Dead, White, and Blue

by Carolyn Hart

  Max was stretched out on an orange-and-green-striped beach towel. His drowsy voice murmured, “Can’t stop there.”

  “Lots of innuendo. Marian does that really well.” Sunday afternoon at the beach was their summer tradition, unfurled blue-and-white-striped umbrella punched deep in the sand, two low-slung beach chairs, a cooler, coconut oil sunscreen, and the Sunday Gazette to share. Today was a bit different because they both sported preventive patches of zinc oxide on sun-reddened faces. Annie was wearing a big-brimmed raffia-straw hat in addition to sunglasses. She rattled the paper. “Lead story, of course.”

  “Why the ‘oh my’?”

  “Listen to this: ‘Chief Cameron declined to say whether there is a “person of interest.” However, the chief explained that the dead woman had been observed in a series of confrontations at the Lucky Lady dance at the country club the evening of her death. Anyone with knowledge of Mrs. Hurst’s encounters with persons present at the country club is requested to contact the police. The chief emphasized that the investigation is also interested in information about Mrs. Hurst between the beginning of the fireworks and perhaps halfway through the show. Chief Cameron went on to say there is some confusion about the approximate time of Mrs. Hurst’s murder and he has been unable to speak with Mr. Hurst about his claim that he received a call from Mrs. Hurst several days after July fourth, which has now been determined to be the night Mrs. Shell Hurst died. The chief said he is sure the matter will be resolved. However, Chief Cameron admitted that the autopsy is consistent with death occurring sometime the evening of July fourth because of the state of digestion of stomach contents. As to cause of death, Chief Cameron revealed that Mrs. Hurst died of asphyxiation but he declined to suggest the manner in which the death occurred other than to say she was definitely a victim of foul play.’”

  Max rolled to one side and propped up on an elbow. A ball cap shadowed his face, emphasizing splotches of zinc oxide. “Asphyxiation. As in strangling or did somebody hold something over her face?”

  Annie turned the page. “Chief Cameron said reports have been received that Mrs. Hurst and a lover held several trysts at a local hotel.” She looked up. “I’ll bet Billy starts getting calls about Shell and Dave at the Sea Side Inn.” She began to read again. “‘Chief Cameron revealed Mrs. Hurst’s cell phone records included several calls made on July fourth that police will be investigating. The chief said that Mrs. Hurst’s credit card was last used on July third.’” Annie closed the paper. “That pretty well knocks down Wesley’s claim of a phone call several days later.”

  Max fished a Bud Light from the cooler. “Billy’s putting pressure on Wesley. That was the point of every word of that interview. Tomorrow he may name Wesley as a ‘person of interest.’”

  • • •

  Annie knelt to shelve four copies of Denise Swanson’s Little Shop of Homicide, the first in a clever new series set in a five-and-dime store. She reached to a higher shelf to straighten the Mary Stewart titles. Which was her favorite? She adored the opening line in My Brother Michael: Nothing ever happens to me. The reader felt a quick electric jolt and enjoyed the sure knowledge that a lot was going to happen.

  If Death on Demand enjoyed a slow day, Annie could slip away home to the hammock in their gazebo and reread My Brother Michael. Her hand hesitated at the long line of Stewart’s reissued suspense novels. Maybe she’d choose Madam, Will You Talk?

  The front bell sounded. Hurried steps sounded in the central corridor. Eileen Irwin jolted to a stop beside her. Eileen’s face was pale, her white blond hair straggly, evidence of a cursory brushing. She had dressed too quickly, a lime green blouse that looked odd with tan slacks. She called out, her voice shaky. “Thank God you’re here. You know something about the police and I can’t get anything out of that redheaded policewoman. ‘Yes, ma’am, no, ma’am, I’m sure I can’t say, ma’am.’ And it’s sickening.” Her blue eyes held a look of horror.

  Ingrid was a few paces behind Eileen. She watched anxiously. “Can I help?”

  Eileen ignored Ingrid, spoke to Annie. “She wouldn’t tell me what happened. They just sent a car for me, took me to the police station, to a room with tables and shelves and cabinets. She brought out a metal tray—” Eileen shuddered.

  Annie glanced at Ingrid, nodded toward the coffee bar.

  Ingrid slipped around her, moved swiftly down the central corridor.

