White Elephant Dead

by Carolyn G. Hart

  When they stepped outside, they blinked against the vivid sunshine. Parotti’s was always dusky and dim.

  “Mmm, you look nice,” Max said.

  Annie looked down in surprise. After her bike ride to Kathryn Girard’s to return the album, she’d stopped by home and changed into a scalloped white blouse and a light blue cotton skirt, the better to go calling on women who knew everything.

  “You,” Max said firmly, “not your outfit.” He slipped an arm around her shoulders and drew her chose. “Maybe we ought to go home for a little while….”

  Annie grinned. “When,” she said firmly, “we’ve finished our work.”

  Annie put down her car windows and used her cell phone. The breeze kicked up whitecaps in the Sound. Three sleek black dolphins arched over the water in their own aquatic ballet. Waves slapped against the ferry, recently repainted a soft green with a new name on the bow, The Miss Jolene. Ah, romance. A raucous chuckling noise announced a covey of laughing gulls hovering over the water.

  Annie called information, punched for the number to ring.

  “Prescott residence.” A soft, gracious voice.

  “Is Mrs. Prescott in? This is Annie Darling.” Annie glanced at her list. It was hard to know where to start, but if she had to pick a murderer, a quick, ruthless, smart killer, she would put her money on Dave Pierce.

  A catamaran ran before the wind, its red and gold sails brilliant in the afternoon sun.

  “Hello, Annie? Adelaide Prescott.” She spoke with the golden accent of South Carolina, as cadenced as a minuet, as lovely as a haunting melody. “Dora called me this morning. I’d be happy to visit with you. Can you come now?”

  A white iron arch announced, HAPPY TRAILS. Max drove through, passed the first parked trailer with the posted sign, MANAGER. He was looking for Number 5. The crushed oyster-shell road wound around a lagoon. Old live oaks spread shading limbs. Sunlight dappled the sides of the trailers.

  Number 5 was small and looked permanent, with a green shaded awning and a morning-glory-draped trellis. A small woman with iron-gray hair drawn back in a severe bun sat upright on a white stool in the shade of the awning, a blue bowl in her lap. Her hands flashed as she snapped green beans, tossing the ends to the ground.

  Max parked across the road. As he approached, wary brown eyes appraised the car and him. Thin lips pursed.

  “Mrs. Kendall, I’m Max Darling, a friend of Ben Parotti’s.” Max used his most genial, casual voice. “Ben thought you could help me with some information I’m seeking.”

  Those skilled fingers never stopped working. “Ben’s a bigger gossip that any old woman. I don’t hold with gossip.” Cold eyes challenged him.

  “No, ma’am. I don’t, either.” Max was as fervent as Joan Hess’s Brother Verber decrying the evils of alcohol.

  Her icy gaze didn’t warm.

  Max dropped his efforts to charm. He would have as much success trying to con Emma Clyde. “Ma’am,” he said quietly, “may I draw up a chair and tell you why I’m here? It’s a matter of life and death.”

  Adelaide Prescott lifted the Georgian teapot and poured. “It’s such a pleasure to see you, Annie. I wish, of course, that we could have come together for a more cheerful purpose.”

  They sat in matching Queen Anne wing chairs, upholstered in rose and cream, in the elegant drawing room of the plantation house built in the 1780s. The cypress walls were as rich and ruddy as the day they were made. The tea table was near a fireplace with an elegant Adam mantel.

  Annie held the fine Spode china cup. “You know everyone on the island.”

  Adelaide Prescott’s soft round face would have looked perfect under the muslin mob cap of a colonial dame, shining white hair, shrewd brown eyes, pink cheeks, rosebud mouth. Shapeless as a dumpling, she loved beautiful clothes. Today the blue and green shells in her silk blouse were echoed in a frieze on her swirling green skirt. She stirred a teaspoon of brown sugar in her tea. “I keep confidences.”

  Annie leaned forward to speak, but Adelaide held up a plump white hand.

  “That is why Dora thought of me.” Fine white brows crinkled in thought. “I have what my mother used to call a listening ear. Perhaps it is because I’ve always preferred to listen rather than speak. People know that I keep to myself what I learn, so sometimes they tell me more than they should. And I’ve heard so many things through the years. Dora promised me that you will only use what I tell you to see justice done.”

