“Hell, no.” He kissed her decisively. Then he grinned. “I hadn’t thought of that ploy, but I’ll tuck it back in case it’s needed.” He silenced her hoot of outrage with another kiss. “No, rest easy.” His arms tightened around her. “I merely experienced a moment of enlightenment today.”
Her mind skipped back over the day. What had he been up to? All right, she would get to the bottom of this, but he was continuing, unperturbed and still cherubic.
“I realized that everything would come out right.”
She waited.
He reached out and traced the line of her cheek.
She shook her head, unwilling to be distracted.
“Why?”
“Because.”
Annie gritted her teeth. What a day, dealing with a woman who turned out to be a blood sister to Attila the Hun, surveying the beauties of Chastain in the tow of a formidable eccentric, now faced with this disconcerting behavior from Max. But he was looking at her with an unmistakable gleam in his eyes, and his next actions were predictable. As for his sudden enlightenment, it must mean that he was seeing things her way, but, being Max, he would never, of course, admit to that. Well, that was all right. She could be gracious, too. When they next discussed September, she wouldn’t revel in his defeat. As she moved closer to him, she spared one final thought for Mrs. Webster. The woman obviously was a snake, but that would come out all right, too. Besides, she didn’t have to deal with Mrs. Webster until Thursday.
As for now, the night was young.
Her first instinct was to shred the letter.
Her second to hire a howitzer and blast Prichard House and its occupants into oblivion. What the Yankees had not accomplished, one mad Texan would achieve.
“Annie. Annie, honey, whatever is the matter?”
She heard Ingrid’s worried chirp through a blood-red haze, but she was too angry to manage even an outraged squall. Wordlessly, she flapped the thick stationery until it sounded like an avalanche on a 1930s radio drama. Ingrid snatched up one of the newly arrived posters of the back wall paintings and began to fan her. “What’s happened?”
“I’ve worked my guts out!” Annie pounded on the cash desk and the skull-and-crossbones No-Smoking sign skidded sideways. “And now, the day before I’m supposed to make my presentation to the Board, Mrs. President, Mrs. Corinne Prichard Prissy-Ass Webster, sends me her outline for a mystery. How about my clues? How about the instruction sheets for the suspects? How about the autopsy report and suspects’ statements? I’ll have to redo everything! I could murder that woman!”
Annie parked at Lookout Point on Thursday morning and stared grimly across the street at the square fort, home of her present employer, the Chastain Historical Preservation Society. She was still close, blazingly close, to telling the Board members, individually and collectively, to go to hell. Ingrid had soothed; Max had counseled. And, they did have a point. A weak point, Annie felt, but a point. She would still have the fun of creating the clues and running the Mystery Nights, even if she did have to use Corinne’s plot. But the thrill was gone. She’d wanted to have her very own mystery, and now she was saddled with that odious woman’s creation.
From her vantage point, she could see the front of the old fort and the entry to the parking lot behind it. A cream-colored Mercedes turned into the drive, followed by a faded gray Volvo older than her own, driven by the gaunt redhead she’d met at the Red Cross. Ferrier, that was her name.
Annie took a deep breath. The Board members were gathering. Time for her to arrive, too. And she might still present Madame President with her crumpled letter, now smoothed and stuck into a green folder, and tell her to run her own Mystery Nights. She locked the car, then checked both ways and paused to watch the approach of the magnificent and unforgettable Bentley she’d seen the day Miss Dora took her on a tour. Miss Dora, when not breathing fire and brimstone, had indicated that the Bentley’s owner was also a Board member. A sinful one, apparently. Annie glimpsed luxuriant dark hair, enormous tortoise-shell sunglasses, and a slash of bright red lipstick. The car turned onto Lafayette, then slowed to make a left into the lot.
That’s the one who gave Corinne a hard time. Annie was all in favor of that. Maybe she could start an insurrection, persuade the board that her original plan was better, get them to okay her mystery and dump Corinne’s. Because, actually, it was pretty snappy. Hmm. It would all depend upon how she presented it.
With a decisive nod, she started across the street.