  Annie gently touched Eileen’s arm, found it rigid. “Come sit down, Eileen. You’ve had a shock. Ingrid will bring us some coffee.”

  Eileen followed her as obediently as a child, dropped into a chair at the nearest table.

  “What was in the tray?”

  A light tic jerked Eileen’s left eye. “My shawl.” Her voice wobbled. “You know it’s made of silk and silk discolors so easily. I wouldn’t have known what it was, it was so dirty and stained, but I could make out the dragon even though the red was almost gone. After I identified it, the policewoman nodded and turned to take the tray away. I asked her where it was found, why it looked so awful. She didn’t really answer, just said it was a material piece of evidence in a crime and”—Eileen’s tone was almost a wail—“that’s all she’d tell me. Then she wanted to know exactly when I last saw the shawl and where and who could have taken it. Anybody at the dance could have taken it or one of the staff. I left it on my chair when we went out for the fireworks. If someone took it, what did they do with it? But everyone knows about Shell and that car in the lagoon. My shawl looked like it had been in that nasty water and dried out. Annie, what does it mean?”

  Ingrid brought mugs of coffee, placed them on the table, then circumspectly walked toward the front of the store.

  Annie was afraid she knew only too well why the wrinkled, stained shawl was in an evidence bin. In the Gazette story, Shell’s death was attributed to asphyxiation. If the shawl was material evidence in the commission of a crime…

  Eileen reached out, gripped Annie’s arm. “You know something. Tell me.”

  “I don’t know anything for a fact, but Shell died from a lack of air. Did you see the story in the Gazette?”

  “I read the story.” Eileen was impatient. “It didn’t say anything about a shawl.”

  “The police revealed that Shell died from asphyxiation. She could have been suffocated. Or strangled.” Annie spoke quietly. “Someone could have rolled up the shawl into a sort of cord and used it to strangle her.”

  Eileen stared at her in disbelief. “My shawl?” Her voice was almost a whimper.

  Annie spoke quickly. “I could be wrong, but If the police are holding the shawl as evidence, that means the shawl is connected to the crime.”

  Eileen eyes looked huge in an even paler face. “If she was killed by my shawl, someone took it from my chair in the dance room.” Eileen lifted a trembling hand. “That’s dreadful.”

  Annie’s thoughts had already moved past the shawl and its condition. She pictured the dimness on the periphery of the dance floor and a swift figure stopping just long enough to snatch up the shawl. “Premeditated.”

  Eileen frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “You left the shawl inside, right?”

  Eileen nodded. “On the back of my chair. It was too hot on the terrace for a shawl.”

  Annie didn’t know who had picked up the shawl, but there must have already been a thought of murder. The shawl grabbed, perhaps folded into a small square that could be slipped inside a tuxedo jacket or held between a woman’s arm and side, hidden from view on the dark terrace with the only light from occasional torchieres. Had an angry, vengeful person seen the shawl, picked it up, and followed Shell onto the terrace, standing in the shadows, waiting and watching until she started for the overflow lot? A murderer stalking prey could easily have skirted the shadowed edge of the terrace, slipped into the woods, and kept pace with the woman on the path walking to her death.

  “When I went inside”—Eileen’s voice was faint—“after the fireworks, I looked everywher
e. I wasn’t nice about it. I thought one of the waitstaff had stolen my shawl. Instead, someone took it and…” She closed her eyes as if to shut out pictures of struggle and terror.

  13

  Max tried to decide which was his favorite quote about golf. High on the list was Phyllis Diller’s The reason the golf pro tells you to keep your head down is so you won’t see him laughing. Or maybe Peter Dobereiner’s Half of golf is fun, the other half is putting. Putting… He tried to erase a memory of a six-putt debacle on Hole Four. He stood by the indoor golf green, waggled the club. All right. Knees bent…

  The bell sang. Footsteps clattered. He turned and had an instant of déjà vu as Hayley Hurst burst into his office. Her face was mottled from crying. She reached his desk, glared at him as he stood. “It’s all your fault. You found that car and now they’ve taken Jed away. Jed wouldn’t hurt anybody. Sure, he was mad at Shell, but to hurt someone…” She shook her head violently, like a dog plunging out of surf, her tight blond curls quivering. “Dad and Mom are at the police station but they wouldn’t let me come. You’ve got to do something.” With that she burst into tears.