  “We will do our best.” Annie met her sharp gaze.

  In a moment, Adelaide nodded. She sat very straight in her chair. “What do you wish to know?”

  “Why did Loretta Campbell dislike Marie?” Annie sipped the tea; Darjeeling, quite perfectly brewed.

  Adelaide’s sudden smile was impish. “One of my mother’s inviolate canons was never to speak of anyone unless one could speak well. I would so much rather have embraced Alice Longworth’s attitude and now I have that opportunity. Dear me. Loretta. Loretta was small minded, selfish and stiff-necked. As a mother, she embodied the unfortunate maternal instinct to defend its young at all costs, whether justified or not. I always felt sorry for Gary. His father—”

  The Doctor, that was how Loretta Campbell always referred to her husband.

  “—was one of those booming men. A big head and a deep voice. Quite charming. Everyone liked him. I’m afraid Gary is more like his mother, inward and repressed. And”—Adelaide’s eyes narrowed—“with such a terrible temper. Gary has a jealous nature. When he was in high school, he took a girl to a dance and she flirted with some other boys. At least that’s how the story went, and Gary was so angry he pushed over the table with the punch bowl and stormed out. Then Gary made such an unfortunate first marriage. My husband once told me that Helen Campbell had only to walk into a room and every man there would find his way to her. I thought Gary was so much better off when he married Marie. Yet, Loretta disliked Marie. I don’t know why she was so hostile to Marie. I do recall”—she fingered the single strand of pearls at her throat—“that there was some talk about Marie and one of the dashing actors at the playhouse one summer. I don’t remember his name now. It’s a shame Henny is in the hospital, as she certainly knows everything about the Little Theater. However”—Adelaide’s eyes brightened—“I understand Henny’s doing quite well but that she has no memory of her search for the club van. When Henny—”

  Annie’s eyes widened. Henny’s condition was to have been kept secret. Adelaide Prescott certainly seemed to be in the know. Was this word out all over the island, too?

  “—is well enough for visitors, I would suggest you ask her.” Adelaide beamed.

  “You haven’t spoken to Henny?” Annie asked.

  “No. They say no visitors are permitted, so I assumed I shouldn’t call, but I was talking to Janet Pierce a little while ago over some matters for the Art Center and Janet said she’d talked to Henny. You know young people, they just pick up a phone and call. Janet said Henny sounded wonderful, only a little bit of a headache, but that Henny said she wouldn’t get her memory back about that evening. Henny told Janet the doctor said people with head wounds don’t remember the events leading up to the trauma. Janet said Henny wasn’t upset, but she was eager to get home. She told Janet if they’d let her out of the hospital, she’d get busy and solve the murder in a jiffy.”

  So much for the cordon of protection around Henny. The problem was that no one had told Henny she was supposed to be too sick to talk to anyone. And Henny didn’t know about the list scrawled by Kathryn Girard. The list had been in Henny’s pocket but that, too, would have been lost in the memory swept away by her injury. Who else had called Henny? How about the Campbells and Vince Ellis? As for Ruth Yates, she’d been there.

  “Why did Janet call Henny?” Maybe Max was smart to suggest the guilty Pierce might not be Dave.

  “Oh, Henny and Janet are cochairwomen for the juried art show. A decision had to be made about the judges. Janet is always on top of things. A sco
ne, my dear?” Adelaide pushed the plate nearer to Annie.

  Annie smiled, took a scone and whipped cream and a dear little tart. After all, she’d had no dessert at lunch. But the awning cake awaited her in the car. Maybe she should drop by the store, give Agatha an extra snack.

  “Have you known the Pierces long?” Mmm, the strawberry jam was homemade.

  “Ever since Dave and Lynn came to the island. Such dear young people. And so much in love.” Adelaide’s voice was soft, her eyes sad. “That day she was lost, he took out a boat to look for her. Janet begged him to let the Coast Guard search and finally she insisted on going out with him. My grandson got up a group of boaters and they fanned out in all directions. They found Lynn’s boat not far out, capsized.”

  “So Dave Pierce was on the island that day. And Janet.” Annie sipped her tea.

  Adelaide’s eyebrows rose. She hadn’t missed Annie’s nuance. “Of course Janet was here. Dave and Lynn were entertaining a number of his business associates. Janet always came for those events.”

