White Elephant Dead

by Carolyn G. Hart

  Garrett moved impatiently in his chair.

  “—I said I was Max Darling. Then the caller said, ‘Are you the blond guy who was helping look for Henny Brawley last night?’ I said I was. The caller said, ‘She’s an innocent victim. You’d better put a double guard on her at the hospital to keep her safe. As for Kathryn Girard, nobody knows the truth about her. Don’t let the bitch get away with it. Look for the money in Kathryn Girard’s apartment.’ I tried to ask who was calling, but the caller hung up.”

  Garrett scratched notes. “How about background noise? Any hint where the person called from?”

  Max looked thoughtful. “There was a kind of squeaking noise. It might have been seagulls.”

  Garrett wrote down, Seagulls. He tapped his pen on his pad. “Man? Woman? Think about the tone, the pitch.”

  Max turned his hands palms up. “A whisper, Chief. That’s all I know.”

  “Name’s Pete.” Garrett studied his notes. “It may be a hoax, somebody wants to see the cops hurry over to the woman’s place. But”—he pushed back his chair—“can’t do any harm to check. I’ll get Mr. Parotti to let us in. He’s been real cooperative.”

  Max stood, too. He started to turn away, then, resisting his impulse to clap himself dramatically on the forehead (shades of the old days when he played Mortimer Brewster in Arsenic and Old Lace), Max jerked to a stop. “Almost forgot. My wife found this”—Max pulled the now much rumpled note card from his pocket—“in Henny Brawley’s pocket. At the hospital last night, they gave Henny’s clothes to Annie, said they didn’t have anyplace to keep them in the ICU. And the new addresses are in Kathryn Girard’s handwriting,” Max said carelessly. “Annie had seen her writing at the clubhouse. Anyway, we figured those had to be the houses Kathryn went to last night and we thought you’d like to know.”

  Garrett reached for the sheet, looking like a river otter ready to belly-slide into the water for a succulent turtle.

  Max smiled pleasantly. “Hope some of this is helpful. And Chief—Pete—we’ll let you know if we hear anything else useful.”

  The silence reminded Annie unpleasantly of an overgrown cemetery she’d once visited, the stones tilted and broken, the old mausoleum almost hidden beneath a growth of fragrant wisteria. The silence pulsed with a heavy, waiting, guarded quality.

  Annie looked at her watch. Her hour was up. Actually, she was five minutes past. If Max’s mission had succeeded, Chief Garrett should arrive any minute. How long would it take from the police station? Three minutes? Four? Was his car pulling out of the oyster-shell lot while she stood, waiting, the plunger in her hand?

  A car motor roared.

  Annie twisted the lock and this time 007 would have been proud. Yanking back the door, she burst out of the bathroom, plunger whistling like a samurai sword. She skidded to a stop in the middle of the living room. No one waited to attack her.

  The sound of the car was fading. Annie ran to the window overlooking the road, but all she saw was a swirl of dust. Without pausing, she turned and ran to the stairs and pounded down the steps.

  The searcher was gone, but Garrett was coming. She loosed the chain to the back door and turned the knob.

  A car door slammed. The sound came from the front of the store. Annie closed the back door as the front door opened. Edging along the back wall, she craned her neck, checked around the corner, saw no one and sprinted for the weeping willow.

  Max dialed home, Death on Demand and Annie’s cell phone. No answer. He frowned. What could be taking her so long? It was almost ten. Certainly it should have been the work of a minute to drop the album in Kathryn’s apartment. He dialed the house again, left a message.

  Annie flung the straw hat onto the kitchen counter, plucked off the sunglasses and gardening gloves and slid them into the miscellaneous drawer. She glanced at the clock as she trudged across the kitchen, heading straight for the refrigerator. Ten o’clock. How could it be only ten o’clock? Way back there in the dark ages, rather like a weary dowager in a Leonidas Witherall escapade by Alice Tilton (Phoebe Atwood Taylor), she had headed out to see Max at Confidential Commissions, en route to the Women’s Club. And Emma, who had all the charm of a coral snake, was no doubt wondering where the hell Annie was. Instead of following her plan, she’d returned home, changed clothes and grabbed the album as per Max’s suggestion. What she had packed into a mere hour since surely deserved commemoration, something on the order of a bronze medal with a motif celebrating endurance, courage and steadfastness.

