“A pencil?”
“Wells thinks it fell out of his shirt pocket. He always carried a couple of extra pencils there.”
Lucy lifted her chin. “He could have gone by Idell’s office that night just to talk to her, to see what she knew, then decided to keep quiet when she was found dead.”
“He says he went by to talk to her about the reward—and what she thought she knew. That’s when he says he dumped cyanide in the sherry, too.”
It was almost three by the time Annie got Lucy settled at her house, though she refused the Valium. Returning to the Inn through the steady rain, Annie felt like she’d been flattened by a bulldozer. Max wasn’t in his room. Was he still at the jail, or was he trying to explain to a bewildered lawyer the ins and outs of a complicated case: Two dead women, two confessed murderers, one in jail, one ignored.
She sat down in the lumpy chair next to the window. The shutters hadn’t been closed for the night. The tan-colored Society building looked insubstantial in the rain. That was where it all started. No, not really. It had begun years ago, when Corinne Prichard Webster began her imperious course through life. That was the beginning, Corinne’s arrogance, Corinne’s absolute determination to control. But the end of her life had been determined in that quiet building. And the end of Idell Gordon’s life had been determined the night she looked out her window and saw someone she knew leaving the Society late at night.
Who had she seen?
Annie jolted upright.
Not Bobby, for God’s sake.
Idell was a born gossip. Her mouth never stopped clacking. She talked whether she had anything to say or not. The appearance of Bobby Frazier coming out of the Society Building late at night would have been startling. She certainly would have mentioned it to someone. That meant—Annie pressed her fingers hard against her temples. She was tired, so damn tired, but she knew she was close to a revelation. It meant the person Idell saw that night was someone she knew whose late night appearance at the Society was surprising but not shocking.
A Board member.
She jumped up, began to pace, then gradually her eagerness flagged. Okay, a Board member. They’d been there before: Lucy, Sanford, Gail, Roscoe, Edith, Sybil, Miss Dora. Even the appearance of Leighton would not have surprised Idell. He could have been running an errand for Corinne.
So all she’d done, in her own mind at least, was clear Bobby. And probably Tim.
Damn, damn, damn. It was impossible, a mess. They’d never get it right. And she was too tired to take another step or think another thought. Suddenly, she had an overpowering desire to lie down and sink fathoms deep into sleep. The bed was covered with Mystery Night materials, dumped without any attempt at order as Max hurried to get to the police station and Annie to the Prichard House. Wearily, she began to move the boxes. At least the Sticky Wicket murder was history now. Too bad the clues to Corinne’s murder couldn’t be tabulated as neatly. Physical clues like snapping red flags. But, actually, actions pointed toward the murderer, too, because murder arose from actions: Lord Algernon’s repeated involvement with other women, his wife’s jealousy, her avid dependence upon gambling, her desperate efforts to extricate herself from debt, all leading up to the final moment when she struck down her tormentor. And the obvious and pathetic attempts of her loyal maid to—
Annie stood in the middle of the room, clutching a poster container.
Actions.
Images flooded Annie’s mind, Corinne’s imperious will to rule, the abiding anger resulting from love denied, the conspiratorial eagerness of Idell Gordon to talk, talk, talk, the location of the pond, the telltale placard describing the superstitions of the Low Country, Miss Dora’s desperate assertion of Annie’s guilt, the croquet mallet with her own fingerprints, a few smudged, Idell’s certainty that more money could be had for silence, her offer of sherry to her murderer.
And Annie knew with certainty who had murdered Corinne Webster and Idell Gordon.
She walked back to the chair, dropped into it, and absently put the poster container atop the air conditioner. She knew, and she took no pleasure in knowing.
But Bobby was in jail, and Bobby could be convicted of murder. Would a jury understand his confession, understand it was a last, desperate, foolish attempt to protect the girl he loved?
Only one thing could save Bobby Frazier.
She jumped up, began to pace. Once, she reached out and touched the phone, ready to call Chief Wells.
But he would never believe her.
She continued to pace.
One action she could take. It would be a gamble. It could have no effect, or it could result in another death.
She didn’t want to do it. It was a fateful step. But, finally, she reached out and picked up the telephone and dialed.
It was answered after one ring.
“Yes.”
“You killed Corinne. And Idell.”
Silence. Annie could hear her own heart hammering.
“How did you know?”
As Annie spoke, her own voice was equally weary. She listed her reasons, then said, “You know, only one thing will save Bobby Frazier—your confession.”
There was no answer. Perhaps the lightest of sighs, then the connection was broken.
Annie wedged a straight chair beneath the doorknob. She moved the rest of the materials from the bed and turned off the light. She lay down, but her eyes didn’t close for a long, long time as she watched the tiny line of light that seeped beneath the door. It was almost an hour later that she heard Max come into his room. She wanted very much to call to him, but this decision had been hers and hers alone. She would carry it by herself. She listened to the falling rain.
Max carried the last of the boxes into Death on Demand, then he turned and faced Annie.
“What’s going on?”
“What do you mean?”
