Carolyn G. Hart

by Death on Demand/Design for Murder

  He registered shock. “That is an unwarranted assumption.”

  Mrs. Brawley raised a hand. “It is time to demand a search warrant of Reginald Hoxton’s room and its contents.”

  Her group stormed triumphantly after her and received this information: In the pocket of Hoxton’s trousers worn that afternoon, the police laboratory (with emphasis on the second syllable) discovered a fragment of gold, apparently from a jewelry setting, and a trace of putty.

  Smiling, Annie moved on to Edith, playing Miss Susannah Greatheart.

  An eager questioner demanded, “Isn’t it true that Miss Snooperton had stolen Nigel Davies from you, and you quarreled with her shortly before her murder?”

  Edith dabbed at her eyes with a crumpled linen handkerchief. “Oh no, I never quarrel with anyone, and I felt certain Nigel would come to his senses when he discovered that Miss Snooperton was involved with Lord Algernon.”

  “And how did you know this?”

  “Why, dear Lord Algernon felt I would be sympathetic to his problems. He was trying his best to be rid of Miss Snooperton. He thought her a dreadfully fast young woman, who had tried to ensnare him with her wiles. I do find Lord Algernon to be such a gentleman.”

  After a hasty consultation with his team, Team Captain No. 3 brayed, “We demand a search warrant against Miss Greatheart.”

  The warrant revealed: A ruby necklace stuffed in among Miss Greatheart’s lingerie, and a bloodied croquet mallet thrust deep in her wardrobe. Upon investigation the necklace was declared a replica of the missing Red Maiden, and the mallet was identified as the murder weapon.

  Taxed with these facts, Miss Greatheart broke down, declaring she had been framed. “Someone must hate me very much.”

  Team No. 3 stampeded to surround Lord Algernon. The intensity of their questions delighted Max, who responded with élan.

  “I had broken off my involvement with Miss Snooperton. Fact of the matter, gave her a ticket to Venice this morning, then wrote her a note I couldn’t meet her at the arbor after tea.”

  “Was it your note that was found in her pocket?”

  “Must have been.”

  “You say you were finished with Miss Snooperton. Was she finished with you?”

  “Felt like Nigel had taken me off the hook there, getting himself engaged to her. Damn disgusting the way he was treating Miss Greatheart. Tried to cheer her up.”

  “Isn’t it more, Lord Algernon, that you were exhibiting your longtime weakness for members of the opposite sex other than your wife?”

  “Oh, that’s a rum suggestion. Besides, Alicia’s a sport.”

  He finally admitted, though he downplayed its significance, that he’d had a few angry words with Miss Snooperton at the rose arbor, but he insisted that he left her alive with the clear understanding their affair was ended, whether or not she accepted the ticket to Venice.

  Team Captain No. 8 demanded a search warrant against Lord Algernon, and these facts were unearthed: A packet of angry letters from Miss Snooperton threatening to reveal their affair to Lady Alicia unless he made a substantial settlement upon her. One letter stated: Cough up or sweet Lady Alicia will learn about our weekend in Nice.

  From there Team Captain No. 8, a mild-mannered professor of medieval poetry at Chastain Community College, bounded across the grass to attack Lady Alicia.

  Jessica Merrill, stately this evening in an ankle-length pink-and-white dimity dress, faced the barrage of questions with haughty disdain.

  “Was I aware of an involvement between Algernon and Miss Snooperton? Why, of course not. That is truly absurd. And, of course, even it it were true, I would merely pity the poor boy to have become entangled with such an unattractive and predatory woman.”

  “Didn’t you earlier say Miss Snooperton was a dear girl?”

  “Oh, did I? Perhaps. I’ve no real opinion in the matter.”

  “How much money did you owe Reginald Hoxton, my lady?”

  “Merely a small debt between friends.”

  “But how could you hope to pay it off? You have no money of your own, have you?”

  “There was no pressing need to resolve a trifle between friends over a card game.”

  “But Miss Greatheart says she heard him threaten to tell Lord Algernon if you didn’t pay up?”

  “She must have misunderstood. Such an insipid young woman.”