  And for a little dalliance with the boss? Because why else would Dave have killed his wife? “Someone told me Dave and Janet were having an affair.”

  Adelaide brushed some crumbs from her fingers. “That’s nonsense. Oh, I know he married Janet. And it was within a year. But he was terribly lonely and she was always kind to him. I think, actually, it’s a rather sad marriage. She is one of those women who devoted herself completely to her career and, of course, he was her career. And he is still a magnate but I think as a husband he must be less than wonderful. But few marriages are as perfect as his first. I shouldn’t care to be Dave Pierce’s second wife. I believe she is under great stress.”

  “Really?” Annie had a swift memory of Janet Pierce, tall, slender, lovely, self-possessed. Annie did not associate stress with Janet.

  “That might explain—” Adelaide broke off. She frowned into her teacup.

  Annie looked at her hostess sharply. Adelaide was an elderly woman and she’d spent her life either saying good things or nothing at all. What was it that she didn’t want to say about Janet Pierce? It couldn’t have anything to do with Lynn Pierce’s death. Adelaide was quite open about that and obviously had no suspicion that Lynn’s drowning could have been anything other than an accident.

  “How,” Annie asked carefully, “do you think stress has affected Janet?”

  Adelaide put down her cup. She looked across the room through the bay window at the cordgrass rippling in the breeze and the murky green waters of the Sound. “I’ve not heard anyone suggest what I am going to say. And it may simply be a great coincidence, but the parallels seem striking to me.” Her brown eyes troubled, she looked at Annie soberly. “I would never mention this except Dora impressed upon me the gravity of the situation. I shall trust that you will never tell anyone what I am going to say unless you prove it beyond any doubt.”

  “I promise.” Annie knew it was a promise she had to keep.

  “Janet”—Adelaide’s tone was thoughtful—“embodies many admirable qualities. She is highly intelligent, organized and capable, as you might expect of a woman with her experience in the business world. Since marrying Dave, she has devoted an enormous number of hours to island charities and civic groups. But”—she stopped uncertainly—“I have noticed an odd pattern. I assume you’ve heard of some of the thefts….”

  Annie felt as though a shade had flipped up in a window and she was looking into a brightly lit room. Thefts, of course! The ruby necklace from the Clark house, the double string of pearls from the Krichevsky house, the magnificent diamond and emerald ring from the Worrell house. The ring had disappeared only a month ago. All the thefts had occurred within the last two years. No one had been caught. The Clarks changed their domestic staff, which caused hard feelings. Henny had been outraged, insisting there was no reason to suspect the butler or maids.

  Annie stared at Adelaide.

  Slowly, the old woman nodded. “You see, each theft occurred while a party for a particular charity was in progress—”

  “It could have been any guest, couldn’t it?” Annie didn’t see a trail leading to Janet Pierce.

  “There are numbers of parties throughout the year. I find it curious,” Adelaide said, “that the thefts all occurred during parties planned by Janet.” She smoothed the rose and cream arm of her chair.

  “Why would she do it?” Annie demanded. Stealing valuable jewelry from the hostess of a charitable bash would take incredible nerve. The possibility of being caught was surely great. If caught, the scandal could not only wreck her marriage, it would send her to jail.

  “I have worked with Janet quite often the past few years.” Adelaide’s soft voice was thoughtful. “I have seen darkness in her eyes, the unhappy droop of her mouth. And once, it was after that sapphire bracelet was taken from the Riordan house—”

  Annie had forgotten about that one.

  “—I observed that the thief had to be someone very prominent socially, which made me wonder if there might be sickness involved, a compulsion of some kind. Janet said very sharply that she doubted that was the case at all, that probably the thief simply did it for the thrill, the kind of thrill some people take from sky-diving or mountain climbing. I think”—Adelaide’s tone was suddenly firm—“that she was describing herself.”

  Annie felt like someone working on a puzzle, thinking the pattern was coming together, then finding another handful of pieces in the box with different shapes and colors. Was it possible that Lynn Pierce’s death, so similar to Arlene’s, was purely and simply an accident?

