Carolyn G. Hart

by Death on Demand/Design for Murder

  She raised her voice just enough to carry over the murmurs of conversation, which immediately fell away into well-bred silence. “Our mystery is set at Gemway Court, the country home of Lord Algernon Eagleton and his wife, Lady Alicia, who will be played by Jessica Merrill.” Annie glanced down the table and smiled. Roscoe’s wife was a pleasant surprise, vivacious and pretty, with shining black hair and eyes that were a curious catlike mixture of yellow and brown. Annie wondered what had attracted her to her reserved and balding husband, who sat beside her exhibiting all the personality of a possum in August. Then she directed her attention back to Miss Dora, hoping to restrain Sybil, who was beginning to move restively at her end of the table. “Members of the houseparty, in addition to Lord Algernon and Lady Alicia, are Nigel Davies, Matilda Snooperton, Susannah Greatheart, and Reginald Hoxton. They spend the afternoon playing croquet. Lady Alicia is a croquet champion, but she plays erratically and her team loses. People have commented lately upon her haggard appearance and generally nervous demeanor. The entire house party seems affected by an air of malaise; conversation is strained and disjointed at tea following the croquet. Everyone disperses to dress for dinner. Shortly before seven, Lady Alicia dashes into the upper hall, calling frantically for her husband, Lord Algernon. She announces that her famous ruby necklace, The Red Maiden, has been stolen. All the members of the house party gather in the upper hallway. Miss Greatheart clutches a handkerchief to her face. Mr. Hoxton looks shocked, then angry. Lord Algernon and Nigel Davies discuss calling the local constabulary. But, in the midst of the clamor, they realize that one of the party, Miss Snooperton, hasn’t appeared. She is not in her room. Immediately, everyone begins to look for her. Hoxton announces he will check down by the river and dashes out. When she isn’t found in the house and Hoxton returns saying there is no trace of her by the river, a wider search is organized and her body is discovered in the gazebo by the pond.”

  Annie paused for breath and for dramatic effect and scanned her listeners. Leighton smiled up at her with flattering attention. Corinne watched him, slit-eyed. Gail leaned her face against her hand, her thoughts obviously far away. Roscoe sat with his arm on the back of his wife’s chair, his fingers resting on her shoulder. Jessica appeared absorbed in Annie’s recital. Sybil opened her double-handled Vuitton satchel and drew out an embroidered cigarette case. Miss Dora’s snapping black eyes shot Sybil a look of disgust, then moved to Annie with scarcely more enthusiasm.

  Annie smiled determinedly at the old lady. “Mr. Webster plays LORD ALGERNON, a stalwart, soldierly figure, known in the village for his champion pigs. He doesn’t have much to say, though the village whispers he’s been neglected of late, since Lady Alicia spends all of her time playing cards, going to London for several weeks at a time to stay with different friends, playing bridge for money far into the night. He has been very attentive to one of their guests, Susannah Greatheart.

  “Lucy Haines plays AGNES, Lady Alicia’s maid. Not much misses her notice. She is fiercely loyal to her mistress.”

  Lucy smiled and bent to whisper to Miss Dora, who pursed her lips and nodded.

  “Roscoe Merrill is NIGEL DAVIES, who motored down with his fiancée, Matilda Snooperton, but Nigel, a reserved Oxford don, has been noticeably glum this weekend and was observed by Agnes in a quarrel with Matilda. In his pocket is a love letter from Susannah Greatheart.

  “Our love interest, SUSANNAH GREATHEART, is played by Gail.” Gail managed a faint smile. “She has known Nigel since their school days and has always adored him. She had expected they would one day marry and was shocked when his engagement was announced to the strongwilled and determined Matilda Snooperton.

  “Our last cast member, Dr. Sanford, isn’t here yet. He plays REGINALD HOXTON, a man about town in London. No one is quite certain how he earns his living and some men mutter, ‘Cad,’ when he is about. He’s known to follow the races and is quite adept at cards and roulette.”

  Annie aimed her most charming smile at Miss Dora, whose dark eyes darted from face to face with reptilian swiftness. “Everybody a volunteer, I suppose?”

  Taken aback, Annie nodded.