  “Hey, kid.” Dismayed, he hurried to his golf bag and pulled out a towel. He stepped closer, held it out to her. “Hey, wipe your face. Come on, take some deep breaths.” He pulled up a webbed chair for her.

  Hayley sank into the chair, scrubbed her face, stared at him woefully. “The police found Jed’s fingerprints on the steering wheel of Shell’s car. They were the last prints on there. Hers were underneath.” Tears welled again. “They’re saying he drove the Porsche and sank it in the lagoon, then took the colonel’s MG and wrecked it on the bridge. Somebody”—she gulped—“wiped off the MG’s steering wheel, but they found one of Jed’s prints on the inside of the driver’s door.”

  Max leaned against the edge of his desk. “Had Jed ever been in the colonel’s car?”

  Her lips quivered. Her silence was a sad answer. “He may”—she struggled to get out the words—“have driven the Porsche. He didn’t kill Shell. He wouldn’t. He never, never would.” She looked up at Max with reddened eyes, her face drooping with misery. “You’ll help us, won’t you? You figure things out. I can get money. Mom will pay, I know she will.”

  “The police—”

  “They’ve got Jed. He’s in jail. They say he stole the MG and destroyed property and he ob-ob-ob—something justice.”

  “Obstruction of justice.” Max was grave. Billy had plenty of grounds to make the charges, hold Jed as a juvenile, while the investigation continued. There could, likely would, be later charges. Murder.

  “They’re saying Jed strangled Shell. It’s so awful. Like he could do something like that. But they’ve made up their minds. They won’t hunt for anyone else.”

  Max wished he could wipe away the fear in her eyes, knew she felt empty and scared and desperate. Billy Cameron was a good man. He followed evidence. “The chief doesn’t make mistakes about fingerprints. If Jed’s prints were on top of Shell’s, he was the last person to drive the car.” He knew every word he spoke was like a blow. “Shell’s body was in the car. That has to mean—”

  “He didn’t kill her. He didn’t!” She jumped up and rushed from his office.

  • • •

  When she saw the familiar number on caller ID, Annie automatically computed the time difference between the Lowcountry and the Hawaiian resort where Rachel and the family were staying on their vacation. It was the middle of the night there, but obviously the heartbreak and trouble on Broward’s Rock had reached Rachel.

  The connection was amazingly clear, not a crackle or a hiss. Annie would have needed an almanac to figure the distance between Broward’s Rock and Poipu Beach on Kauai, but it was a long darn way.

  “… Jed never, never, never in a million years would hurt anybody.” Rachel’s voice quivered with distress.

  Annie jerked her mind away from images of a once elegant silk shawl now crumpled and stained and resting in a gallon-sized plastic bag in the evidence bin at the Broward’s Rock Police Station. “I hope you’re right.”

  “I know I’m right. Hayley texted me they’re saying  Jed drove that car into the lagoon—”

  Annie heard the shock and fear in her voice.

  “—and I told her I’d call you. You and Max can help him. I know you can. You can figure out what happened. Please, Annie. Promise me you’ll help.”

  • • •

  Max wiggled his way through a clutch of waiting customers to the Death on Demand cash desk. “Annie?”

  Ingrid finished ringing up a sale, jerked a thumb toward the back. “Storeroom. Rachel called her from Kauai. She’s threatening to come home early if you and Annie don’t do something about some boy.”

  At the other register, Pamela Potts paused in her description of the Alan Bradley series. “… this girl is the most original detective ever… Max, Annie’s upset. A call from Rachel. Some boy’s in big trouble.”

  He edged his way through readers clotted near the bookcases. At the storeroom, he tapped on the door.

  The panel opened in a jerk, but Annie’s frown at the interruption was replaced with a sigh of relief. “Rachel called—”

  “Pamela told me. Hayley just left my office. She’s frantic.” Max knew his description of the shaken girl with reddened eyes was inadequate. “She swears Jed couldn’t hurt anyone.”

  “Rachel’s terribly upset, too. She cares about this boy. Rachel said you and I can find out the truth. We have to do something.” She looked down at the worktable, which was covered with brown wrapping paper taped to the edges. “I’m trying to place everybody at the club that night when Shell started for the overflow lot. Maybe it will help figure out what happened.”

