Carolyn G. Hart

by Death on Demand/Design for Murder

  A squeal of tortured metal raked the morning quiet. Miss Dora, dressed this morning in a full-skirted bombazine with puff sleeves, turned up the sidewalk, pulling a child’s rusted red wagon. A black pillbox hat with a jaunty green plume topped her flyaway silver hair. The raspy voice rose above the scrape of one bent tire against the bottom of the wagon.

  “Open the door there, girl.”

  Obediently, Annie hurried up the walk and pulled open the heavy wooden door and watched in fascination as the gnome-like figure, cane in one hand, maneuvered the wagon. A large hammer rode atop a pile of placards attached to two-foot white stakes, pointed on one end.

  Footsteps sounded behind them, and a tall, slender woman reached down to help.

  “Good morning, Aunt Dora. It looks like you’re all ready for the tour week.” Then she straightened, smiled at Annie, and held out her hand. “I’m Lucy Haines, a member of the Board. You must be Annie Laurance, our mystery creator.”

  Annie took her hand and liked her at once. Her grip was cool and firm, her face serious, her manner formal, but friendly. She wore a gray-and-white striped seersucker skirt and an unadorned white blouse and looked wonderfully normal in contrast to Corinne and Miss Dora.

  The heavy, blonde secretary joined them in the entryway. “I’ll put the wagon in the storeroom, Miss Dora. I think everyone’s here. They’re all in—”

  The voice full, throaty, and deep, carried as clearly as a Broadway actress’s delivery to the farthest stall.

  “You’ve gone too far, Corinne. I won’t tolerate this.”

  Even in the dim entryway with the weak illumination from the wall sconces and the pale squares of sunlight from the deepset windows, the malicious curve to Miss Dora’s smile was unmistakable. “Sybil.”

  Annie felt a quick march of goose bumps across the small of her back. Miss Dora’s sandpaper voice oozed simultaneous disgust, pleasure, vindictiveness, and amusement. The secretary peered toward the archway, her eyes wide with distress. The sensible Lucy Haines frowned, and gnawed her lip.

  Sybil’s deep, vibrant voice quivered with rage. “It is unspeakable.”

  Miss Dora wheezed with laughter, revealing blackened, uneven teeth. “Come on, girls, let’s not miss the show,” and led the way through the bricked archway and down a narrow hall to a wider archway that opened into an equally dim, very large room, which held an ornately carved walnut refectory table. One man unknown to Annie sat at the table, but she recognized Gail Prichard, her sometime customer Roscoe Merrill, and the red-headed Edith Ferrier. No one noticed their arrival. All eyes were riveted on two women.

  Corinne stood beside the speaker’s stand at the far end of the table. Her blue eyes glittered like a southern sea on a blistering day. Annie realized with a twist of shock, however, that Corinne was enjoying herself. There was no sense here of a woman beleaguered or defensive. To the contrary, she stood by the table, upright as a goddess on the prow of a Roman ship, and just as arrogant and supercilious.

  “Really, Sybil, your attitude is surprising.” Her voice was cool, amused, untroubled. “It’s a matter of contract, you know. All very clear. You can ask Roscoe.”

  All eyes, Annie’s included, switched to Sybil, posed dramatically in front of the Flemish tapestry that covered a third of the bricked wall behind her. At her first full view, Annie thought simply, “Wow.” Voluptuous described Ruebens’ nudes and Sybil. And Sybil had the edge. A bitch in heat could not be more frankly sensual. A diamond clip glistened against her midnight black hair. Violet eye shadow emphasized the depth and hunger of equally black eyes. She wore a green jersey dress with a sharply plunging neckline that clung to every generous curve, revealing a cleavage guaranteed to galvanize every male present. She made every other woman in the room look about as attractive as a praying mantis. She turned now and stretched out a hand tipped by talon-sharp, vermilion nails. A diamond large enough to rival the Kohinoor weighted her third finger. A great square emerald glittered in an antique gold setting. Matching emeralds gleamed in a bracelet. “Roscoe, is this true?” The contralto voice vibrated. “Did you have anything to do with this unconscionable exploitation?”