  “Amateurs, all of them. And Jessica’s much too pretty to play the part of a raddled old gambler. Should have got an older member.” She cackled maliciously. “Why didn’t you give Corinne a role?”

  The juxtaposition wasn’t lost on Corinne. Or on anybody else.

  Annie wondered wildly why she’d ever thought Miss Dora, with her unpredictable tongue, would be any help at all.

  Sybil didn’t lose any time. She blew a waft of perfumed smoke heavenward and looked like a wicked but pleased dragon. “Perhaps there should be some changes in the casting. After all, is Roscoe the right man to play a lover? Leighton should have that role.”

  Lucy trotted to the rescue. “Actually, Miss Laurance has done a superb job—not only in the casting, but the program as a whole. Why, it reminds me of my very favorite mystery writers, Christie and Allingham and Sayers and Marsh. It just couldn’t be any better.”

  Corinne spoke in a carefully controlled voice. “I would under no circumstances consider playing a role in a murder program. I would find it degrading.”

  “Oh, now, Cory, that’s too strong,” Leighton admonished gently.

  It was like hearing Dr. No called Doc.

  He smiled reassuringly at Annie. “Of course the program’s good. Very good. I just hope it doesn’t take too much acting talent. But I suppose I can stand around and say ‘Eh, what,’ without too much difficulty. You’ve put together a good show, Miss Laurance.”

  Annie knew good-humored “Eh, whats?” wouldn’t satisfy the mystery participants. She’d been to several murder weekends and knew the detectives took their tasks with utmost seriousness and fancied themselves as a composite of Holmes, Vidocq, and Maigret, with a dash of Peter Wimsey.

  “Most of your time,” she said quickly, “will be taken up with answering questions from the mystery night participants. Now, I have a sheet for each of you which contains information known only to you. You can, of course, lie to the detectives on critical points. You are forced to tell the truth only when a detective team formally accuses you of the murder.”

  “Oh, this is marvelous fun,” Lucy exclaimed. “I think I already know the murderer.”

  “You can’t possibly,” Jessica objected. “That would outdo even Ellery Queen.”

  “Ellery Queen?” Leighton’s voice was puzzled, and he thumbled through the sheets. “I don’t see a character named Queen.”

  “Actually, this would be a perfect case for Miss Seeton,” Roscoe suggested, with a mischievousness Annie would never suspect he possessed.

  Miss Dora crisply explained Ellery Queen and Miss Seeton to Leighton, while other voices rose disputing the identity of the murderer.

  “Hey, wait a minute. Who the hell are you? Oh no, come on in here.” The brusque voice of Dr. Sanford cut through the goodnatured chatter.

  Sanford came through the archway, his hand tightly gripping the elbow of a scrawny figure in a navy blue warmup, navy scarf, and grass-stained tennis shoes. “Who’s this? She tried to run when I came in.”

  Despite the dark headcovering, Annie knew instantly. She stalked across the stone floor. “Mrs. Brawley, what in the world are you doing here?” As if she didn’t know.

  “Oh, Annie, I didn’t know you were here.”

  Sanford released her bony elbow. “You know her?”

  “Yes. Mrs. Brawley and I know each other well.”

  Freed from the doctor’s firm grip, Mrs. Brawley gave Annie the look of a rabbit at bay, then bleated, “I was looking for the Inn and made a mistake.” She took two quick steps backward. “It could happen to anybody.” Then she whirled around and fled.

  Corinne arched a thin golden eyebrow. “What was that all about? Was that woman a prowler?”

  “Nothing so dramatic. One of my more active customers. She loves to win, and I suppose she couldn’t resist the temptation to
learn something about the Mystery Nights ahead of time. Actually, no harm done. She didn’t hear anything that would give the mystery away.” Annie frowned. “I don’t like it, though. I’m running an honest Mystery Nights program. Damn, I wish that woman could channel her competitiveness into something useful—like stamping out pornography.”

  Corinne’s face had all the warmth of a Steuben glass polar bear. “I don’t see that this is a matter for levity.”

  “I’m not laughing,” Annie replied sourly.

  “A flippant remark doesn’t hide the seriousness of the situation. Obviously, if the program is compromised, the Board must meet its responsibility.”

