Carolyn G. Hart

by Death on Demand/Design for Murder

  Max punched the bell on the formica-topped counter.

  A sweet-faced nurse with thick glasses poked her carefully-coiffed head out of an adjoining room. “Sorry. Doctor doesn’t hold office hours on Wednesday afternoons.”

  Max leaned on the counter. “He’s here, isn’t he? They told me at the hospital I could catch him here.”

  “Yes, but he doesn’t hold—”

  “Tell him Max Darling and Annie Laurance want to talk to him about Corinne Webster’s murder.”

  She raised an eyebrow, then withdrew into the adjoining room. In a moment, she returned and gestured for them to come through the swinging door.

  Sanford was in his office, which overlooked the cobblestoned alley.

  “No Wednesday afternoon golf, Doctor?” Max asked.

  Sanford ignored the pleasantry, and looked at them with cold, brooding eyes. He looked capable, confident, and controlled. If he had a bedside manner, he kept it under wraps.

  “I’m busy,” he said brusquely. “What do you want?”

  Annie pointed at the window behind him, which framed a portion of the McIlwain House and the Prichard grounds. “Did you happen to look out that way Monday afternoon?”

  He shrugged his thin shoulders impatiently. “I’ve got better things to do than stand at my window.”

  Max took it up. “What were you doing at five on Monday?”

  Sanford beat a silent tattoo on his desktop with his right hand. “Finishing up patient folders for the afternoon.”

  “In here? By yourself?”

  “Right.”

  “Can anybody vouch for that?”

  His chilly eyes moved toward Annie. “I was here when Leighton called.”

  “That was at five-thirty.” Max didn’t amplify, but the implication was clear enough.

  For the first time, a smile touched that swarthy, intense face. “Plenty of time to meet Corinne, bang her over the head, and get back here. Is that what you mean?” His laughter was a cynical bark. “Actually, I’d liked to have strangled her a hundred times, but they don’t include justified homicide in the Hippocratic oath.”

  “Why did you want to strangle her?” Max asked, with the politeness a dozen governesses had instilled in him.

  “Did you ever deal with Corinne?” Disgust weighted Sanford’s voice. “God, that woman. The brains of a flea, and the tenacity of a leech. And selfish! All she thought about was the Prichard name, the Prichard House, the Prichard Museum, and, God forbid, the Prichard Hospital. She figured it was some kind of personal fiefdom just because her precious great-grandfather founded it. Do you know what she wanted to spend money for?” He slammed his hand on his desk, and papers slewed. “A restoration of the lobby to its original state in 1872. Jesus. And when I wanted to increase the hours for outpatient consultations …” His eyes glittered. “Stupid, bloody bitch.”

  “If you felt that way about restorations, why are you on the Board of the Historical Preservation Society?”

  He looked at Annie as though he ranked her intellect on a level with Corinne’s. “This is a small town. A damn small town in the South.” His voice capitalized it. “It’s a pain in the ass, but you have to play the game to get along with people. And the game in Chastain is historical preservation.”

  “Why come here? You could have set up a practice somewhere else, couldn’t you?”

  For a moment, the anger and irritation left his face, replaced by eagerness. “Oh no, I couldn’t go anywhere else. This is one of the best places in the world to study parasitic diseases. I came here to work with Byron Fisher.” He looked at them expectantly, but when the famous name didn’t impress them, his face wrinkled in disgust. “Why, we’ve got research underway here that isn’t duplicated anywhere.” His eyes alight with excitement, he drew sketches, cited tables, described his laboratory.

  “Was this part of your work at the hospital?”

  Once again, his face reformed into an angry glower.

  “Certainly. It was understood when I came.”

  “Was Corinne in favor of this use of the facilities?”

  “What do you think?” His snort was contemptuous. “But I would’ve gotten my way.”

  “Was she trying to block your plans?”

  Sanford leaned back, placed his supple hands flat on the chair arms. “Oh, yeah. But I have a way of winning.” Then his mouth twisted in a sardonic smile. “Without resorting to murder.”