  Roscoe Merrill was obviously wishing fervently that he were somewhere else, maybe a far outpost of the Foreign Legion. A fine beading of sweat glistened on his bald head. His expressionless brown eyes avoided both Sybil’s probing gaze and Corinne’s confident stare, peering down instead at the legal pad on the table. He cleared his throat. “The Museum, of course, felt it imperative to protect its own interests. And, since the paintings have been executed on Museum time and using Museum materials, it is only equitable and reasonable that the Museum should have title to the paintings.”

  “I can’t believe that contract.” Sybil stepped closer to the table and bent down to grip his shoulder.

  He glanced up, then jerked his eyes away from that enticing cleavage to stare determinedly at the legal pad. A dull red flush spread over his face and bald head.

  “It’s disgusting. Not only to steal the poor boy’s work, but to forbid him to take part in an exhibition! To sabotage his career! Roscoe, you ought to be ashamed.” Then she whirled toward Corinne. “And you, you’re a jealous, conniving bitch. Just because you’re a dried-up, dessicated old woman, you resent anyone who’s truly alive. But you needn’t think you’ve won. Just you wait and see!”

  For the first time, Corinne’s control wavered and an ugly flash of hatred moved in her eyes, but she retained an icy smile. “The Museum’s position is irreproachable. And now, it’s time for—”

  “Mrs. Giacomo, I’m Bobby Frazier, reporter for the Chastain Courier.” The stocky young man who had smiled at Annie outside pushed away from the wall, and approached Sybil.

  Annie put names together. Miss Dora had said she defiled her name, that she was a Chastain. So, Sybil Chastain Giacomo. What price an Italian count?

  “Can you tell me a little more about your disagreement here? Is there a problem at the Prichard Museum?” His pencil poised over his notebook.

  Corinne reached out and gripped the speaker’s stand. “You have no right to come in here and ask questions—this matter is not of public concern.”

  The reporter ignored her rising voice and, admiration evident, addressed Sybil. “You’re a director of the Prichard Museum, aren’t you? Can you tell me what’s going on?”

  Sybil absorbed his interest automatically, instantly recognized a way to embarrass Corinne, took a deep breath, and let fly. “Why, certainly. Of course I can, Mr. Frazier. I know all about it. Tim Bond—you know his work, of course—is a curator at the Prichard Museum. Actually, he does everything. He makes most of the reproductions and cleans old pictures and he paints. Everyone knows he has a great future. Corinne snatched him up, because she always wants to own everyone. She told him he could work at the museum and paint all he wanted and he’d have a salary and not have to worry about money at all. But she didn’t tell him the contract he signed made all his paintings belong to the museum—”

  “That isn’t true at all.” For the first time, Corinne’s voice was strident. “He read the contract. He understood.”

  “You told him the Museum would be happy to loan his paintings out for exhibits, and there was no question of the Museum keeping the paintings here until Corinne found out that Tim and I—” Sybil’s shoulders shifted, and Annie could almost hear the whisper of satin sheets—“are friends. She resents his having friendships. Now, he’s had this wonderful offer from a gallery in New York. They want to show all of his paintings in September, and it could absolutely launch his career—and Corinne won’t give him permission to take his work to New York!”

  Frazier wrote rapidly in his notebook, then turned toward Corinne. “Has the Museum refused Bond permission to show his works?”

  “The paintings belong to—” Corinne began angrily.

  Merrill intervened smoothly, “Mr. Frazier, this matter is still under consideration by the Museum Board and no final determination has be
en made. I understand there will be further discussion of Museum policy in regard to loan exhibitions at next month’s meeting, so it would be premature to announce that a decision has been made.”

  “Tim Bond’s future is at stake,” Sybil thundered magnificently, “and I for one do not intend to let the matter drop. Most Chastainians will support me.” She paused. Her face was slowly transformed from petulant anger to malignant pleasure. “I’m going to launch a petition drive. I’m going to ask everyone to sign who wants Chastain’s most talented young painter to have a chance to achieve success.”

  “When will you start the petition drive, Mrs. Giacomo?” Frazier was egging her on, well aware that his every question further infuriated Corinne.

  “Today. Right now.” She reached over Merrill’s shoulder, snatched up the yellow legal pad, and brandished it over her head. “Here. I’ll start it now.” Grabbing a pencil from Frazier’s pocket, she scrawled in block letters: PETITION TO FREE TIM BOND’S PAINTINGS. With a triumphant glance at Corinne, she flung the pad down on the table in front of Merrill and handed him the pencil.