  She opened the refrigerator.

  Dorothy L. rubbed against her ankle, purred and lifted an enchanting white face, shining blue eyes assessing the possibilities.

  Annie picked up the cream pitcher, poured a bit in a saucer. Withstanding pressure of any sort was simply not to be expected at this point. Back at the refrigerator, she sought the magic potion. Chocolate-covered strawberries? Her hand hovered near the bowl. Covered with cream whipped until it was almost like butter? When Max warned about cholesterol, Annie pointed out smugly that Agatha Christie lived to be eighty-five, imbibing clotted cream at every opportunity. Clotted cream was the result of leaving cream at room temperature for several hours, then beating it vigorously. Room temperature in September in the Low Country was not an option. The nearest Annie could get to the British clotted cream was her buttery version and it was almost as good. Annie’s hand closed on the beautiful brown bottle of chocolate syrup. Zero fat grams. Annie walked to the silverware drawer, got a tablespoon and poured. She carried the syrup and spoon to the telephone answering machine, which was blinking faster than Barbara Jaye Wilson’s milliner sleuth Brenda Midnight whipping out a summer hat design.

  Annie punched the button and leaned against the counter.

  “Dear Annie. Just a quick report.” Laurel’s husky voice burbled with enthusiasm. “I’ve made so many new friends this morning. Actually, I’ve been offered everything from guava juice to a ginseng drink. So interesting what people enjoy. And there is such a nice gentleman—Fred Jeffries—who lives just a block from Marsh Tacky Road. Reminded me of that handsome writer you had at the store once, Walter Satterthwaite, dark hair and an interesting face. He’s a widower—Fred, not Mr. Satterthwaite—and he just loves to tootle about in his yacht. He’s invited me—oh well, that’s neither here nor there. Though once our dear Henny is quite safe and well, I may be there, wherever there may be—”

  Annie poured another tablespoon of syrup.

  “—but that’s what makes life so fascinating. I could not miss the significance of the quince tree near his patio. Temptation! Doesn’t that sum up life so beautifully? But tempered by a marvelous profusion of jasmine. Amiability is such an admirable quality, especially, I should think, on an extended cruise to—wherever.”

  Annie licked the spoon. She was contemplating punching the erase button and sending this particular message to—wherever.

  “Dear Fred braves the elements.” She might have reported the successful completion of a polar trek in equal tones of admiration. “On one voyage to Zanzibar, he and his parrot Alexander plunged right through a typhoon.”

  Annie wandered back to the refrigerator to return the chocolate syrup. She studied the milk. Whole or skim? Her hand closed on the skim, and she savored the smug satisfaction of self-denial. As for Fred, Annie hoped Laurel might have serious reservations about taking a voyage with a man who confronted typhoons, no matter how much vigor he exuded. Annie poured the milk.

  “So, of course,” Laurel said briskly, “the storm Thursday afternoon was no hindrance to Fred. At five-thirty, he was on his way to the club for a drink, driving west on Laughing Gull.”

  Annie sipped the milk, but the mention of Laughing Gull got her attention.

  “The blue van passed him going east. Unfortunately, it was raining so heavily, he couldn’t see the driver. He didn’t see Henny’s Dodge. That’s all for now. I shall report anon.” A delicate pause. “Fred is quite interested in learning more about the language of
flowers and he’s going to accompany me. I know that sharing with Fred is going to be such a pleasure. Not, of course”—the disclaimer was hasty—“that I shall forget the purpose of my peregrinations.”

  Of course not, Annie thought, sipping the milk.

  The second message was short and crisp.

  “Annie, I do expect a report.” Miss Dora was too ladylike to snarl. “Have you spoken yet to Adelaide and Edith?”

  Annie glanced at the clock. Late afternoon in Sienna. Maybe she should bring Miss Dora up to date, but she’d listen to the rest of the messages first. The sweet comfort of the chocolate was ebbing. There was so much to do and here she stood in her kitchen. Too bad you couldn’t fast-forward messages and get the gist even if it made callers sound like Donald Duck. But there might be something important.

  The third message made her smile.