  Max fastidiously averted his eyes from Annie’s chili dog and root beer. They’d made two stops for lunch. One at the hot dog stand for her order, the second at a seafood restaurant for his shrimp and crab salad and Bud Light. There wasn’t a spare foot of space along the bluff, so they finally ate standing up at the corner of Lookout Point, then dashed across Ephraim to the Inn. There was just time to change for the funeral.

  Every seat was taken at St. Michael’s. Annie realized anew how important a figure Corinne had been in Chastain. The family sat in the first pew on the lesson side of the aisle, looking rigidly ahead. Gail sat between Lucy and Miss Dora. The priest made no mention of murder as he intoned the stately funeral service from the Book of Common Prayer, but Annie sensed a peculiar undercurrent in the sanctuary. Instead of the usual quiet reverence that underscores an Episcopal service, she felt an unmistakable air of tension, a mixture of grief, fear, and pernicious curiosity. As they rose for the recessional, and the pallbearers walked up the aisle beside the casket covered by the silk funeral pall, sidelong glances followed its progress, then turned toward the family. Was it her imagination or was there almost a tiny pool of space around each person who had been associated with Corinne?

  After the final prayer, Leighton took Gail’s elbow as they left the pew. Lucy and Miss Dora came after them. Lucy pressed a gloved hand to her mouth. Miss Dora stumped up the aisle, her wrinkled face as dark and unreadable as mahogany.

  Annie spotted Roscoe, his eyes downcast, his balding head bent. Jessica held his arm tightly. Edith Ferrier stared straight ahead, her face solemn. Tim Bond yanked at his collar, making his tie hang in disarray. Sybil strode forward as if she couldn’t leave the church soon enough.

  Out in the bright afternoon sunlight, the mourners—or those who had attended the funeral—began to drift toward the bright striped tent that marked the open grave. Corinne, of course, would be laid to rest in the graveyard, which held dead kinsmen back to Morris and Elizabeth Prichard, who died of yellow fever in 1766. A gap opened in the crowd for the family to pass through. Once again, Annie pondered the kind and quality of the sidelong glances directed at Leighton Webster.

  Edith stopped beside Annie and Max. “My God, doesn’t Lucy look awful.”

  Lucy’s thin face was gray with faint splotches of make-up high on her jutting cheekbones and a thin red line of lipstick on her mouth. Her cheeks were sunken; her navy blue silk dress hung on her. She carried a prayer book in gloved hands that trembled. Her eyes followed the casket, but every step seemed an effort.

  “I can’t believe she’s taking it so hard.”

  “They were friends for a long time, weren’t they” Max asked.

  Edith fell into step with them. “Oh, sure. They grew up together. But if that old story’s true, she ought to clap her hands at Corinne’s demise. I’ll tell you, if somebody’d ruined the love of my life, I wouldn’t count her as a friend.”

  That old story. Annie glanced across the crowded churchyard and caught another glimpse of Lucy, who did indeed look dreadful. Then she glanced at Edith, whose dark brows were drawn in a tight frown. No, Lucy and Edith weren’t cut from the same cloth. Unlike Lucy, Edith would be a good hater.

  “Oh, Lord.” Now Edith’s tone was sympathetic.

  Peggy Taylor would be a standout in any crowd because of the aura of health and vigor that she carried with her. She was especially noticeable today, waiting in the shade of a weeping willow near a mossy gravestone, just beyond the path. When Leighton Webster, walking heavily, came even with her, he paused for an inst
ant. He lifted his hand. There was an open hunger in his eyes.

  She stared at him, her eyes aching with questions.

  Then it was over, the moment gone, as he moved on, walking toward the gravesite, ignoring the crowd’s murmurs.

  Peggy Taylor looked after him. Her face crumpled. She held a handkerchief to her mouth and turned and walked swiftly away.

  “She’s afraid he’s guilty. Poor devil.”

  Annie wondered who Edith was calling a poor devil. Leighton—or Peggy?

  “And look there.”

  Annie looked past Max. Bobby Frazier stood at the edge of the crowd, his eyes on Gail’s slender figure. And what did his gaze hold? It was hard to know, but she felt certain she saw a jumble of emotions and an agony of indecision. He took a step forward, as if to walk to Gail. Gail looked up, saw him, and her face brightened.