  Annie had a funny feeling, like catching herself on the edge of a twelve-story drop.

  “Just exactly what do you mean, Mrs. Webster?”

  “The Board of the Chastain Historical Preservation Society represents the community and is responsible to the community for the probity of its programs. We cannot offer a contest in which an unfair advantage has been given to a customer of yours.” Corinne pushed back her chair and stood to her full five feet six inches, which gave her the advantage of height over Annie. She stared down arrogantly. “In fact, I believe it must be clear to all the members that this unfortunate and foolish attempt to mix entertainment with our serious exposition of history is a failure and should be dropped.”

  • • •

  “All hell broke loose then.” Annie pushed back the lock of hair that struggled over her forehead. She still burned with fury. Usually, the serenity of Death on Demand at night with the book jackets gleaming in the dim light could smooth away even the most difficult of days. But tonight’s unpleasantness had been scorching.

  “I hope you told her to go to hell.” Max’s normally pleasant face reflected her own anger.

  “Oh, I did. In a choice assortment of words.” She paused, recalling her tirade with a tickle of pleasure. She hadn’t minced words with Mrs. High-and-Mighty Webster. “Of course, I’m not sure how much she heard, because everybody else was yelling—even nice Lucy Haines. But Morgan settled Corinne down in a hurry. He made it clear that we’d signed a contract.” Annie grabbed Max’s hand. “That was smart of you to insist we do it that way.”

  He gave her hand a warm squeeze. “Always put it in writing. I knew that before I went to law school.” But he was pleased at her gratitude. He lifted his bottle of Bud Light. “Are you still going to go through with it?”

  “Go through with it? I intend to put on the Mystery Nights program in Chastain if I have to play every part, answer every question, explain every clue, and play the corpse all by myself.” The tightness in her shoulders began to ease. “But I don’t have to do it alone. Everybody rallied—and, of course, that hacked her, too. It wasn’t the jolliest session I’ve ever coached, but we worked on the roles for an hour, with Corinne pulsating like a toad and Sybil trying every trick in the book to get closer to Leighton. Honestly, she did everything but unzip his pants.”

  “Damn, I’ve got to meet this woman.”

  Annie wasn’t amused. “Your father should have warned you about females like her.”

  “He might have,” Max said blandly.

  “If he didn’t, I am.” She sighed wearily and looked around the dimly lit coffee area. “Golly, I’m tired, and I still haven’t put all the stuff for tomorrow in my car.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  “We’ll do it together.”

  Annie drove the Volvo into the alley and parked it by the door to the storeroom. They perched their beer bottles on the car roof and carried the pre-packed boxes from the storeroom. As she lifted in the last one, she said, “Hey, with all the fireworks in Chastain, I forgot to ask about your painting case. Did you solve it?”

  Max pushed down the trunk lid. “Yeah.” His voice sounded oddly flat.

  She peered at him in the golden shaft of light from the lamp at the end of the alley. “What’s wrong?”

  “It wasn’t much fun.”

  “What happened?”

  He reached up and retrieved the beer bottles and handed one to her, then leaned against the trunk. “I feel like a rat. But, I had to put a stop to it. Dammit, love can sure screw people up.”

  “What’s love got to do with a missing picture?” She tilted her bottle and welcomed the sharp taste of the beer.

  “Everything. You see, old Mrs. Hilliard is dead crazy about her nephew. She’s had a young girl named Edie keeping house for her and running errands. Her nephew, Alec, met the girl and fell for her—and Mrs. Hilliard doesn’t think the girl’s good enough. The usual objections. No education. No background. Too much make-up. And Alec’s the pride of her life. She sent him to college, and he’s a rising young junior executive at the bank.”

  “Did Edie rip off the painting?”

  “That’s the picture.” He grinned a little as Annie winced. “I went to the antique store. Got the description of the person selling it. Right enough, it’s Edie. I got the signed statement from the owner.”

  “So why do you feel like a rat? Looks like Mrs. Hilliard—”

  “Sure that’s what it looks like. Simple case, right? One more confidential commission executed. But I sat on that statement for a couple of days. I decided to nose a little harder. I hung around outside Mrs. Hilliard’s, waited ’til Edie came out and followed her. I struck up a conversation. In a nutshell: her story is that Mrs. Hilliard asked her to sell the painting, and she turned the money over to the old lady.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Neither did I, so I nosed around some more. Found out Alec isn’t the sort of fellow to look past the obvious.”