  “Thumbs-up. I’m sure you pulled off your end. Barb and I are compiling information faster than Agatha swiping a canapé.” At a bookstore open house during the summer, Agatha nudged the plate with shrimp to the floor. She had made an interesting sight with shrimp in her mouth and cocktail sauce on her whiskers. “How about lunch at Parotti’s? Garrett’s well intentioned but the likelihood of his scouring out any hard info on Kathryn’s activities is nil. It’s up to us. I know we have a good guard system for Henny, but every time I think about last night and that gun, I get worried for her. I’ll count on seeing you at one unless I hear otherwise.”

  The final message put her in motion.

  “You’re late.” Emma’s dry, cold voice was unemphatic, but Annie felt guilt piling on her shoulders. She needed to learn how to shed pressure with the insouciance of John Mortimer’s Horace Rumpole, who never let She Who Must Be Obeyed get him down. But Rumpole’s Hilda was a cream puff compared to Emma.

  “I shall assume you have made some progress, which you will report upon your arrival here. Henny is doing well, though this is being kept secret. Pamela Potts is bringing her report. I believe it will open up several avenues of inquiry. I have consulted with Chief Garrett and arranged for you to sign for the club van. An officer will drive it to the club. Every item in that van must be checked. That may be our best lead to Kathryn’s stops last night—”

  Annie was almost to the door, ready to jump in her Volvo. Emma wouldn’t be so damn patronizing when Annie showed up with a complete list of Kathryn’s route.

  “—and I expect to see you shortly.”

  Every road leads to another on an island, so Annie didn’t feel that it was really out of the way to scoot by the harbor and Death on Demand. So Emma expected her at the Women’s Club pronto. Well, Henny was stuck in the hospital and Annie knew how to improve that convalescence. Annie almost poked her head into Confidential Commissions, but the memory of Emma’s cold voice spurred her directly to Death on Demand. As always, she loved the boardwalk that curved on one side of the harbor. In late afternoon, sunlight bleached the boards, but this morning it was pleasantly cool and shady. The Broward’s Rock marina berthed every kind of boat from oceangoing yachts to Zodiac rafts. The water shone like polished jade and beyond the mouth of the harbor a pair of porpoises arched above the surface, sleek and graceful. A man in brief white shorts, his skin as dark as mahogany, patiently scraped the side of his boat. Music drifted from the nearest yacht, the cerebral guitar of Andres Segovia. A crimson and cobalt parrot perched on an awning of a deep-sea charter boat, the Merry Maguffin. The parrot screeched and it sounded very much to Annie as though he were commanding, “Hurry, dolt, hurry.”

  Dammit, she was going as fast as she could. As she passed the Death on Demand window, she scanned her September display. New titles by perennial favorites Anne Perry, Lawrence Block, Nancy Pickard and Diane Mott Davidson. She stepped inside and was greeted by piteous cries announcing cat abandonment and advanced starvation with an underlying threat of imminent application to the Cat SPCA. Annie looked up. Glittering eyes glowed beside the glassy gaze of Edgar, the stuffed raven. The raven occupied a small niche above a glass-encased display of recently acquired collectibles. A very small niche. Agatha’s shiny black fur was indistinguishable, so close was the fit, from the stuffed bird’s glossy feathers.

  “Agatha.” Annie spoke pleasantly, confident she was exhibiting the spirit of sweet reasonableness. “You know Ingrid’s already fed you.” Annie waved good morning to Ingrid, who was not only chief clerk, but friend, mainstay and fellow mystery lover. Ingrid and her husband Duane loved vacationing in New Orleans and always brought back a trunk full of secondhand mysteries. Their latest prize was a first British edition of Ngaio Marsh’s Artists in Crime, the book that introduced painter Agatha Troy, who would become the love of Roderick Alleyn’s life.

  Ingrid was arranging a display of first appearances of very famous sleuths: Albert Campion in The Black Dudley Murders by Margery Allingham, Joe Leaphorn in The Blessing Way by Tony Hillerman, Faith Fairchild in The Body in the Belfry by Katherine Hall Page, Charlotte Pitt in The Cater Street Hangman by Anne Perry, Deborah Knott in Bootlegger’s Daughter by Margaret Maron, Amanda Pepper in Caught Dead in Philadelphia by Gillian Roberts, and Susan Henshaw in Murder at the PTA Luncheon by Valerie Wolzien.