  He took one step toward her, then swung around, head down, and walked away.

  19

  “Wasn’t it a lovely funeral?” Idell’s froglike eyes glistened with pleasure. She still wore her funeral dress, a shiny black polyester. She leaned on the Inn counter, obviously eager to talk.

  Lovely? How lovely is it to watch lives disintegrating from the pressures of public and private suspicion?

  “Everyone came,” Idell prattled on. “Corinne would have been pleased.”

  Certainly Idell was. She radiated good humor, and something more. Excitement? Anticipation?

  How much did Idell know about her recently deceased neighbor and those who hated her? Swallowing her distaste, Annie leaned on the counter, too. “Mrs. Gordon, I’d love to have your opinion on this case. You know these people so well. You must have a great deal of insight into who Corinne’s enemies really were.”

  The landlady bridled with pleasure. “I know a lot about people, that I can tell you. Why, you’d be surprised what you learn running an inn. Why, people can be just dreadful!”

  Annie lowered her voice. “Now, just between us, what do you think about Mayor Webster?”

  “Oh, poor Leighton. She led that man around like he had a ring through his nose. I thought it served her right when he took up with that Miss Taylor. Met her out on his walks.”

  “Do you think he would have asked for a divorce?”

  For an instant, genuine sympathy gleamed in those shiny brown eyes. “I would have hoped so, but Leighton always was such a gentleman. Even the way things are today, everybody getting divorced, I don’t believe he could have brought himself to do it. Poor Leighton.”

  Was he too much of a gentleman to murder his wife?

  “But Leighton didn’t do it. I’m sure of it.”

  There was such a ring of confidence in her voice, Annie looked at her in surprise.

  Idell’s gaze fell away in confusion, and she began to rearrange the drooping daffodils in the tarnished holder next to the telephone. “These flowers. Must see to them. It’s better to have fresh every day.”

  Feeling that her prey was slipping away, Annie plunged ahead. “And you knew Corinne as well as anyone.”

  Idell was suddenly less absorbed in the flowers.

  “Oh, yes, of course. Known her forever!”

  “How did she seem the last time you spoke to her?”

  “She was impossible. No wonder she got murdered.” Idell yanked viciously at a dead bloom. “Always trying to cause trouble. She said the Board was going to have to bring me into court if I didn’t shore up the fence between the Inn and the Society Building. Claimed it was unsightly for visitors. Well, why couldn’t the Society help? I need every penny I can get to keep the Inn going, with utilities going up every year and people using air conditioners even in April. I told her I couldn’t do it, and I didn’t have the money to go to court. Oh, she was a mean person.”

  “I guess it did make it hard, having the common boundary with the Society.”

  Idell looked at her gratefully. “Well, you run a business. You can understand. And the Inn is all I have.” There was a note of fear in her voice, the spectre of old age and no money and all her assets gone. But there wasn’t the least bit of concern about her quarrel with Corinne. Obviously, Idell didn’t see herself as a potential suspect. So scratch that dark horse.

  A sudden thought struck Annie. “You’re right next door to the Society. Did you happen to look out that way—” She paused and thought. “It was one of three nights in the middle of March that we think the letter was typed next door. The nights of March 19th, 20th, and 21st. I don’t suppose you saw anyone going in or coming out of the building after hours?”

  Idell’s eyes slid away from Annie. Then she shook her head vigorously. “No. But I remember the middle of March.” She touched her jaw. “Oh, I had an awful toothache.”

  Annie stood in the middle of the room, holding the large cylinder of cardboard that contained the five Death on Demand mystery prints, and checked to see if she’d forgotten anything. Max had already taken down the stacks of mimeographed sheets with the Mystery Night information, the autopsy report, the suspects’ original statements to police, and the clue box. She was walking toward the door when the phone rang.

  “Hello.”

  “Miss Laurance.”

  Chief Wells’s voice reminded her of gravel being dumped from a truck. Annie gripped the receiver tightly and knew her voice was strained when she answered. “Yes, Chief?”

  “Got a tip on the murder.”

  She waited.

