“He’s got Bud’s gun!” Annie shouted as Max turned to dive toward McElroy and Chief Saulter reached for his own gun.
Her second golf ball bulleted into Capt. Mac’s hand just as he drew out the pistol. Then Max’s flying tackle dumped the older man on his back.
Chief Saulter trained his gun on the two of them, retrieved Bud’s gun, then gestured for Max and his quarry to stand with their backs against the patrol car.
Parotti stumped off the ferry, his head jutting forward pugnaciously. “What the hell’s going on here? Can’t a man drink a beer in peace and quiet after a hard day?” Then he squinted at Max. “You still here? Got car trouble?”
Max jerked his head toward Capt. Mac, then rubbed his neck. “Ouch. Capt. Mac’s the murderer. He tried to jump me. Didn’t you see it?”
Parotti grumbled, “I was down below, but you people are making enough noise to raise the dead.”
Capt. Mac kept trying. “Saulter, I was going to make a citizen’s arrest. Darling’s the man you want. He’s—”
“Give it up,” Max advised. “I’ve got the pictures, McElroy, showing you on Elliot’s steps. Harriet had a talent for photography.”
Capt. Mac slumped back against the police car, his face stolid.
Max yanked on his pullover sweater which had twisted around his chest in the struggle. The whirling red light on the police car revealed an ugly scratch on the side of his face.
Annie was preparing to move forward, offer a handkerchief, and make sympathetic coos when Saulter, snapping handcuffs on Capt. Mac’s wrists, said, “So you solved it, Darling.”
She stopped in midstride. “Oh, no,” she objected energetically. “I solved it. I figured it out and came to save Max’s life.”
“Save my life! Hell, I knew it was Capt. Mac. Why do you think I rammed the door against him? I probably dented the hell out of it—”
“You just stopped in the middle of the road, and he was getting ready to cosh you. If it hadn’t been for me—”
“For God’s sake, I had to stop. He called out that he had you at his place, and if I ever wanted to see you again, I’d better cooperate.”
“You just looked at Harriet’s pictures,” she said derisively. “I deduced it.”
“Oh yeah! How?”
She described the third watercolor at Death On Demand. “And, of course, once I thought about it, it was easy. It had to be Capt. Mac.” She leaned forward to explain. “You see, it was just as Hercule Poirot always says. The character of the victim is all-important.”
“Look, Annie, admit it,” Max urged, “you made a lucky guess.”
“Guess, my monocle. It was an exercise in reason. One: Uncle Ambrose was smart. He was writing a book about murderers. He knew how dangerous killers are. He spent his life putting them behind bars. Would he turn his back on somebody he thought was a murderer? Hell, no. So that meant he wasn’t afraid of the person who killed him. Two: What was Uncle Ambrose going to do the very next week? He was going to make a trip to do some research on his book. His first stop was to have been in Florida. Silver City.” Annie turned to look toward the heavyset man in handcuffs. “You told us you didn’t have anything to do with the Winningham investigation. You know something, Capt. Mac, I’ll bet that’s not true.”
McElroy’s face looked like a slab of rough-cut stone in the whirling red flash from the police car. He stared back at Annie with an ugly glint in his eyes.
“He trusted you. And you killed him.”
“You don’t have any evidence,” Saulter objected.
“When you investigate, you’ll find out,” Annie insisted. “Once you know where to look, it will all come apart.”
“A lucky guess,” Max repeated disdainfully. “I’m the one who figured it from information we received. Emma Clyde was the key. Obviously, she was being blackmailed. That’s the first thing she expected when Annie pretended to know what Morgan was going to spill Sunday night. And Carmen insisted Elliot wasn’t a blackmailer. So where did that leave us? There was a blackmailer on Broward’s Rock. And who was the only person in that bookstore Sunday night who lived in a two-hundred-thousand-dollar house and didn’t have fat royalties to pay for it?” He pointed at the sullen figure of the ex-cop. “There he is. Living in a rich man’s house—but retired from a police force. Where did he get the money to buy a place here and live like a man of leisure? I wonder how much Winningham paid him? Somehow he knew something that would convict Emma of murder. He lived like a king by keeping things quiet for money. That’s what Morgan figured out. If an investigation into McElroy’s finances ever began, he would be finished.”
