there will be an auxiliary member in the room with her.”
That should be safe enough. Annie scooped up the last portion of ice cream. In the morning, they would help get the word out that Henny didn’t remember anything at all of the previous night. But Annie knew Henny wouldn’t be safe unless Kathryn’s murderer was caught. That dark figure outside Kathryn’s store had not hesitated to shoot.
Annie wiggled her toes in the foamy bubbles. Was it decadent to take a bubble bath in the middle of the night? Not after the night they’d put in.
The shower door opened and Max stepped out. Mmmm, mmmm, mmmm. Actually, there was something better than vanilla ice cream laced with chocolate and topped with fresh raspberries. Annie pulled the plug. Mmmm, yes. Max looked across the bath and she saw his smile and its reflection in the mirrors. In two steps he was beside the tub and reaching down to pull her up. So they were wet. Mmmmm.
The banana split dish slid over a mound of meringue and splashed into a lake of chocolate. Annie stood in the prow of the dish, night-vision binoculars at the ready. Cotton candy fog swirled around the dish. If she could just see through—
The piercing peal poked into her sleep-numbed brain.
Annie struggled to regain the dream, dipping her hand into the smooth, velvety chocolate—
“Annie”—a muffled plea—“the phone.”
Annie rolled onto her elbow, reached for the screaming banshee instrument. “Hello.”
“Surely you don’t intend to lie abed when our dear Henny is at risk.”
Annie blinked at the telephone. She knew that raspy voice, knew it well. But Miss Dora Brevard, the doyenne of Chastain, South Carolina, was supposed to be in Italy at the Tuscany
villa of her cousin, Sybil Chastain Giacomo, who maintained a residence at the family Tarrant mansion in Chastain as well as the Giacomo villa in Siena. Sybil had long ago divorced the race-car-driving scion of the Giacomo family, yet she spent a part of every year at their villa. Flamboyant and intriguing, Sybil preferred younger men and flouted convention whenever possible. That Sybil had invited Miss Dora to visit was merely another indication of her unpredictability.
“I thought”—Annie cleared her throat; it was hard to talk when your body was still surfing a chocolate lake—“that you were visiting Sybil.” Annie glanced at the phone. Oh God, surely it didn’t read five A.M.
“I am. I find Sybil…”—the pause was long enough to eat up several long-distance dollars considering the rates between Siena and Broward’s Rock—“continues to impress me with her vivacity.”
Annie was awake enough to suppress a snort.
“However, I did not call to discuss my holiday, interesting though it is.” The ancient voice rippled with amusement. “Sybil’s daughter sent us an E-mail about Henny’s predicament and I felt compelled to contact you. I knew if I called at a somewhat early—”
Somewhat early?
“—hour I should catch you. Now, please give me the details. Courtney’s report was sketchy.”
Annie knew the village network throbbed with energy but, nonetheless, she was impressed. Sybil’s daughter Courtney and her husband, Harris Walker, lived on the island. Was Courtney in the hospital auxiliary? Yes, that had to be it. And now the word was out all the way to Italy.
When Annie concluded her report, there was another moment of silence. “The White Elephant Sale,” Miss Dora mused. “There are possibilities there. Was the woman killed because of something she picked up? Did she observe something while making the pick-ups that placed her in danger? The first necessity is to determine where the van stopped. Then it will be essential to learn everything possible about the occupants of those houses. Here is what I would suggest, my dear….”
White Elephant Dead Page 7