A brown Ford Tempo squealed around the corner and jolted to a stop in front of the Society. A stocky, well-built young man with thick, curly brown hair slammed out of the driver’s seat. He had a crooked nose which looked as though it might have been drubbed into football turf more than once. He carried a notebook and a pencil. A couple of extra yellow pencils poked out of the pocket of his short-sleeved white shirt.
She reached the sidewalk at the same time. He saw her and smiled appreciatively, his mouth quirking up in good humor and lessening the predatory look of his misshapen (football?) nose. His admiration was so unstudied that she grinned back. Then he looked past her. His face hardened, hooding his dark brown eyes.
Curious, Annie half-turned and knew her own face toughened, too. America’s sweetheart stood on the sidewalk, pointing at the Tempo.
“What is that vehicle doing here? Move it along. You’re blocking the entrance to the Society.”
From her tone, Corinne Webster might have been addressing the driver of a garbage scow.
The stocky young man ignored her and began walking up the sidewalk.
“Young man, do as I say. Move that car.”
He turned as if aware for the first time that she was speaking to him. “Press, lady.”
“But you can’t come in here.” She waved her bejewelled hand toward the Society building.
“Sure, I can. It’s a city agency, funded by the city, and there’s an open meeting law, lady.” He pivoted and continued briskly up the sidewalk.
“You’ve never come to any of our meetings before.” Corinne hurried up the walk after him, her face pale with anger. “If you’ve come to cause trouble because I spoke to you last week—”
He paused and swung toward her. A muscle twitched in his taut face. “Oh, yeah.” His tone was sarcastic. “Gee, I didn’t recognize you either. If it isn’t Mrs. High-and-Mighty Webster. Sure, you’re the dame who offered me money to get out of town. Yeah, I remember you now.” There was utter contempt in his dark eyes. “Don’t worry, lady, I’m not here on your account. I’m here because the news desk got a tip this was going to be an interesting morning.”
He moved on up the sidewalk, yanked open the heavy front door, and disappeared inside.
Corinne Webster stood frozen, her hands gripping the handle of her dhurrie purse so tightly that her fingers turned a waxy white. She wore a black-and-white linen dress this morning and a heavy, beaten-gold necklace with a shiny opal drop. She stood stiffly for a long moment, then stalked forward. Annie glimpsed her face as she opened the door. When it closed behind her, Annie felt her tight shoulders relax. Ah, Chastain, this sundrenched, idyllic coastal hideaway. What next?
A squeal of tortured metal raked the morning quiet. Miss Dora, dressed this morning in a full-skirted bombazine with puff sleeves, turned up the sidewalk, pulling a child’s rusted red wagon. A black pillbox hat with a jaunty green plume topped her flyaway silver hair. The raspy voice rose above the scrape of one bent tire against the bottom of the wagon.
“Open the door there, girl.”
Obediently, Annie hurried up the walk and pulled open the heavy wooden door and watched in fascination as the gnome-like figure, cane in one hand, maneuvered the wagon. A large hammer rode atop a pile of placards attached to two-foot white stakes, pointed on one end.
Footsteps sounded behind them, and a tall, slender woman reached down to help.
“Good morning, Aunt Dora. It looks like you’re all ready for the tour week.” Then she s
traightened, smiled at Annie, and held out her hand. “I’m Lucy Haines, a member of the Board. You must be Annie Laurance, our mystery creator.”
Annie took her hand and liked her at once. Her grip was cool and firm, her face serious, her manner formal, but friendly. She wore a gray-and-white striped seer sucker skirt and an unadorned white blouse and looked wonderfully normal in contrast to Corinne and Miss Dora.
The heavy, blonde secretary joined them in the entryway. “I’ll put the wagon in the storeroom, Miss Dora. I think everyone’s here. They’re all in—”
The voice full, throaty, and deep, carried as clearly as a Broadway actress’s delivery to the farthest stall.
“You’ve gone too far, Corinne. I won’t tolerate this.”
Even in the dim entry way with the weak illumination from the wall sconces and the pale squares of sunlight from the deepset windows, the malicious curve to Miss Dora’s smile was unmistakable. “Sybil.”
Annie felt a quick march of goose bumps across the small of her back. Miss Dora’s sandpaper voice oozed simultaneous disgust, pleasure, vindictiveness, and amusement. The secretary peered toward the archway, her eyes wide with distress. The sensible Lucy Haines frowned, and gnawed her lip.