“Yeah.” Saulter nodded. “I finished up going through Morgan’s papers tonight. He’d gotten a copy of the Coast Guard report on the investigation into the drowning of Emma’s husband.
“It didn’t mean anything by itself. But it fits into your theories real nice. Guess who was in the boat anchored next to Marigold’s Pleasure? Guess who told the Coast Guard there were no cries for help that night?”
“So,” Max declared grandly, “I figured it out.”
“Oh no.” Annie shook her blond head. “I did it.”
Heads lowered, hands on hips, Max and Annie glared furiously at each other.
Chief Saulter stood just inside the bookshop door. He peered at Edgar.
“Pretty nice place here.”
Annie forbore to remind him that the last time he came in, he thought she was a murderess.
“Nice cat.” Saulter reached out to pet Agatha. Instead of streaking away as any perceptive feline would, Agatha rolled over on her back and kneaded her paws.
Annie leaned on the cash desk and pondered feline intelligence. Then she looked up and down the empty aisles of Death On Demand. Where were all those customers who’d thronged the place when they thought Annie was killer-of-the-week? Ingrid had opened the store that morning and left when Annie arrived because it was crystal clear the rush was over. There wasn’t a single person present to see Saulter eat crow.
Saulter opened his mouth, closed it. Apparently crow wasn’t delicious.
She was too kindhearted to let him suffer. “How’s Bud?”
Saulter’s saturnine face twisted in a genuine smile. “Can’t be too uncomfortable,” he said drily. “Carmen Morgan’s got him in bed.” He paused and added stolidly, “Resting up from his head wound.”
She and the chief looked at each other with mutual understanding.
Saulter shifted his weight from one big foot to the other. “Thought I’d let you know everything’s falling into place against Capt. Mac. It’s just like you and that young man thought.”
She started to bristle. How could Max try to take credit?
“You figured it right. Capt. Mac couldn’t afford to let Ambrose go to Silver City. I’ve been on the phone this morning. You know how he told you he didn’t have anything to do with the Winningham investigation?” Saulter snorted in disgust. “Not much. He just ran the whole thing. Seems the chief then, Al Canady, why, he was a drunk. The city manager told me Capt. Mac was a great guy the way he ran the department and never seemed to mind that he was just the assistant chief.” Irritation roughened his voice. “Who knows how many times he got paid off? Course, he really hit it big with the Winningham case. Then he anchored next to Emma when she pushed her husband over. We’ll never prove that, ’cause Mac’s not saying a word. But it’s pretty clear she was paying off somebody, and we can bet it was Mac. That’s why Mac murdered Elliot. And he had to kill Dr. Kearney when she caught him at the clinic, stealing the—” He paused; it was still too hard to say. “—stuff. And Harriet was watching Elliot’s place and saw you and Mac arrive.” The chief shook his head disapprovingly. “Breaking and Entry. You shouldn’t of done that, Ms. Laurance.”
“I know,” she said humbly. “But you seemed so suspicious of me, I felt I had to look out for myself.”
“Guess you were pretty upset about the investigation,” he said uncomfortably.
> She toyed with the spike holding phone messages (four from Mrs. Brawley).
He peered intently at the floor. “I really liked old Ambrose. Kind of lost my cool when I figured somebody pushed him overboard. Should have known it wasn’t you. I always did wonder why nobody heard a splash in the harbor. Think I’ve figured that out, too. Ambrose must’ve gone over to McElroy’s house that night for a drink. Bet Mac hit him from behind, then dumped him into his saltwater pool to drown. When he was—when he was finished—he hauled the body out and took it to the harbor.” He rubbed the back of his hand against his nose. “Anyway, should’ve known you didn’t do it.”
Annie surprised herself. She reached out and patted his arm. “I can understand. Uncle Ambrose was a wonderful person.”
The chief finally looked at her directly. “So anyway, no hard feelings?” He stuck out a callused hand.