  “Got a waiter here from a restaurant over on Broward’s Rock. Says he thinks he’s got a description of the killer. Cute blonde about twenty-three or so, gray eyes, good figure.”

  “Oh, now wait a minute—”

  The heavy voice rumbled over her protest like a steamroller squashing rocks. “Know what he overheard? Girl said she’d decided to bash the lady with a croquet mallet.”

  “I was talking about the Mystery Nights plot,” she said furiously.

  “So you admit that’s what you said?”

  Annie phrased it very carefully indeed. “On the occasion in question, I was describing to Mr. Darling the means by which the mythical murderer in the mythical Sticky Wicket murder intended to attack a mythical victim.”

  He wheezed loudly. “So you say.”

  “So I say.”

  “You’ll be at the Prichard House tonight?”

  “I’m not fleeing to Timbuktu, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  There was a long pause, and she thought she detected the juicy mastication of a tobacco wad. She wondered if there were a Mrs. Wells.

  “Smart ass talk won’t get you far, young lady.”

  “I understand you haven’t even bothered to talk to Sybil Giacomo and Tim Bond.”

  His voice scraped like flint on a fire rock. “I can manage my own investigation, young lady. And I’ll tell you this much, if I can prove either you or that reporter had a handkerchief on Monday, I’ll arrest you.”

  “A handkerchief?”

  “Yeah. Think about it, Miss Laurance.”

  Annie thought about it as she introduced the suspects for Wednesday’s Mystery Night. She thought about it all evening, between frantic moments of the Mystery Night. Why a handkerchief? As a matter of fact, she never carried one. Which would distress her maternal grandmother, who expected a lady always to possess a dainty, lace-edged hankie. But hankies went out with garters and girdles. Who, today, carried a handkerchief? Apparently not Bobby Fraizer, either. If the killer carried a handkerchief, that narrowed the circle indeed. At one point, she whispered her query to Ingrid, who with a true librarian’s skill could be expected to find the answer to any question. She came back in less than half an hour with this news: Leighton, John Sanford, and Roscoe, as might be expected, always carried handkerchiefs in their left hip pockets. Tim Bond, also as might be expected, owned not a single handkerchief, although he occasionally wore a ragged red bandana. Gail didn’t carry handkerchiefs, but sometimes Edith, Lucy, and Sybil did. Miss Dora, of course, was always equipped with one.r />
  Her head spun.

  A hand tugged at her arm. “Miss Laurance, there’s a discrepancy.”

  It was hard to say whether Mrs. Brawley was delighted or offended. Her nose wriggled with eagerness.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Last night Lord Algernon said that he gave Miss Snooperton the ticket to Venice on the Orient Express before they played croquet. Tonight, he said he gave her the ticket after they played croquet.” She waited eagerly.

  “Very good,” Annie praised. “We’d better take care of this at once.”

  Mrs. Brawley padded happily alongside Annie to the Suspect Interrogation Tent. Annie patted her on the shoulder, then stepped up to Max and whispered in his ear.

  He grinned and said firmly, “I gave the ticket to Miss Snooperton before we played croquet.”

  Annie and Mrs. Brawley exchanged satisfied smiles. Annie moved slowly around the tent. She paused behind Lucy, who still wore her navy dress and white gloves. She looked bone weary, but perhaps all of this at least took her mind off of the murder for awhile.

  Sanford continued to play his role with panache.

  Mrs. Brawley’s team (No. 7 tonight) clustered around him. This time, Annie noted with amusement, Mrs. Brawley was Team Captain, and savoring every moment of it. She leaned forward, finger waggling, a picture of ruthless inquisitorial determination.

  “Mr. Hoxton, have you ever before been a guest at a country home where a jewel theft has occurred?”

  Sanford stroked his chin. “Ah, my dear lady, perhaps. It’s so hard to remember when one is so often a guest.”

  “You can remember,” she snapped.

  “I do believe there was one instance. At Lord Healy’s home, Castle-On-The-Thames. I think I recall the disappearance of a diamond brooch.”

  Mrs. Brawley stalked nearer. “Was that theft ever solved?”

  “I don’t believe so, dear lady.”

  “Did you then enjoy a spurt in your income, Mr. Hoxton?”