Sybil’s deep, vibrant voice quivered with rage. “It is unspeakable.”
Miss Dora wheezed with laughter, revealing blackened, uneven teeth. “Come on, girls, let’s not miss the show,” and led the way through the bricked archway and down a narrow hall to a wider archway that opened into an equally dim, very large room, which held an ornately carved walnut refectory table. One man unknown to Annie sat at the table, but she recognized Gail Prichard, her sometime customer Roscoe Merrill, and the red-headed Edith Ferrier. No one noticed their arrival. All eyes were riveted on two women.
Corinne stood beside the speaker’s stand at the far end of the table. Her blue eyes glittered like a southern sea on a blistering day. Annie realized with a twist of shock, however, that Corinne was enjoying herself. There was no sense here of a woman beleaguered or defensive. To the contrary, she stood by the table, upright as a goddess on the prow of a Roman ship, and just as arrogant and supercilious.
“Really, Sybil, your attitude is surprising.” Her voice was cool, amused, untroubled. “It’s a matter of contract, you know. All very clear. You can ask Roscoe.”
All eyes, Annie’s included, switched to Sybil, posed dramatically in front of the Flemish tapestry that covered a third of the bricked wall behind her. At her first full view, Annie thought simply, “Wow.” Voluptuous described Ruebens’ nudes and Sybil. And Sybil had the edge. A bitch in heat could not be more frankly sensual. A diamond clip glistened against her midnight black hair. Violet eye shadow emphasized the depth and hunger of equally black eyes. She wore a green jersey dress with a sharply plunging neckline that clung to every generous curve, revealing a cleavage guaranteed to galvanize every male present. She made every other woman in the room look about as attractive as a praying mantis. She turned now and stretched out a hand tipped by talon-sharp, vermilion nails. A diamond large enough to rival the Kohinoor weighted her third finger. A great square emerald glittered in an antique gold setting. Matching emeralds gleamed in a bracelet. “Roscoe, is this true?” The contralto voice vibrated. “Did you have anything to do with this unconscionable exploitation?”
Roscoe Merrill was obviously wishing fervently that he were somewhere else, maybe a far outpost of the Foreign Legion. A fine beading of sweat glistened on his bald head. His expressionless brown eyes avoided both Sybil’s probing gaze and Corinne’s confident stare, peering down instead at the legal pad on the table. He cleared his throat. “The Museum, of course, felt it imperative to protect its own interests. And, since the paintings have been executed on Museum time and using Museum materials, it is only equitable and reasonable that the Museum should have title to the paintings.”
“I can’t believe that contract.” Sybil stepped closer to the table and bent down to grip his shoulder.
He glanced up, then jerked his eyes away from that enticing cleavage to stare determinedly at the legal pad. A dull red flush spread over his face and bald head.
“It’s disgusting. Not only to steal the poor boy’s work, but to forbid him to take part in an exhibition! To sabotage his career! Roscoe, you ought to be ashamed.” Then she whirled toward Corinne. “And you, you’re a jealous, conniving bitch. Just because you’re a dried-up, dessicated old woman, you resent anyone who’s truly alive. But you needn’t think you’ve won. Just you wait and see!”
For the first time, Corinne’s control wavered and an ugly flash of hatred moved in her eyes, but she retained an icy smile. “The Museum’s position is irreproachable. And now, it’s time for—”
“Mrs. Giacomo, I’m Bobby Frazier, reporter for the Chastain Courier.” The stocky young man who had smiled at Annie outside pushed away from the wall, and approached Sybil.
Annie put names together. Miss Dora had said she defiled her name, that she was a Chastain. So, Sybil Chastain Giacomo. What price an Italian count?
“Can you tell me a little more about your disagreement here? Is there a problem at the Prichard Museum?” His pencil poised over his notebook.
Corinne reached out and gripped the speaker’s stand. “You have no right to come in here and ask questions—this matter is not of public concern.”
The reporter ignored her rising voice and, admiration evident, addressed Sybil. “You’re a director of the Prichard Museum, aren’t you? Can you tell me what’s going on?”