She shook it. “Chief, what about the others?”
“We’re scratching around. I’ve got the Tahoe people looking for a grave by that cabin, but I don’t expect anything to come of it. Too much territory. Fritz Hemphill—he got away with murder, I don’t doubt it. It’ll never be proved. As for Mrs. Clyde—Capt. Mac won’t say a word, so she’s still out of our reach. I sent the district nurse to talk to the Farleys and Miss Rizzoli. The Farleys have agreed to some counseling. That Miss Rizzoli—she’s a nut case, isn’t she? Some little group of friends you had there.”
He squinted at her. “You intend to have any more of those Sunday night meetings?”
“God. I hadn’t thought about it.”
She ticked the survivors off in her mind: Emma, the Farleys, Fritz, Kelly, and Hal.
Saulter grinned. “There’ll be more writers coming to Broward’s Rock. I’ll bet you can start them up again in a few months.”
She knew that was the most generous gesture he could have made.
“And that boyfriend of yours can help keep everybody in line. Especially if he sets up down the boardwalk from you.”
“Sets up?”
“Yeah. He’s measuring the empty shop right now.”
“What for?”
“His detective agency.”
As Saulter left, Max came in, grinning smugly and carrying a tape measure and notepad. The two men exchanged chummy greetings in the doorway. Saulter promised to take Max fishing.
Annie opened her mouth to attack, but Max spoke first.
“I’m only doing what you asked me to.”
He was odiously pleased with himself. He draped the tape measure around Edgar and tied it in a bow, then grinned at her.
“I asked you—Max, I never asked you to be a private detective. That’s ridiculous. You can’t be serious. How could a private detective agency have any business on a little island like this?”
“Why not? When word gets around how ingeniously I solved these murders when the authorities were stymied, people will flock to my agency.”
He solved the murders! She’d get to that absurd proposition in a minute. “Dammit, Max. You are impossible. When we talked about you doing something, I meant something real. This is just the same old thing. Max, can’t you be serious?”
He reached out and took her hand and drew her near.
She came reluctantly.
Then a little closer.
“Max,” and her indignant voice was muffled against his shoulder. “Why can’t you—”
“Annie—”
The bell above the door jangled. They leapt apart guiltily as Mrs. Brawley poked her head inside. Her foxlike nose twitched and her bright eyes glinted, but there were more important matters than love. She darted to Annie, took her firmly by the sleeve, and started down the central aisle toward the coffee bar.
Annie was irresistibly swept along, and Max followed.
“… called and called. I know I’m the first one. Now, here’re the answers.”
Mrs. Brawley pointed to the first watercolor.
“That’s from Easy to Kill. And the next one’s Funerals Are Fatal. Then Murder at Hazelmoor, The Moving Finger, and Remembered Death. All Agatha Christies. My dear,” she chided, “is that quite fair?”
Design for Murder
FOR PHIL, PHILIP, AND SARAH, WITH ALL MY LOVE.
1
The typist nodded. It was finished, as neat a design for murder as could be envisioned. Murder with malice. To be enjoyed by a select group. Well, wasn’t it deserved?
For an instant, the writer hesitated. Was public humiliation deserved? There was no question as to the answer. And perhaps the effect would be to break the pattern of silken domination, to end the ruthless manipulation masked by charm.
A gloved hand gently loosened the last sheet from the typewriter. It was an agreeable irony that the plan should be typed on the old machine that sat in the corner of the director’s office of the Chastain Historical Preservation Society. Should these pages ever be linked to this particular typewriter, it would reveal only that the manuscript had been produced on a machine easily accessible to the cream of Chastain’s social hierarchy.
When the pages were neatly folded and placed in the waiting envelope, the writer read the cover letter again, then painstakingly traced a signature. It took only a moment to slip the letter inside and seal the envelope. Everything was in readiness. As soon as the mystery expert was officially hired, the letter could be mailed.
The writer looked up at a wall calendar which pictured the Prichard House, one of Chastain’s oldest and loveliest antebellum mansions. A crimson circle marked April 7.