  Not a muscle moved in Merrill’s heavy face. He was as expressionless as a poker player who’d made his last draw. He read Sybil’s scrawl, then said temperately, “Obviously, both Lucy and I as members of the Board of the Prichard Museum which would, I presume, be the recipient of the completed petition, are precluded from signing this.”

  Sybil’s sultry eyes traveled slowly from the shiny top of his head to a visible portion of his glistening black leather shoes. Then she drawled, “You never did have any balls, Roscoe.” Without waiting for an answer, she shoved the pad down the table toward Edith Ferrier.

  Corinne moved like a flash, darting past Sybil to snatch up the pad.

  Sybil lunged toward her, grabbing one end.

  A sharp crack resounded through the room, and, for an instant, no one moved.

  Annie absorbed the tableau: Miss Dora with her ebony cane still upraised, ready to pound the table again; Lucy Haines, lips parted, brows drawn in a frown; Gail Prichard, her hands tightly clasped, watching her aunt in horrified fascination; Corinne Prichard Webster, the bones of her face sharpened by anger, her mouth a thin, taut line; Sybil Chastain Giacomo, triumphant, her tousled black hair an ebony frame for her flushed face; Bobby Frazier grinning, reveling in Corinne’s discomfiture; Roscoe Merrill, his shoulders bunched, rigidly controlling his anger; Edith Ferrier wary, her green eyes flicking from face to face; and the sharp-visaged man, whom she hadn’t met, beating an impatient tattoo with the fingers of one hand.

  Miss Dora broke up the moment, circling the table like a dragonfly, then raising the cane again to bring it down with a decisive whack against the legal pad, still held on either end by Corinne and Sybil. The blow tore the pad from their hands, and it fell to the floor.

  “Sybil, sit down. There. By Edith. Corinne, you get yourself up to the table and start this meeting.” She swung toward Annie and Lucy. “And you two. Take your places over there.” Everyone did just as instructed.

  Corinne reached the lectern and began to riffle through a thin sheaf of papers. Her breathing was rapid and shallow. The room pulsed with hostility.

  Lucy Haines’s low, pleasant voice was in odd counterpoint to the seething atmosphere. “Corinne, we should introduce our guests.”

  Corinne looked at her blankly.

  “Mr. Frazier and Miss Laurance.”

  Corinne’s eyes narrowed, but, after an instant’s pause, she brusquely presented them to the Board. “And our members: Gail Prichard, Roscoe Merrill, Sybil Giacomo, Edith Ferrier, Dr. John Sanford, Dora Brevard, and Lucy Haines.”

  Dr. Sanford. Annie looked at him with interest. The corner of his ascetic mouth turned down in disdain. He had floppy gray-streaked dark hair that curled untidily over his ears, a hawk nose, and impersonal eyes. He sat at the end of the table beside Edith Ferrier, but he ignored her. Edith watched Corinne somberly, and her dour expression contrasted sharply with her cheerful, almost girlish dress, a cyclamen-pink floral print.

  Sanford brushed back a drooping lock of hair. “Can’t we get this show on the road? I’ve got to get back to the hospital.”

  Definitely a Type-A personality. She wondered why he’d become involved in a historical preservation group, which might be expected to pursue a leisurely course guaranteed to drive a man of his temperament mad.

  Corinne cleared her throat and briskly described the progress of plans for the tour week. She had herself well under control now. Only the tiny white spots at the corners of her mouth indicated her anger. As her introductory comments wound down, Annie picked up her green folder. She was going to have one swell audience, no doubt about that.

  “And now it’s time for us to hear from Miss Laurance, who will explain the program she has put together for our house-and-garden-week tours. Miss Laurance.”

  Still not calling them Mystery Nights. The thought ignited Annie’s smouldering anger. How infuriating! Corinne Prichard was such a meddlesome know-it-all that she’d taken over the mystery program, but she still refused to even mention the word mystery. How obnoxious. She had to take a moment, when she reached the lectern, to tamp down her explosive juices.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Webster.” It wasn’t easy to say, and her voice sounded like thin steel. “It’s a pleasure for me to be here.”

