“Mrs. Hilliard, if your property has been stolen and sold, you should contact the police.”
A flush crimsoned her plump cheeks. She clasped her hands together. “The police. Oh no, no, Mr. Darling. Never. Not the police. I just want to know what happened.”
It took another ten minutes to soothe her down, obtain the rest of the story, and discover her objective. She wanted him to interview the antique shop owner, get a description of the person who sold the painting, and obtain a sworn statement from the shop owner. That was all.
He stared at her in puzzlement. There was something a good deal more complicated here than a simple theft. The old lady was clearly distraught—and not about a painting. He was intrigued, but if he took this on, it meant he would have to drop his inquiries in Chastain, just as Roscoe Merrill wanted him to. Max had a congenital dislike of doing what others desired. Actually, he hated to miss out on a session with Sybil the Magnificent. And Miss Dora might have an interesting perspective on Corinne and Chastain society. Moreover, Merrill obviously had an axe to grind. He didn’t want any more turmoil touching his precious Society. But he was probably on point in his assumption that nothing more untoward would happen in Chastain, and this frail old lady was waiting for his answer as if her life depended upon it. What the hell.
“I’ll check into it,” he promised.
His new client took a deep breath, as if an irrevocable step had been taken. “Thank you, Mr. Darling.” She gathered up her purse and rose. At the door she hesitated. Again, she didn’t look at him, but stared down at the floor. “Now, don’t forget. Not a word to anyone—like the police. I just want that written statement.”
When the door closed, he scribbled down the gist of their conversation, studied it for a moment with a puzzled frown, then nodded decisively. He picked up the phone and dialed.
“Death on Demand.”
“Hi, Ingrid. Annie there?”
“She’s gone to Chastain to rent the tents and check the mystery inserts for the tour programs.”
“Okay. Tell her I’ve got a new case, but I’ll call her later. Oh, and Ingrid—tell her I decided to drop the letter inquiry. I’m sure the only murder that will take place on the Murder Nights will be the one she’s planned.”
Dress rehearsal.
Or the next best thing. The meeting room at the Chastain Historical Preservation Society lacked the musty smell of a theater, and the upcoming session wouldn’t have the stomach-wrenching sensation of imminent disaster that Annie associated with the night before an opening, but she still quivered with anticipation. Tomorrow was The Day—the opening of Chastain’s Fifth Annual House and Garden tours, and the launching of Annie Laurance’s first mystery program. She could hear the cheers now. This might signal the beginning of a lucrative sideline to Death on Demand—if the Mystery Nights succeeded.
If. The old rhyme about a horseshoe nail flickered like a ticker tape in the back of her mind, even as she finished putting copies of the character sketches at each place around the refectory table. Damn, if anyone ever had to deal with the incalculability of the human personality, it was she. It had sounded so easy. Put together a plot, drill the cast, plant the body and, bam, start the show. That simple scenario had failed, however, to take Corinne and Sybil into account.
In fact, she had seriously considered canceling tonight’s rehearsal. After all, they’d met twice, and the cast members were bright if unschooled in acting. If she’d been able to restrict the rehearsals to cast members, all would have gone swimmingly. The difficulties came from the presence of Corinne and Sybil. She’d made it clear the sessions were intended for the players, and the presence of other Board members wasn’t required. Edith and Miss Dora had gracefully, and perhaps gratefully, stayed away. Not so Corinne and Sybil, and Annie could see no way of barring them, especially since Sybil would ignore any polite subterfuge and claw her way with public clamor to the real reason—and that would be appalling. Although Corinne certainly was white meat. It should be obvious to her that Sybil’s honey-voiced pursuit of Leighton was calculated solely to infuriate. If Corinne would just ignore her, the game would cease to be fun and a bored Sybil would promptly drop it. But no, Corinne puffed up like an enraged cat, so Sybil smiled and intensified her campaign.
But Annie had a few tricks up her sleeve, too. She would place Sybil as far as possible from Leighton, and she’d persuade Miss Dora to attend tonight, which might slow Sybil down. She wished Max could have come, but he was finishing up his investigation into the missing painting.
“Nothing funny about murder.” The hoarse voice scraped Annie’s nerves like chalk on a blackboard. She just managed not to leap into the air, but turned to greet Miss Dora, who stood in the archway, peering into the meeting room, her head poking out of a ruffled collar like a turtle surveying the surface of a pond. Tonight she wore a brown bonnet trimmed with dove feathers and sturdily tied beneath her bony chin. “Idle minds are the devil’s workshop.” She lifted the watch hanging from a thick gold chain around her neck and stared at it accusingly. “Five minutes after eight. Is no one else here?”