  Annie understood. A signed statement. Once love-struck Alec saw it—

  “What did you do?”

  “She’s a sweet old thing. Crazy about that guy.” He cleared his throat. “I told her I was on to the scam, and it was no deal.”

  “So why do you feel so bad?”

  “I told you. She’s a sweet old thing, and the funny part of it is, I think she’s right about Edie.”

  “When good people do bad things,” Annie said quietly.

  “All because of love,” he concluded.

  He upended his bottle, finishing his beer.

  She patted his shoulder. “Come on, let’s go take a swim. Tomorrow, we’ll be caught up in a script, and we won’t have to worry about real emotions.”

  10

  In the orderly confines of her imagination, Annie had pictured the opening day of the Chastain House and Garden tours: the weather would be April idyllic, soft puffy clouds dotting a turquoise sky; the participants would be genteel, interchangeable with an audience at, say, Sotheby’s, and there would be a general aura of Southern elegance, like a debutante’s garden party. That was how the month-long pageant unfolded in Charleston’s Historic District.

  She got it right about the weather. The sky glittered like a blue enamel bowl, and the air was as soft and smooth as Scotch House cashmere. But half a mile from the historic area, she realized the Board of the Chastain Historical Preservation Society had neglected to inform her of some of Chastain’s native customs. Cars that had enjoyed their youth in the Truman administration, mud-splashed pickups, and a rickety hayrack pulled by a green John Deere tractor and carrying a bevy of bony teenage girls in long white dresses clogged Montgomery, the main artery (it actually boasted four lanes) to the River. There was a lengthy pause at Montgomery and Federal for the passage of the Chastain High School Marching Band in purple and black uniforms. The musicians were belting out a fairly good rendition of “The Saints Go Marching In” except for the proclivity of one clarinet to squawk on the high notes. Every parking place on both sides of Montgomery was taken. Energetic hucksters held up hand-painted signs, PARKING $5, offering five to ten spots per front yard. Pedestrians thronged the brick sidewalks. They didn’t look like garden party goers to Annie: farmers in high-bibbed overalls and women in freshly starched print cotton dresses; teenagers in so many layers of cl
othing, shirt on sweater on pullover on sleeveless jersey, it was difficult to imagine, much less determine, sex; and tourists of all sorts and shapes, fat, thin, tall, and tiny, but identifiable by the profusion of costly cameras and camera accessories that hung around their necks, including light meters, zoom lenses, filter cases, and even collapsible tripods.

  It took twelve minutes to inch across the intersection once the band played past. Annie feared asphyxiation from the bilious fumes roiling out of the Mercedes Diesel in front of her. It didn’t improve her humor to recognize the driver as Dr. Sanford, who blasted his horn every foot or two. In a damn big hurry, wasn’t he? But he hadn’t made any effort to arrive on time for the rehearsal last night. Halfway up the block, he signaled and turned left. By the time she realized he was turning into the alley behind the historic houses, which provided access to the parking lot at the Historical Society, she was past the opening and fated to continue her snail-like inexorable progress forward.

  Ephraim Street stunned her. Where yesterday there had been an occasional car and the placid calm of an unhurried backwater, there was today a chaos that at first glance resembled the deployment of several thousand extras in a Steven Spielberg spectacular. Sightseers milled about the street. Booths filled every inch of space along the river bluff, except for a broad space directly across from the Prichard House where workmen tussled with scaffolding to erect a grandstand overlooking the river. In the booths, Annie glimpsed painted wooden ducks; a Statue of Liberty fashioned from fused Coke bottles; hundreds of quilts; shiny wooden signs that announced The Joneses, People Love My Kitchen Best, Use It or Lose It, and Daddy’s Girl; stacks of Canton Blue china (manufactured in Taiwan?), and potholders shaped like roosters, cats, baseball mitts, and starfish. Hot dog stands dispensed coneys, chili, and pop, while vendors hawked barbecue, fried shrimp, cotton candy, and egg rolls.