  Jessica Merrill refused to buckle beneath the spate of questions. Lord Algernon had harummphed and said Lady Alicia was a sport about his extra-marital activities. How would Jessica Merrill feel about her husband’s involvement with a predatory lady lawyer?

  Every so often, to the enormous disappointment of the besieging detectives, one or another of the English Manor suspects would hang a Back Soon sign in their chair and slip away for a few minutes of rest or refreshment.

  When Jessica took her break, Annie followed her out to the main sidewalk. As she hurried to catch up, she overheard a middle-aged woman returning to the detection area tell her friend, “This has just been the most fun I’ve had since I was seven and my mother gave me The Clue In the Album. Doesn’t the investigation remind you of the house party at Lady Billington-Smith’s in Georgette Heyer’s The Unfinished Clue?” Her companion nodded energetically. “Oh Hetty, I know just what you mean. I keep remembering Chayning Court in Gladys Mitchell’s Speedy Death.” Buoyed by her eavesdropping, Annie spurted ahead and called out, “Jessica,” as her quarry turned into the inn.

  “Oh, hello, Annie. Decided I needed a drink. God, it must be exhausting to actually be a suspect in a murder investigation.”

  Annie settled for an enigmatic, “I suppose so,” rather than a query about Roscoe’s emotional temperature.

  They settled in a corner of the coffee bar, which offered a very limited drink list, coffee, house wine, white and red but provenance unspecified, and a bottled wine cooler. They both opted for the last.

  “One more night,” Jessica sighed.

  “It’s good of you to keep up, considering the circumstances.”

  Jessica poured the cooler slowly over the ice, then picked up her glass. She looked very self-possessed, her dark hair curling softly away from her face, her large, attractive eyes meticulously outlined in eye shadow. She smiled at Annie. “It’s been difficult, of course. Corinne has been our friend for many years. I know she would have wanted the garden nights to continue, and, of course, as a member of the Board, Roscoe certainly feels a responsibility to see that the Society’s efforts aren’t damaged.”

  “Did you like Corinne?”

  Those large eyes returned Annie’s gaze steadily. “That is a remarkably tactless question at the present time.”

  “Being one of two primary suspects in a murder investigation has put tactfulness pretty low on my priority list.”

  Jessica sipped at her cooler. “Roscoe doesn’t think anyone will be arrested. Apparently, there is no direct physical evidence linking any one person to the crime scene, and he says it’s very difficult to sustain an arrest or obtain a conviction without clear-cut evidence or a confession.” She smoothed her softly waving black hair back from an unlined forehead. “It will probably be one of those famous unsolved mysteries.”

  “That’s pretty lousy for everybody. Me included.” And especially, Annie thought, for Gail and Bobby, and Leighton and Peggy. “And I’m not at all sure Wells won’t jump on Frazier or me, just to quiet the newspapers.” Annie thumped her glass onto the cocktail table. “Dammit, Wells won’t even talk to people who could have done it. Like Sybil and Tim.” Then she glared defiantly at Jessica. “Or Miss Dora.”

  To her surprise, Jessica was neither shocked nor outraged. Instead, her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Miss Dora.”

  Annie tried to interpret Jessica’s Madonna-like face, so smooth, calm—and masklike.

  “It’s funny you should think of Miss Dora. She’s such a fixture around Chastain that no one even sees her, despite those outlandish clothes and her hats.” Jessica smiled, but
her brown eyes were serious and intent. “Miss Dora has spent her life trying to preserve Chastain’s history. That is all that matters to her, that and family. She opposed almost every innovation Corinne proposed for the Society. Miss Dora hates these garden weeks. She thinks Chastain should belong to its own and never to outlanders.” Jessica toyed with her lapis lazuli necklace. “But, of course, it’s absurd to imagine her creeping up behind Corinne and striking her down.”

  Annie almost corrected Jessica. No one had crept up behind Corinne. Corinne had turned to walk away. But it didn’t really matter.

  Jessica took a last swallow, smiled. “Well, I suppose we’d better get back—or the detective teams will track me down here.”

  As they rustled in their purses for money, Annie asked quickly, “Had you talked to Corinne recently?”

  Jessica’s hand momentarily froze, then she lifted out her billfold. “Yes. Last week.” Her voice was placid.