Sybil absorbed his interest automatically, instantly recognized a way to embarrass Corinne, took a deep breath, and let fly. “Why, certainly. Of course I can, Mr. Frazier. I know all about it. Tim Bond—you know his work, of course—is a curator at the Prichard Museum. Actually, he does everything. He makes most of the reproductions and cleans old pictures and he paints. Everyone knows he has a great future. Corinne snatched him up, because she always wants to own everyone. She told him he could work at the museum and paint all he wanted and he’d have a salary and not have to worry about money at all. But she didn’t tell him the contract he signed made all his paintings belong to the museum—”
“That isn’t true at all.” For the first time, Corinne’s voice was strident. “He read the contract. He understood.”
“You told him the Museum would be happy to loan his paintings out for exhibits, and there was no question of the Museum keeping the paintings here until Corinne found out that Tim and I—” Sybil’s shoulders shifted, and Annie could almost hear the whisper of satin sheets—“are friends. She resents his having friendships. Now, he’s had this wonderful offer from a gallery in New York. They want to show all of his paintings in September, and it could absolutely launch his career—and Corinne won’t give him permission to take his work to New York!”
Frazier wrote rapidly in his notebook, then turned toward Corinne. “Has the Museum refused Bond permission to show his works?”
“The paintings belong to—” Corinne began angrily.
Merrill intervened smoothly, “Mr. Frazier, this matter is still under consideration by the Museum Board and no final determination has been made. I understand there will be further discussion of Museum policy in regard to loan exhibitions at next month’s meeting, so it would be premature to announce that a decision has been made.”
“Tim Bond’s future is at stake,” Sybil thundered magnificently, “and I for one do not intend to let the matter drop. Most Chastainians will support me.” She paused. Her face was slowly transformed from petulant anger to malignant pleasure. “I’m going to launch a petition drive. I’m going to ask everyone to sign who wants Chastain’s most talented young painter to have a chance to achieve success.”
“When will you start the petition drive, Mrs. Giacomo?” Frazier was egging her on, well aware that his every question further infuriated Corinne.
“Today. Right now.” She reached over Merrill’s shoulder, snatched up the yellow legal pad, an
d brandished it over her head. “Here. I’ll start it now.” Grabbing a pencil from Frazier’s pocket, she scrawled in block letters: PETITION TO FREE TIM BOND’S PAINTINGS. With a triumphant glance at Corinne, she flung the pad down on the table in front of Merrill and handed him the pencil.
Not a muscle moved in Merrill’s heavy face. He was as expressionless as a poker player who’d made his last draw. He read Sybil’s scrawl, then said temperately, “Obviously, both Lucy and I as members of the Board of the Prichard Museum which would, I presume, be the recipient of the completed petition, are precluded from signing this.”
Sybil’s sultry eyes traveled slowly from the shiny top of his head to a visible portion of his glistening black leather shoes. Then she drawled, “You never did have any balls, Roscoe.” Without waiting for an answer, she shoved the pad down the table toward Edith Ferrier.
Corinne moved like a flash, darting past Sybil to snatch up the pad.
Sybil lunged toward her, grabbing one end.
A sharp crack resounded through the room, and, for an instant, no one moved.
Annie absorbed the tableau: Miss Dora with her ebony cane still upraised, ready to pound the table again; Lucy Haines, lips parted, brows drawn in a frown; Gail Prichard, her hands tightly clasped, watching her aunt in horrified fascination; Corinne Prichard Webster, the bones of her face sharpened by anger, her mouth a thin, taut line; Sybil Chastain Giacomo, triumphant, her tousled black hair an ebony frame for her flushed face; Bobby Frazier grinning, reveling in Corinne’s discomfiture; Roscoe Merrill, his shoulders bunched, rigidly controlling his anger; Edith Ferrier wary, her green eyes flicking from face to face; and the sharp-visaged man, whom she hadn’t met, beating an impatient tattoo with the fingers of one hand.
Miss Dora broke up the moment, circling the table like a dragonfly, then raising the cane again to bring it down with a decisive whack against the legal pad, still held on either end by Corinne and Sybil. The blow tore the pad from their hands, and it fell to the floor.
Design for Murder Page 6