  Fun, fun, fun, the imp in her mind chanted.

  “I’m looking forward to the Mystery Nights. I believe we can offer a program that will attract a great many participants.”

  “How many?” Dr. Sanford barked.

  “About a hundred a night,” she shot back. The Board members looked startled, but, by God, she’d had enough. “The evenings will begin at six with a tour of the three houses and gardens, followed by a buffet supper on the lawn of the Prichard House. Promptly at seven, the participants will divide into teams and go to The Scene of the Crime. The teams will then study evidence available in the police tent, interview the suspects, and confer to decide who they believe is the murderer.”

  Dr. Sanford cracked his knuckles. “All right, all right. The mechanics seem sound. Give us a rundown on the murder, then we can okay it.”

  “It’s a Southern Mystery.” Not my mystery, she wanted to say. She flicked a brief glance toward Corinne. “We must thank Mrs. Webster for our plot. Our victim is Mrs. Meddlesome Moneypot, owner of the fabulous Familytree Plantation. Mrs. Moneypot is extremely proud of her social position and determined that everyone in her family shall behave as she believes they should. She ruined her brother’s romance. She’s alienated her husband and niece, and has also made many enemies in town. Her husband wanted to have a career in the foreign service, but she made him resign and come home.”

  A sharply indrawn breath was magnified by the taut silence.

  Annie paused. Was her sardonic reading alienating her audience? Damn it, the room quivered with hostile vibes. She tried to smooth out her tone. “Her husband’s been drinking too much for years, but everyone in town is whispering that he’s met another woman. Mrs. Moneypot’s niece is seeing a man she considers very unsuitable, and—”

  A chair moved against the planked flooring, making a sharp high squeak.

  “—there are people in town who have reason to hold a grudge against her. She’s trying to ruin the life of a young artist—” Annie stumbled over that sentence. How odd. “—she’s threatening the marriage of a prominent attorney, the career plans of a doctor, the club election of a society woman—”

  Annie paused. Something very peculiar was happening to her audience. As she well knew from her earliest acting days, every audience has its own personality. She would always remember the summer night when she played Honey in “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?” in an outdoor amphitheater in Dallas. It was sultry and thunder rumbled in the distance. The smell of dust, freshly mown grass, and buttered popcorn hung in the still, hot air, but the audience responded on an elemental level to the passion on the stage. It was an audienc
e linked soul to soul with the players, and it was as near exaltation as Annie ever expected to reach.

  That was the pinnacle. There had been other memorable audiences, for good or ill. But there had never been an electric silence quite like this. What the hell was going on?

  She stumbled to a stop and stared at her stunned audience. Gail pressed the back of her hand against her lips. Roscoe, looking like a watchful turtle, assessed Annie very carefully indeed, his pale brown eyes narrowed to slits. Sybil was frankly delighted, wide mouth spread in her malicious smile. Edith glared furiously, a bright patch of red staining each hollowed cheek. Dr. Sanford scowled, his restless hand spread flat against the table top. Miss Dora peered at Corinne. Lucy shook her head, as if bewildered.

  Corinne’s face was as white as ivory, and her dark blue eyes blazed. She pushed back her chair so abruptly that it tumbled to the floor. “I’ll sue you,” she shrilled at Annie. “You and that disgusting creature.” She whirled toward the stocky reporter. “This is your work—and I’ll make you pay for it.”

  Frazier cocked a black eyebrow. “Not me, lady. This isn’t my show—but it’s a hell of a lot of fun.” He turned toward Annie. “Listen, I need a copy of your script. Maybe the Courier will run the whole thing.” He smiled gleefully. “I’ll say you’ve come up with a Southern Mystery. What did you say the victim’s name was? Mrs. Rich Bitch? And who’re the suspects?” He looked around the refectory table. “The leading lights of the town?”

  The room exploded.

  Sybil crowed. “Oh, you got it this time, Corinne. Jesus, I love it. Hey, I didn’t know Leighton was up for grabs. I’ll have to take a look. He’s always been a good-looking man, and if he’s developed a backbone, he’d be worth at least an afternoon.”

  Miss Dora’s wizened face turned plum colored. “Sybil Chastain, don’t you know your mama’s turning in her grave right this minute, hearing you talk like a harlot.”