Carolyn G. Hart

by Death on Demand/Design for Murder

  Max stood just inside her doorway, his face determined. “I’m going to see what I can get out of her.”

  “I doubt if she runs to roast duck.”

  “Annie, my God, do you ever think about anything but food! I’m worried about your neck.”

  But Max putting her fear into words triggered a stubborn ostrich-like response. “I don’t have anything to worry about,” she said loudly.

  “Oh, no. Just two extremely public confrontations with Corinne hours before she was mortally bashed.”

  “Me and everybody else in town,” and she told him about Edith, Tim, and Sybil. As she talked, she felt more and more confident. “And there’s the infamous letter. Hell, I’m going to laugh when I hand that over to Wells. He can’t ignore all those motives.” She pushed away the memory of venomous Miss Dora. “I don’t have a thing to worry about—and I’m too tired to gossip with a landlady who twitters.”

  The phone buzzed.

  She yanked it up.

  “Your sandwiches are ready, Ms. Laurance.”

  Food.

  A nobler character might have gone to bed hungry to thwart his quest for information. Annie stalked down the slanting stairs.

  Max continued to look grave as he pulled out a webbed chair for her at a wrought iron table. Was he trying to make her nervous? Yes, of course he was. She ignored him, though that was hard as they’d both changed to swimsuits, and Max in navy blue boxer swim trunks excited another appetite.

  The ham was paper thin, the Swiss cheese brittle, and the white bread store-bought, but it was food. She wolfed three sandwiches as he plied Idell Gordon with questions. Annie shot them a bored glance, which both ignored. My God, who cared when Corinne and Leighton got married? Or that Miss Dora was sister to Lucy’s mother? Or that Sybil had been married three times, and the last husband was an Italian count who was tragically killed driving a race car at Monte Carlo. She toyed with a fourth sandwich, then picked up her glass of Chablis (of dubious American vintage) and wandered around the shadowy patio. Even in the single light mounted over the doorway, she could see pink paint peeling from the stucco walls. The drooping ferns in the fake blue-and-red Chinese porcelain pots needed a stiff dose of Vertigro. Annie stopped beside the whirlpool, which smelled heavily of chlorine. She squinted at the frothy water, almost sure she saw several bird feathers and the carcass of a black roach. Sitting down, she dangled her legs in the swift, steamy water. And drank some more Chablis, contrary to Department of Health instructions posted prominently on a nearby pillar.

  “Of course, she made me so mad! So rude and overbearing, but always in this sweet, reasonable tone, as if you were the one in the wrong.”

  Annie slid over the side and sat on the first step. The water felt good. So Corinne wasn’t beloved by Idell either.

  “… kept saying the Inn had to maintain standards …”

  Too bad Idell hadn’t listened.

  “… couldn’t understand the economics of it. She was always rich. What do the rich know about money? I’m trying my best, but everything costs so much. And you can’t get good help. One maid was drinking the wine in the rooms and replacing it with water!”

  Annie flowed down the steps until the hot water lapped around her neck. The light mounted over the door turned into a nice rainbow when she squinted at it. She could never remember being so tired. And there were three more Mystery Nights ahead—and tomorrow she must persuade Chief Wells how ridiculous it was even to consider her as a suspect in Corinne’s death.

  “She and Dr. Sanford had the ugliest quarrel. A friend of mine was in one of the patient rooms, and she overheard. She peeked out the door, and she said Dr. Sanford looked murderous.” Idell’s laughter tinkled insincerely. “Oh, I didn’t mean that.” But her disclaimer was as phony as imitation alligator. “He really was awfully mad. He wants to expand the Chastain Hospital’s program for poor people, and Corinne said that was nonsense, they could go to the county hospital. Dr. Sanford said no, they couldn’t for all the things they needed, and then they went at it hammer and tongs.”

  Annie floated in the bubbly water, and the words danced in her ears like kernels popping in a hot air machine.

  “She even made poor Leighton quit the Foreign Service and come back here. He was so handsome then, and he just kind of went to seed.” Her voice dropped conspiratorially. “But everyone’s noticing how he’s taken a new lease on life lately. Lost some weight and been out walking a lot. And sometimes you can’t help but think that when a man spruces up, there has to be a reason.”