“Love, I’ve known you when you were up and when you were down. I’ve made love to you in the moonlight, danced with you until dawn, witnessed table piggery unbounded, admired your intellect, your serve, and your verve—and I’ve never known you to say less than three thousand words a minute since the day we met. So something is screwy as hell this morning. I know we haven’t had breakfast, and we drove our cars separately back to the ferry, but you haven’t said anything but uh-hun and hmm since we got back to the store. You haven’t even commented on the strategy the Atlanta lawyer has in mind for Bobby Frazier. So what gives?”
The bell rang as the front door of Death on Demand opened.
She looked past Max up the central aisle of the store.
Bobby Frazier, his eyes red-rimmed, his jaws covered with the stubble of beard, walked toward them.
Tears brimmed in her eyes. “The case is over,” she said, and she reached out to grab Max’s hand.
“Over? How can it be over?”
But she was watching Bobby.
He held out his hand, palm up. A cream-colored envelope bore Annie’s name in a sloping, feminine script.
“I had to lean like hell on Wells to get it for you. But she wrote this to you, and I knew you should get it.” His mouth twisted down. “Sometimes it’s handy to be a reporter—when you’re not in jail. I even threatened him with false arrest. But he had her other note, her confession.” He swallowed jerkily. “She’s dead. She had some more of the cyanide.”
“Dead. Who’s dead?” Max demanded.
They spoke at once, Bobby’s voice somber, Annie’s tear-choked.
“Lucy Haines.”
24
Lucy Haines!” Max’s voice rose in astonishment. “How did you know? How did you ever guess?”
“Because of the way people acted.” She managed a lopsided smile. “You know how your mother tells you actions speak louder than words? By God, they do. They really do. Just think for a moment:
“Who was crazy about Gail, and saw her chance for love and happiness being destroyed by the same person who had destroyed her own years ago?
&nbs
p; “Who was distraught with unhappiness after Corinne was murdered?
“Who implied she’d broken off with Cameron, but everyone else remembered it the other way—and collective memory is what you call history.
“Who was a part of Chastain, by birth, by breeding, by social position? Who would Miss Dora protect?
“Who lived next door to the pond and could waylay Corinne there after calling for a meeting?
“Who knew all about the Mystery Nights and the croquet mallet?
“Who always wore gloves when dressed—but didn’t have gloves on when arriving at the murder scene? Who helped me get Corinne out of the pond and thereby accounted for her muddied clothes?
“Who would Idell offer sherry to?” A tear slipped down Annie’s cheek. Automatically, Max handed her his handkerchief, which she took gratefully. “So I phoned Lucy and told her I knew.”
Max gripped her shoulders. “Why didn’t you tell me? My God, what a stupid chance to take. What if she’d come after you?”
“I didn’t think she would. She was so tired, tired of it all. And Gail meant more to her than anything, even her own safety. I didn’t think she would come.” Her voice was grave. “But I put a chair underneath the doorknob.”
“And waited for dawn.” Bobby looked at her admiringly.
“I hated doing it.”
“You should have called me.” For once there was no life and humor in Max’s voice, just puzzlement and pain. She knew it was important for him to understand. She reached out, held his hands. “I knew I could. Believe me, I know I can always call you. But sometimes you have to do things on your own. I had to do this.”
He pulled her into his arms, held her tightly for a moment. “All right,” he said gruffly, into her hair. “All right.” Then, jamming his hand through his thick blond hair, he herded them toward a table. “I don’t know about you, Bobby, but Annie and I haven’t had any breakfast coffee.”
The reporter hesitated, but Annie took his hand. “Sanford said Gail would sleep ’til afternoon.”
They sat at the table nearest the back wall. Max made wonderfully hot and strong Kona coffee, and Bobby told them what he knew.
“She called Wells this morning. Told him to come over, she had information about the murders, that the front door would be unlocked. She left two sealed letters. In the one to the chief, she said she killed Corinne and Idell. That was all.”
Annie looked down at her letter. The penmanship looped gracefully, Miss Annie Laurance, in the center of the pale lavender envelope. Taking a deep breath, she picked it up, opened it.
Dear Annie,
I wanted you to know that I decided before you phoned that my only recourse was to inform Harry Wells of the truth. Please do not feel that you precipitated my death. That would grieve me, just as I am grieved over the course of events this past week.
I know this must sound odd to you and self-serving, but I am grieved and remorseful. I did not intend to follow this path.
[There was a splotch of ink, a word scratched out.]
But in this last watch of my night, I must be absolutely honest. I don’t know exactly what was in my heart. When I wrote the letter, and Idell did see me leave the Society building late that night of March 19, I am afraid I was pleased with myself. I was going to make Corinne suffer. But did I then intend to take her life? I would like to think not. To be truthful, I don’t know.
I hated Corinne. She lied to Cameron, convinced him I was interested in him for his wealth, and he went away and met and married someone else. Yes, I hated Corinne for that.
And I hated the way she treated those around her, poor Leighton and Edith who tried so hard and talented Tim. Everyone who came within her orbit was drawn close and destroyed.
But, most of all, I hated what she was doing to Gail. Gail is so like her father, trusting and open and generous. I wouldn’t have chosen Bobby Frazier for her, but then, that’s where Corinne and I differed. I loved Gail, and I would not try to choose for her.