2
I dell Gordon tugged restlessly at her sheets. She should have gone to the dentist. Well, too late now. The upper-right back molar throbbed. She kept her eyes squeezed shut, hoping for the blessed release of sleep. But sleep wouldn’t come. Finally, wearily, she struggled upright and levered her ungainly body to the edge of the bed, peering at the luminous dial on the bedstand. Almost three o’clock. Swinging her legs over the side, she slipped into her scuffed pink satin houseshoes. Oh, her jaw, her jaw. She padded across the room to her bath and reached up for the brown plastic vial of Valium tablets. One of them might help her sleep. She filled a bathroom cup with water and swallowed the tiny pill, then suppressed a groan. It would take a while for the drug to help. She almost walked to her easy chair, but she knew she would feel better if she kept moving. She crossed the room, dodging the potted plants and the rocking chair and the rickety maple whatnot, and opened the French window to step out onto the second-floor balcony. The soft night air swept over her, soothing and calming. It was almost warm enough to walk out in her nightdress, though it was only mid-March, but she grabbed up a shawl that she’d thrown over her rocking chair earlier that evening. The moonlight speckled the grounds below, hiding the burgeoning weeds in the beds along this side of the Inn. She sighed. Her back always hurt when she hoed, but she couldn’t afford to hire a gardener this spring. Occupancy of the Inn had been down, and it was going to be touch and go on the bills. A little flicker of panic moved in her chest. What was she going to do if the Inn failed? It would be jammed for the house-and-garden tours in April, but that wouldn’t make up for empty rooms later in the summer. She paced up and down on the balcony, gingerly holding her jaw and trying not to whimper, and careful, too, to step quietly so as not to arouse any of the sleeping guests. Then, sharp and harsh as a peacock’s cry, the gate to the grounds of the Historical Preservation Society squeaked open. Idell recognized the sound at once. She’d known it for years, the sound of the gate that marked the boundary between her Inn and the Society grounds. But why would the gate be opening? And at this hour? She bent to peer over the railing. How curious! How strange! She would have to ask—fiery hot pain lanced her jaw. She gave a soft moan and turned to go back inside.
3
Corinne Prichard Webster stood in front of the ormolu-framed mirror. Despite the dusky, aged glass, her reflection glistened as brightly as crystal. She always enjoyed her morning encounter with her own image. Beauty was her hand
maiden and had always been so. She felt confident that to men she represented the unattainable goal of perfection. Once, when she’d asked Tim if he’d like to paint her, he had been silent for a long time, then he’d said, even if grudgingly, “You’re like the first streak of rose at sunrise.” Tim was almost as poetic as he was artistic. It sickened her to realize that he’d been beguiled by Sybil, who was no better than a slut for all the glory of her old name and her wealth. Well, they needn’t think she would let Tim take his paintings from the museum. After all she’d done for him, he must realize that it was his duty to stay in Chastain. Her mouth thinned with determination, then curved in a humorless smile. They thought it was settled, but he couldn’t very well have a show in New York without any paintings—and the paintings belonged to the Prichard Museum.
She lifted a slender white hand to touch the tightness between her eyes, and the tiny wrinkles disappeared. She stared at her face appraisingly. Her eyes were still as vividly blue as always, her skin as smooth and soft as a young girl’s. She felt a flash of satisfaction. She did so despise women who let themselves go. Lucy’s face popped into her thoughts. Skin like leather from too many hours in her wretched garden and no more imagination in fashion than one might expect from a librarian. Boring, that was how Lucy dressed, although she could look quite nice when she chose. On Sundays, for example, she always wore a well-cut silk dress and a hat and gloves. Corinne shook her head. Hat and gloves. Almost no one wore them nowadays—except Lucy. It certainly dated her. Corinne looked at her reflection in continuing satisfaction. No one could say that about her. She was always au courant, and no one thought she was as old as Lucy, either. It was certainly a good thing she’d been firm years ago. It wouldn’t have done for Cameron to marry Lucy and make her a Prichard, not a girl whose father ran a clothing store. The Prichards had never been small shop-keepers. The Prichards owned plantations and, long ago, sailing ships and warehouses.
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