  Handsome man. He certainly was. She wiggled in the water. “Good looking,” she announced.

  There was a moment’s strained silence from the table.

  “Who?” Max asked stiffly.

  “Leighton Webster, of course.” Languidly, she pulled herself up, shivered as the cool night air swept over her damp skin, and sank down again. “Mrs. Gordon, do you think he and Lucy might have something going?”

  “Lucy?” Her voice rose in astonishment.

  “She was certainly protective of him this afternoon, at the pond.”

  “Oh, no.” The landlady spoke with certainty. “No, no, no. Lucy and Leighton are old, old friends, but nothing more than that. Why, Lucy was head over heels in love with Cameron Prichard.”

  “Who’s that?” Annie asked.

  “Gail’s daddy. You see, it happened this way. Lucy and Cameron fell in love the summer after he graduated from Princeton. They went everywhere together. And then, all of a sudden, Cameron went off to Atlanta. Corinne introduced him to some rich girl there, and he married her. That was Gail’s mother. Cameron and his wife were killed in a private plane crash in Louisiana, and Gail came here to live when she was ten. Lucy’s just crazy about that girl.”

  So Lucy didn’t care about Leighton Webster. Just an old friend.

  Heat coursed through Annie. She should get out of the whirlpool before she dissolved. She rubbed her eyes and stared fuzzily at Max and Mrs. Gordon.

  “Of course, people will say anything.” Idell’s tone indicated her delight in this human failing. “I don’t believe a word of it, but some think Corinne cared a little too much about young Tim Bond. Otherwise, why did she get so upset about Tim and Sybil when everybody knows it’s right normal for a young man to enjoy an older woman? I think that’s why Corinne wouldn’t let him send his paintings to New York. She was just jealous.”

  Fragments of thoughts swirled in Annie’s mind. Tim’s paintings. The watercolors. Damn good this time, especially the yellow jeep. And the one with the big teakwood chair and the naked girl. Tim wanted to go to New York. Big kid. Why didn’t he go? Enormous hands.

  “Annie. Annie!”

  The call punctured her reverie. Sleepily, she opened her eyes.

  Max knelt by the side of the pool, and the rainbow light flickered over his face.

  “Come on, honey. You’d better get out before you’re parboiled.”

  “I’ve got a better idea,” she said huskily. “Why don’t you get in?”

  • • •

  Max stood on the front steps of the Swamp Fox Inn and relished the feeling of utter righteousness shared by early risers. The Broad River gleamed pale gray in the first pulse of dawn. No one stirred near the empty booths and the grandstand. Closer at hand, crumpled Pepsi cups and mustard-stained hot-dog wrappers littered Ephraim Street. He breathed vigorously, enjoying the fragrance of the purple iris blooming magnificently near the Inn steps. Do Annie good to get up and greet the sun. He was on the point of turning on his heel to go knock on her door, when wisdom prevailed. She would not be pleased. Moreover, she would not be sympathetic to his plan. Dammit, she was in a stubborn mood. What would it take to convince her that Wells was after her? Well, at least he saw the danger. Running lightly down the steps, he turned to his right. Fragile patches of mist rose from the river, swirling like strands of Christmas tinsel in the low branches of the live oak trees. The rhythmic slap of a solitary morning jogger’s Reeboks
against the sidewalk broke the early morning stillness. Max responded to his cheery good morning and strolled past the crisply white Benton House with its graceful double piazzas. He was intent upon the Prichard House, in all its Greek Revival glory, and what he could see of the extensive gardens. There, far to the back, stood the thicket of cane that screened the pond. He walked as far as the McIlwain fence, then retraced his steps, passing the Prichard House, the Benton House, and the Inn. On the east side of the Inn, on the corner, sat the buff-colored former fort that housed the Chastain Historical Preservation Society. Max turned left down Lafayette, passing the parking lot behind the Society. It was almost full, holding, he assumed, the overflow from the area inns. Halfway up Lafayette, a narrow, dirt alley opened to his left.