  “In any event”—Adelaide’s bright eyes sharpened—“there’s a rather grand party tonight at the Pierce home, a fund-raiser for the Art Center. The Pierces have a number of out-of-town guests. I’ve known one of them for years, Wilma Shaw. Wilma grew up here and loves to return. Wilma lives in Coral Gables. She always travels with her jewelry. One of her necklaces was made in Spain from gold sent back by Cortés. It is her favorite and I know she’ll have it with her.”

  Annie stared at her hostess. “Wouldn’t it be incredibly reckless of Janet to commit a robbery in her own home?”

  “That,” Adelaide said gently, “would be the point, wouldn’t it?”

  Annie’s picture of Janet Pierce, a little piece here, another piece there, was changing. Maybe Max was right and Dave and Lynn Pierce had had the world’s greatest marriage. Maybe Adelaide was right and Janet was a wounded spirit. Maybe Janet was venting her jealousy—there’s no way to compete with a ghost—by risking everything for a glow of excitement.

  And, of course, for money. The jewelry was undoubtedly worth great sums, even sold to unscrupulous buyers. Was that how Janet became a blackmail victim? Did she offer stolen goods to a woman who made money from secrets?

  The pieces seemed to fit.

  Annie looked in admiration at her genial hostess. Was there a buccaneering glint in Adelaide’s eyes? How else had she ever tumbled to Janet’s secret?

  Adelaide smiled. “I shall find the party tonight quite interesting.”

  Louella Kendall snapped the last green bean. “The doctor saw no call to do anything.” Her wrinkled face folded into tight lines.

  Max watched a grackle, iridescent feathers shining, retrieve bits of bean from the sandy ground.

  “I don’t know the rights and wrongs.” She shook the bowl. “I always try to keep my patients alive, but sometimes it’s real hard. Sad for them, sad for their families. I do my best for them.” Her mouth thinned. “I knew that Kathryn Girard was up to no good. Always running to sit with the dying ones. That’s not natural, is it? She couldn’t wait, that sly look in her eyes. I finally told her to leave old Mrs. Campbell alone. Poor old thing would be so upset after Kathryn had been there. Once she was crying so hard and I asked her should I get her son and she said she just hated remembering, that she had to stop thinking about it. I told her best way not to think about things is to close the door on it, whatever it is. That’s wh
en I told Kathryn to leave her alone.”

  Another grackle darted near. “Did you tell the doctor how Kathryn upset Mrs. Campbell?”

  The brown eyes flashed. “No, sir. I can run my own floor. Always have, always will. I told that woman not to go in Mrs. Campbell’s room again. And she didn’t.”

  “Did Kathryn ask a lot of questions when Mrs. Campbell died?” Max tried to keep his tone casual.

  “That woman! It just showed how fake she was. She was out of town when Mrs. Campbell died. And when she got back, she didn’t say a thing when I told her. Bored, she was.” Louella smoothed back her sleek hair. “That was a long night. The family had been there and gone home. Thought she’d rallied. But she took a turn for the worse. Dr. Burford came at once. He’s a good man. A good doctor and a good man. He’d known old Mrs. Campbell for a long time and he sat there beside her as she slipped away, held her hand. No, Kathryn Girard didn’t care at all about Mrs. Campbell. That wasn’t why I sent her packing. It was old Mr. Yates. Not”—she sniffed—“that she spent any time in his room. Oh no, why bother with an old man who was suffering so, frozen in his body like a mummy in a tomb, but still alive, his eyes begging you to help him and there wasn’t anything we could do and his daughter-in-law spent so much time, talking to him, holding his hand and then she’d come out in the hall and cry. No, Kathryn didn’t waste a minute with him, but as soon as he died, she—” Her lips clamped together.

  Max knew he needed the right words, the perfect words. Louella Kendall knew her place. The doctor was in charge. But the floor belonged to her. Max said briskly, “That’s when you told her not to come back. What did she do?”

  Louella’s eyes burned. “Some things you don’t talk about. That nurse’s aide, I gave her what for, running around saying the plug was pulled out on old Mr. Yates’s respirator. That was nonsense. You don’t keep the machine going after a patient dies.”

  Max understood almost as if he’d been there, and certainly Kathryn Girard had understood. “Kathryn must have been very interested in what the nurse’s aide said. I imagine she asked the aide who had been in the room with him just before he died.”