  Max wished he could be persuaded that someone else was guilty. “The facts are bad. The police said Jed was the last person to drive the car. They found Jed’s fingerprints on top of Shell’s.”

  Annie was skeptical. “The car was in the lagoon for more than a week. How could they find prints?”

  Max made an effort to keep his expression unchanged even though he felt a wrench deep inside. He had learned more than he ever wanted to know about fingerprints when he was suspected in the murder of a voluptuous beauty killed by a tire tool from the trunk of his car. He spoke in a level tone. “Fingerprints can survive a lot, including water. Especially if there’s no current. There wouldn’t be a current in the lagoon. The water is still.” Still as death. “If the police told the Hursts that Jed’s prints are on top of Shell’s, that’s a fact.”

  Again that inward lurch. His fingerprints had been on the tire tool and he had been innocent. Was Jed sitting in jail now, scared and innocent, waiting for the DA to certify him as an adult to be charged with homicide? But, Max felt like he slammed up against a wall, Jed got rid of the body. Why would he dispose of his stepmother’s body if he was innocent?

  “Lagoon water…” Annie shivered. “Eileen Irwin was here a few minutes ago. Hyla took her to the station and brought out an evidence bin. Eileen said they had her shawl and it was all crumpled and stained, like it had been wet. They must have found the shawl in the Porsche. Since they have the shawl as evidence, I told Eileen I think that means someone used the shawl to strangle Shell. Otherwise, there wouldn’t be any point in having Eileen come in. The shawl wouldn’t matter.”

  “The shawl as a rope, a garrote?” Max concentrated, then said abruptly, “Wait a minute.”

  Annie started to speak, but he held up his hand. He yanked out his cell, called. He spoke fast. “Mavis, Max Darling. Can I talk to Billy?” He held, then talked fast. “Billy, was Eileen Irwin’s shawl used to strangle Shell?… I understand that you haven’t released that information. Billy, give me a break. If the shawl was the murder weapon, I think it clears Jed… Right. I understand about the prints. But the shawl may make a difference… Thanks, Billy.” He clicked off.

  Max felt his face break into a smile of relief. He knew suddenly that he didn’
t want a skinny kid who played good golf to be a murderer. “Jed may have driven the Porsche into the lagoon, but I don’t think he killed Shell.” Max hoped he wasn’t swayed by his own near escape from circumstantial evidence and the tearstained face of a terrified sister. He didn’t think he was. He was taking a fact—the fact of the missing shawl—and basing Jed’s defense upon that fact. “The shawl was embedded deep in Shell’s neck. How,” he asked simply, “would Jed Hurst get his hands on Eileen’s shawl?”

  Annie started out confidently. “He went inside, found the shawl.” She stopped, frowned. “That doesn’t make sense. Even if he went inside, say he was looking for his dad, and happened to see the shawl, I can’t imagine a teenager thinking about strangling somebody with a shawl rolled into a rope.”

  “No one’s mentioned Jed going anywhere near the dance room. If he didn’t go in there, he didn’t get the shawl. Plus, the timing’s wrong.” Max looked excited. “Eileen left the shawl on her chair when she went out to see the fireworks. At that point, the dance was over. Jed had no reason to go inside to look for his dad. Nobody was in there except waitstaff. They would have seen him. You can bet when they were asked about the shawl in the beginning, they would have mentioned a teenager coming in there. Besides, why would Jed wander around looking for Wesley? If Jed wanted to talk to his dad, he’d have called him on his cell.”

  “Does that mean only someone attending the dance could have murdered Shell?”

  “Vera Hurst wasn’t at the dance but she could have seen Eileen in the hall at some point. Otherwise, yes. I’m sure the murderer is among those at the dance or possibly Vera. It would have been easy for one of them to grab the shawl.”

  Annie looked at him steadily. “You know what that means.”

  He did. Whoever took the shawl had already decided on murder, picking up the shawl, likely folding it or concealing the length of silk in some fashion, then moving out onto the terrace and watching and waiting until Shell walked toward the overflow lot. He continued his thought aloud. “Wesley Hurst. Dave or Maggie Peterson. Edward Irwin. Or Eileen. Maybe Vera Hurst. One of them.”