  The alley was bordered on his left by brick walls or wrought iron fences covered with honeysuckle or shielded by towering pittisporum and banana shrubs. On the right, plainer iron or wooden slatted fences marked the back of business properties. Access was available on both sides for garbage pickup. At the back of the Prichard grounds, magnificent wisteria flowed up to and over the intricate iron fence. Max opened the gate and followed a curving path to the rear of the garages. The path forked there, one branch leading directly to the kitchen steps. He followed the other branch. In two minutes, he had reached the grove of willows and the gazebo. The pond looked dark and deep, sunlight still barred by the surrounding trees. Mist wreathed the trunks of the black-barked cypresses. There was an unearthly oppressiveness about the spot. A fit place for murder.

  “Hey, you! Nobody can come through here. Crime scene.”

  “Sorry. Thought my dog came this way.”

  “No dog’s been through here, buddy. Beat it.”

  Max lifted a hand and turned back toward the alley. He walked briskly back to Lafayette and turned left.

  At the next corner, he started down Federal, his footsteps echoing in the empty street. The locked and shuttered buildings here backed up to the alley and to the houses on Ephraim Street—and to the dark, silent pond.

  A granite slab inscribed with ornate cursive writing identified the golden-domed building on the corner as the Prichard Museum. The paint on the gilded dome glistened as the rising sun spilled down. So this would be the home of the paintings whose ownership was so bitterly contested. Tucking his hands in his pockets, he walked on. Next door was the Chastain Public Library, a cheerful yellow frame with cane-bottomed rocking chairs on the front and side piazzas. The final three adjoining buildings of rose, pink, and yellow stucco housed antique stores, a furniture shop, law offices, and medical offices. He’d already visited one of the buildings, the day he’d talked to Roscoe Merrill in the offices of Merrill, Merrill, and Merrill. Next door, in the pink stucco building, were the offices of Dr. Sanford.

  A street-cleaning truck rumbled down Federal’s brick paving. A battered pick-up passed with the radio blaring an Eagles tape.

  Max found a narrow passage between the rose stucco building and the Chastain Public Library and turned into it. He swiftly crossed the alley and the parking lot of the Swamp Fox Inn and ducked beneath the arch that led into the patio. All nine tables were occupied with Inn guests taking advantage of the free Continental breakfast. Two tables were pushed together to accommodate an octet of chattering garden clubbers engaged in a synthetically sweet struggle over which walking tour to take that morning. “I declare, Beryl, you know I ’specially came to Chastain because my great-uncle Marcus is buried in the St. Michael’s graveyard.” “Gardens first, I say, gardens first!” “Now, girls, we can all just have a good time today without any hard feelings, I know we can.”

  Annie waved at him with moderate enthusiasm.

  “My God,” he exclaimed in tones of awe, which were clearly not appreciated, “you’re awake.”

  She sipped coffee, then replied in a carefully modulated voice. “Mrs. Brawley telephoned at six-fifteen. She wanted to know whether Reginald Hoxton’s shoes were freshly shined.”

  “Fascinating the way her mind works.” He dropped into the chair opposite her. “What did you tell her?”

  She poured a fresh cup of coffee from the server. “This damn stuff’s lukewarm. And the croissants are dreadful.”

  He waited.

  “I told her I had no friggin’ idea.”

  “You didn’t!”

  “Six-fifteen in the morning.”

  “Lovely hour. You should have been up with me.”

  “I hope you were having more fun than I was.”

  “I took a walk.”

  “Your voice is freighted with portent.”

  He looked over the table, picked up a dog-eared menu, dropped it hastily. “Do you have some paper? A pen?”

  She found a crumpled renewal notice for Time with a tiny wooden pencil attached.

  He looked at it in disdain. “I think this is a collector’s item.” Then, hunching over the table he drew a map.

  When he was finished, he proudly handed it to her.

  She studied it, handed it back, picked up a croissant, and bent it. “Spongy.”

  “Don’t you see?”

  “I see that Ephraim Street and Federal Street are parallel.”

  He poked at the map with a determined finger. “Don’t you remember yesterday afternoon, how all those people showed up at the pond? Like a Greek chorus.”

  “So?”

  “They were all within minutes of the pond. Minutes. Anyone of them could have clobbered Corinne.”