You were right in what you said. It should have occurred to everyone that I lived closest to the pond. I was on my way early to help out with the gala, and I came upon Gail and Bobby quarreling. I could see Corinne’s hand, see her succeeding again, as she had succeeded against me. I went back to the house. I was so angry, I paced up and down, up and down. Finally, I called Corinne and argued with her. She was furious. She told me it was none of my concern and that her decision was irrevocable. I didn’t know that Gail and Bobby had talked again, and they were going to continue to see each other, no matter what Corinne did. I don’t know if I would have acted differently if I had known. But I didn’t know, and I asked Corinne to meet me at the pond.
Perhaps that reveals the truth of the matter, for why did I choose the pond? I could have gone to Prichard House; she could have come here. But in my mind I knew that the Mystery Night clues would be in place—and the croquet mallet.
We met, and we quarreled, and she turned to leave, imperious as always. I snatched up the mallet and struck her down.
When it was done, I threw the mallet into the water, then I leaned over Corinne. She was still breathing. It was dreadful and I hate remembering it, but I pulled her into the water—and left her to drown. My gloves, and you were clever to see that I must have been wearing them, were wet. I pulled them off and wadded them up and threw them into the center of the pond. My shoes and dress were wet, too, but I waited by the gate, knowing someone would soon find her and I could dash into the pond. Of course, I heard your screams when you found Corinne, and I came.
As for Idell, she called and said she was going to try for Leighton’s reward, unless I could do better than the $5,000. She suggested $10,000. I told her I would bring some money during the Mystery Night program. That afternoon, I went to the Museum. The back door is never locked during working hours, and I slipped down the stairs to the basement. I’ve been on the Museum Board for years, and I knew all about the electroplating—and the cyanide of potassium. I took some with me in a plastic medicine vial. During the Mystery Night, I walked up to the Inn and went to the office door. Idell and I visited. She wasn’t worried. After all, the desk clerk would hear if she called out. We each had a glass of sherry. I told her I thought it was excellent and shouldn’t we have another to celebrate our agreement. I was wearing gloves. I got up and stood between her and the decanter and emptied the vial into it, then poured each of us a fresh glass, and watched while she drank hers. It was very quick. I felt sick then. I emptied my second glass into the decanter, then took the glass with me, wrapped up in a paper from her desk. That night, after the mystery program was over, I threw it into the pond.
The clock has just struck five. I’ve listened to that clock all my life and the deep bell has always meant ‘All is well.’ Now it is tolling the end. Please try to explain to Gail that I never meant for her to be hurt, and forgive me for the unhappiness I have caused.
Lucy Haines
The phone rang. With a searching glance at Annie’s face, Max reached out and answered.
“Death on Demand.” Then his voice relaxed. “Oh sure, Barbie, I’ll be down in a little while. Anything new?”
Bobby finished his coffee, and pushed back his chair.
Max whooped on the phone. “Great. Yeah. Bring it down. Right now. No, no, don’t open it.”
Annie and Bobby looked at him curiously.
Max looked enormously pleased.
Bobby pushed his chair up to the table, then turned to study the watercolors. “I didn’t really get a chance to see these during the Mystery Nights.”
The front door bell sang, and Barbie came cheerfully down the aisle. “Hi, Annie. Hi, Max. Glad to see you guys back. Been having fun?” She peered at them more closely. “Gee, you look beat.” Turning to Max, she thrust a small parcel into his hands. “Here’s the package from London.”
“Thanks, Barbie. I’ll be down in a little while.”
She smiled and left.
He took Annie by the
arm and steered her up the central aisle to the diagonal shelving that held all the Agatha Christies.
He held out the parcel. “A little something for you.”
Max did love a dramatic production. It was probably a first edition of one of her favorites, Cat Among the Pigeons or The Hollow.
She found some scissors at the main desk and carefully slit open the package. Reaching inside, she felt her first twinge of puzzlement. Not a book. Odd, that felt like a frame—
She pulled it out and lifted it to look. There was clear glass on both sides. Sandwiched between the plates of glass was a single sheet of extremely thin paper, the aerogram used in England during World War II. The writing was small, to conserve space.
7 May 1943
Highgate
My dearest Max,
I am involved in such an absurd project, and I don’t quite know how it came about. Stephen Glanville is to blame. He’s bullied me into setting a detective story in Ancient Egypt! I resisted at first, but now I am quite into it and …
The letter continued with a reference to the shortage of eggs and news of friends in the theater, a discussion of Iago’s character, and how Rosalind, expecting her first child, was feeling.
Annie read it through in a rush, looked up at Max, eyes wide, read it again, then flung herself into his arms.
“Max, Max, Max! Where ever did you get it? How did you possibly find a letter from Agatha Christie to her husband during the War? Oh, my God, she was writing Death Comes As The End. How did you do it?”
He smiled cherubically. “I just called around, nudged some people. You like it?”
“Like it? Like it!” She held the framed letter to the light, trying to decide where it would fit best on the shelf. Then she turned to him, “Max, you’re wonderful.”
He nodded complacently.
Carolyn G. Hart Page 46