  Annie added her portion to the tray. “What about?”

  “Nothing special. She called me to ask if we should add a new line of reproductions at the Museum. I’m rather an authority on colonial glassware. She wanted my opinion.”

  It was so smooth, so easily delivered, and, Annie felt certain, absolutely false. Especially when she looked into those eyes, now curiously defiant.

  “You and Roscoe have a wonderful marriage.”

  Jessica didn’t challenge the non sequitur. She merely nodded as she pushed back her chair.

  Annie rose. “I don’t suppose the same could be said of Corinne and Leighton.”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Rumor has it that Leighton was involved with a young woman.”

  Jessica forced a smile. “That happens, doesn’t it, when men reach a certain age. It usually isn’t of any importance.”

  And with that, Annie realized that Jessica Merrill knew full well about Roscoe’s lapse, and, if the matter were ever raised, would dismiss it as unimportant. The corollary being, of course, that if it didn’t matter to her, it certainly couldn’t provide a motive of any kind for Roscoe to silence Corinne.

  But had Roscoe known—in time—how his wife felt?

  The detective teams swarmed into the Suspect Investigation Tent full of last-minute questions.

  “Miss Laurance, did the lab report say that footprint by the body belonged to Nigel Davies?”

  “Yes.”

  “How about that broken lock on the tool shed? Did it have any fingerprints?”

  “No. It was wiped off.”

  Fingerprints. Wiped off. Why did Chief Wells want her or Bobby to have a handkerchief?

  A high squeal of sheer excitement erupted from Mrs. Brawley when her team received a search warrant to Reginald Hoxton’s car. In the boot was found one of the croquet balls. It had been tampered with, and secreted within it was a handful of red rubies.

  She was marking times on the last envelopes, when Bobby poked his head in at the main opening. He looked around, glared, and left.

  Max plumped the final box down next to the wall. “Next time you plan a Mystery Night, I’ll hire a pack horse.”

  “Next time I plan a Mystery Night, you can buy me a one-way ticket to El Paso. It would be more fun.”

  He sighed and draped himself against the poster of the rice bed. “How about a drink?”

  She shook her head wearily.

  “Rain check? I’m bushed.”

  He didn’t even protest.

  She didn’t blame him. The room was stuffy and airless and about as comfortable as a wadi in the Sahara. Damn Idell. You couldn’t leave the room for five minutes without her slipping in to turn off the air conditioner. Crossing to the window, Annie punched the button. After a shuddering cough, it slowly ground to life. She glanced out, admiring the patterns of shadow the moonlight splashed across the grounds and the Society Building next door.

  The Society Building. If only stones could talk. Who had typed that letter after hours? If they only knew that.…

  20

  As Annie lifted the brush to stroke her hair, a shriek from downstairs knifed through the thin wooden door. She stared at her early morning reflection in the mirror, her eyes startled, her mouth parted in surprise. A second scream resounded, louder still and with a growing undercurrent of hysteria.

  Something was very amiss within the stuffy confines of Swamp Fox Inn. Max burst through their connecting door, and Annie grabbed her shorts.

  He looked tremendously relieved, then his eyes widened with pleasure.

  She stepped into the shorts and pulled on a t-shirt. They moved toward the door. Max opened it, and they scrambled through at the same time.

  On the balcony, the sounds of distress were louder still, and the words bubbling between sobs brought them both pounding down the stairs.

  “Dead … horrid … sticky and wet … oh my God, dead …”

  The assistant manager shook the shoulders of the gray-haired maid. “Shut up! You’re going to wake everybody up. Dammit, Frieda, you’re not making any sense. Shut up! Who’s dead?”

  “Idell. She’s laying in there …”

  The assistant manager and Annie and Max turned at once, abandoning the sobbing Frieda. They halted abruptly in the open office doorway. Idell Gordon sprawled stiffly on the love seat behind a small glass-topped coffee table. A decanter sat on a Chinese lacquer tray. She still wore her black polyester funeral dress, and it pulled at the seams against her ungainly pose. Staring eyes were fixed on the ceiling. Her face was pinkish, and her mouth agape, the lips strained back in a twisted smile.