  She glanced back down at the map. “I guess so,” she said slowly. “Anyone of them could have.” Then she grimaced. “But so what? Why do we care? I’ll tell you something, Max. I am not going to get involved in another murder hunt. I’m involved in the Mystery Nights, and that’s enough to satisfy my blood lust for months.” She warmed to her theme. “Correction: for years.” She started to shove back her chair, then froze, looking over his shoulder toward the arch.

  Chief Wells filled the brick entryway, his shoulders almost touching the curved walls. His slab-like face, pocked as old cement, looked ominously grim. Then his questing eyes stopped and focused on her.

  14

  In the sudden silence, his boot heels rasped loudly against the bricks as he crossed to their table. He didn’t remove his cowboy hat, and Annie took an unreasoning dislike to the smooth, high, undented crown. Who did he think he was? A Canadian Mountie? He wore gray slacks this morning with his black coat. A black string tie drooped against a faded white shirt. His frosty eyes watched her like a hunter with a 22-inch mallard in his sights.

  Whispers, soft as a summer wind in wheat stubble, rippled among the garden clubbers. Annie heard “chief” and “murder” and a sibilant hiss of meaningful “she’s.” She shared an impartial glare between the brightly curious women and the lawman.

  “Ms. Laurance.” He moved his pouchy jaws, shifting a wad of chewing tobacco from one side to the other, then gave Max a brief glance. “Mr. Darling.” The words sounded like they’d been scraped out of a rusting barrel. “Like to talk to you. At the scene of the crime.”

  Max smiled pleasantly, but his dark blue eyes were watchful. “Ms. Laurance gave you all the information she had yesterday, Chief.”

  “Did she? I didn’t hear tell about her quarrel with Mrs. Webster.” The tobacco bulged against one cheek. “Course, she can talk to me over there,” the big head nodded to the west, “or at the station. Her choice.”

  Annie had always wondered what it would be like to be taken into custody. Her present feelings were as close as she ever hoped to come. She didn’t like it, but, mostly, it made her mad. Max was sending an avalanche of silent messages, which she had no difficulty deciphering. They boiled down to: keep cool.

  It was still too early for tourists, but an occasional car passed as they headed down Ephraim Street. A street cleaner paused in his sweeping to eye them curiously. No lights shown from the front windows of the Prichard House, and the morning paper lay midway up the gray marble steps. Annie had dev
oured the headlines in her copy of the Chastain Courier over her breakfast coffee. The lead story was topped with a 3 column 48 point bold head:

  SOCIETY PRESIDENT MURDERED AT POND

  The drop head read:

  CORINNE PRICHARD BLUDGEONED; WEAPON IS MYSTERY NIGHT PROP

  How dreadful it would be for Leighton to read those blaring headlines. She felt hideously intrusive as the police chief gestured for her and Max to walk up the drive toward the tents, which had a forlorn, after-the-circus appearance this morning.

  “Was it right about here?” Wells grated. He spat into the grass, but his eyes never left her face.

  “Right about here what?” she demanded.

  “That you threatened Mrs. Webster.”

  “That’s unwarranted, Chief.” Max’s voice was as hard-edged as a meat mallet. “At no time has Ms. Laurance in any way ever threatened Mrs. Webster.”

  Wells transferred his glower to Max. “Were you here?”

  “No. However—”

  “Then butt out. I’m asking the girl here.”

  “That’s fine. But I’m a friend of Ms. Laurance’s, and I’m telling her that she doesn’t have to answer any questions unless she has an attorney of her choice present.”

  “You a lawyer?”

  “Member of the Bar of the State of New York.”

  Wells lifted a massive hand to scratch at his jaw. “That doesn’t give you any right to mouthpiece here.”

  “Certainly not, and I don’t hold myself out as practicing in South Carolina. But there’s no law to prevent me from providing Ms. Laurance with counsel free of charge.” Max had lost his aura of relaxed complaisance. As he faced Wells, he looked as tough and determined—and handsome—as The Saint at a denouement. Annie loved it.

  Wells masticated his tobacco for a long moment, then without a word, turned back to Annie. She savored it as a victory, but realized with a sinking heart, that the skirmish was far from over.

  “I got a witness, heard you tell Mrs. Webster she’d be a dead body if she didn’t get off your case.”