  “Agatha has eaten.” Ingrid didn’t quite speak through gritted teeth, but there was a definite sense of strain.

  Agatha lurched. The raven wobbled.

  Annie leaped forward, hands outstretched.

  Edgar’s base—was it ironwood or basalt?—crashed into the display case, shattering the glass.

  Annie swerved to avoid gashing an artery. She could see the headlines: AGATHA GUILTY OF ASSAULT or SHOPKEEPER SAYS CAT DID IT.

  Annie stepped gingerly around the shards of glass. “Oh Agatha.” The plastic-sheathed first editions were okay—Motor City Blue by Loren D. Estleman, The Thin Man by Dashiell Hammett, Death in Zanzibar by M. M. Kaye and Beast in View by Margaret Millar—but an elegant and highly decorated hat created and signed by Jeanne Dams was dented beyond repair.

  An unrepentant Agatha waited impatiently in the center aisle, her whipping tail a clear signal that she wanted more food and she wanted it now. Annie followed the whipping tail down the aisle to the coffee bar. Behind her, she heard Ingrid sweeping up the broken glass.

  Annie poured out more dry diet food. Agatha hunkered over the dish. Annie wished there were a fat-free delicacy for cats. She gingerly gave Agatha a pat, yanked back her hand and hurried to the cash desk. She grabbed Henny’s books.

  “Ingrid, watch out for her incisors.” There was no need to identify the possessor of incisors.

  Ingrid added Miss Silver in the Grey Mask by Patricia Wentworth to the table. “Annie, Lillian Jackson Braun’s cats are charming.”

  If there was a ready answer, Annie didn’t have it. On her way out, she hesitated, then added the M. M. Kaye title to the sack. Henny would get a kick out of that and the book was a recent acquisition which Henny hadn’t seen.

  As Annie hurried to the parking area, she found herself slipping into a trot and trying not to feel overwhelmed. Usually the waves rolling into Broward’s Rock were gentle and low. Occasionally, before a storm, in hurricane weather, the waves crested at six or seven feet, sometimes ten feet. Annie felt like she was standing on slipping sand staring up at a huge breaker, the hospital, the list, Emma awaiting her arrival, Edith Cummings, Adelaide Prescott, and, now, the van. And that damn parrot calling her a dolt. She flung herself into her car, started the motor so quickly it made a worrisome grinding noise. As she pulled out of the parking lot, she had very good intentions. She truly planned to drive straight to the hospital. She opened the sunroof and headed for Sand Dollar Road.

  Chapter 6

  The phone number of Confidential Commissions registered Unavailable on call recipients’ caller ID. Max congratulated himself upon his foresight in ordering that designation. He’d done it at the start of the summer on one of those dogs days when he practiced his putting on the indoor green and Barb surfed the net, reporting that an Edga
r Allan Poe Web site had the scariest illustrations of a whirlpool she’d ever seen and he had to stop putting and read A Descent into the Maelstrom immediately. Max read it, suggested Barb return to cooking as her hobby and called the phone company. After all, he was confident that someday they would once again have a need for sub rosa investigation and, voilà!, the day was at hand.

  Max glanced at a name and number procured by Barb from a reporter on the San Miguel de Allende daily newspaper. He punched the numbers. Buzzes, pops and faraway voices were followed by a melodic, “Bueno.”

  “Hello. I’m calling for John Murphy.”

  “Un momento, por favor.”

  Max waited patiently.

  Finally the line clicked. “Hello. John here.” The voice was as smooth and rich and unsettling as she-crab soup with a dash of unexpected cayenne.

  “Mr. Murphy, I’m Sturdivant Whist, a freelance writer doing a piece on Miriam Gardner for a new pop magazine out here in L.A., Life at the Top.” Max doodled on his legal pad, sketching a palm tree and a smiling mouth with huge teeth. “She told me you could give me a picture of her life there in San Miguel de Allende.”

  “Marvelous woman.” The drawl was pronounced. Max pictured a rotund man with a puffy face, small, mean eyes, and thick lips. “I’m a little surprised she told you to call me. But I guess I am the man about town down here.” Satisfaction burbled in his voice. “Actually, I’d like to know a lot more about her. Maybe you could send me a copy of your story—”

  “I’ll send you a clip.” Max drew a paper clip.