  The young man made a noise deep in his throat and backed up, crushing Annie’s foot. She yelped; he jumped, glared at them, and yanked the door shut. “I’ve got to call the doctor.”

  “And the police,” Max added quietly.

  A woman in the knot of guests clustered behind them began to whimper.

  “Everybody go to your rooms, please. We’ll be talking with you as soon as possible. If you have important business, Sergeant Harkey will take your name. Back to your rooms please, ladies and gentlemen, we have an unexplained death here, and it will take time for everyone to be seen. Back to your rooms, please.”

  Annie leaned disconsolately against the window, an elbow on the hiccuping air conditioner.

  “God, it’s my fault. It’s my fault.”

  “How old was she?”

  “I don’t know. Fifty-five. Sixty? She’d be older if—”

  “A grown woman. If she knew who the murderer was, she knew who to tell. Chief Wells. That she didn’t tell him is no fault of yours. Besides, it doesn’t sound all that clear-cut to me that she knew.”

  “She’s dead.”

  “Okay. Good proof. But nothing she said to you yesterday was that obvious.”

  “I guess you’re right. But she was excited—and positive Leighton wasn’t the killer. She must have seen someone slipping out of the Society late at night.” Annie whirled around, paced to the door. “Wells has to listen to me now.”

  A vein pulsed in Wells’s bulging forehead. The wad of tobacco in his cheek was motionless.

  “She was excited! And she asked if we were interested in the reward. Chief, I’m sure she saw the letter writer.”

  His big hands balled into fists. “I got a murder here. Another one. And it’s the kind of murder smart people try. So I don’t give a damn about that stupid letter. I want to know how many times you came back to the Inn last night?”

  Wells had ordered Annie to stay in her room, but Max made forays in and out, and he picked up quite a bit of information from other guests. Idell had been quite cheerful the last night of her life, visiting animatedly with various guests. She hadn’t changed from the dress she wore to the funeral. She ate dinner in her apartment on the east side of the second floor, and was on duty at the desk during the early evening, giving way to the night clerk at nine P.M. When found Thursday morning, she was dressed as she had been the night before. She was in her office, which was to
the left behind the counter area. A door from the office opened out into the Inn grounds. That door was open. The office light was on. On the floor, where it had fallen from her hand as she fell back in a seizure, was a single sherry glass. The sherry remaining in the glass had spattered on the wooden floor. The glass with its dried residue had been sent to the laboratory for examination, as had the crystal top of the sherry decanter. The sherry too, had been sent to the laboratory. Beneath her body, crushed against the faded damask rose upholstery, was the Wednesday afternoon issue of the Chastain Courier. Red pencil circled Bobby Frazier’s byline to the lead story, and red pencil underlined the sentence reading: The bereaved widower is offering a $5,000 reward for information leading to the arrest and conviction of Mrs. Webster’s murderer.

  After the last policeman finally left, Max and Annie slipped out the back door.

  Annie glanced back over her shoulder. “Do you suppose Wells will arrest me if he finds out I’ve left my room?”

  Max wasn’t worried. “No. You just hacked him, bringing up the letter again.”

  They took the alley to the McIlwain grounds. Annie stiffened at the back gate, pointing to the placard jammed into the grayish dirt.

  “Although this is now known as Whitsett’s Alley, after the proprietor of a print shop which stood here in the early 1800s, this is the site of the earliest Chastain racecourse, which was laid out in January of 1735. Races began in February and nearby planters entered the pride of their stables. Prizes included silver cups, bowls, or salvers. Race week culminated annually in the Jockey Ball, which opened with a stately minuet but included vigorous country dancing. Supper might have included baked turkeys, terrapin stews, iced cakes, partridge, quail, and goose, Madeira and Port wines, and punch.”

  Annie glanced wildly around. “That old woman is everywhere, but you never see her. It’s giving me the creeps!”

  The gate screeched like a cat with a stepped-on tail, and Annie jumped a foot.

  “Gothic heroine,” he murmured.

  “Don’t be obnoxious,” she retorted.

  They found Lucy at the side of the house, pruning a wisteria vine. She wore a floppy pink gardening hat, a denim skirt, and tailored cotton blouse. At the sound of their footsteps, she looked up, took a deep breath and visibly gathered strength.