Annie was saved from answering as the others arrived in a flurry. She directed Leighton to a seat at the head of the table and put Corinne to his right and Miss Dora to his left—and felt her heart lighten. She grabbed Sybil’s arm, managing not to be overwhelmed by the intentionally heady whiff of Diva perfume, and deftly maneuvered her to the chair at the opposite end of the long table. Sybil gave Annie a concentrated look of dislike, then leaned forward, revealing more bust than a lingerie ad, and spoke to Leighton as if the two of them were the sole inhabitants of a desert island. “Leighton, the most exciting discovery!” Her throaty voice promised pleasures known only in the watches of the night. “I’ve found Great-great-grandfather’s diaries—and they start the year the War began, when he was twelve. I can’t wait to share them with you.”
Leighton came up out of his chair, like a silvery six-foot tarpon hooked by a skilled fisherman, and Annie knew a table length wasn’t far enough. With Sybil Giacomo, a football field wouldn’t suffice.
Corinne looked every day of her fifty-nine years, her cheekbones jutting against her skin, her mouth drawn so tight that hairline wrinkles marched on her upper lip like a stockade fence.
Annie moved to intercept Leighton. She couldn’t care less if Sybil bedded him in the foyer, but, right now, her concern was for the Mystery Nights.
She reached out and touched his tweed-clad arm. “Mr. Webster, we’re ready to get under way now.” She gently nudged Corinne’s husband back to his place. Actually, he was attractive enough to warrant Sybil’s interest on his own account. Although his face might be a little ruddy from too many bourbons and water, he still possessed an undeniable magnetism, brown eyes, a boyish smile that hovered between diffident and appealing, a big, burly fullback’s build, and a courtly manner. How the hell had Corinne landed him? She realized her smile was almost too warm and knew Corinne would have a stroke if she decided Annie were after him, too. Feeling Corinne’s icy gaze on her back, she turned and flashed her a smile. “But first, we’ll give Miss Dora some background,” and she picked up her own copy of the character information sheets.
She raised her voice just enough to carry over the murmurs of conversation, which immediately fell away into well-bred silence. “Our mystery is set at Gemway Court, the country home of Lord Algernon Eagleton and his wife, Lady Alicia, who will be played by Jessica Merrill.” Annie glanced down the table and smiled. Roscoe’s wife was a pleasant surprise, vivacious and pretty, with shining black hair and eyes that were a curious catlike mixture of yellow and brown. Annie wondered what had attracted her to her reserved and balding husband, who sat beside her exhibiting all the personality of a possum in August. Then she directed her attention back to Miss Dora, hoping to restrain Sybil, who was beginning to move restively at her end of the table. “Members of the houseparty, in addition to Lord Algernon and Lady Alicia, are Nigel Davies, Matilda Snooperton, Sus
annah Greatheart, and Reginald Hoxton. They spend the afternoon playing croquet. Lady Alicia is a croquet champion, but she plays erratically and her team loses. People have commented lately upon her haggard appearance and generally nervous demeanor. The entire house party seems affected by an air of malaise; conversation is strained and disjointed at tea following the croquet. Everyone disperses to dress for dinner. Shortly before seven, Lady Alicia dashes into the upper hall, calling frantically for her husband, Lord Algernon. She announces that her famous ruby necklace, The Red Maiden, has been stolen. All the members of the house party gather in the upper hallway. Miss Greatheart clutches a handkerchief to her face. Mr. Hoxton looks shocked, then angry. Lord Algernon and Nigel Davies discuss calling the local constabulary. But, in the midst of the clamor, they realize that one of the party, Miss Snooperton, hasn’t appeared. She is not in her room. Immediately, everyone begins to look for her. Hoxton announces he will check down by the river and dashes out. When she isn’t found in the house and Hoxton returns saying there is no trace of her by the river, a wider search is organized and her body is discovered in the gazebo by the pond.”
Annie paused for breath and for dramatic effect and scanned her listeners. Leighton smiled up at her with flattering attention. Corinne watched him, slit-eyed. Gail leaned her face against her hand, her thoughts obviously far away. Roscoe sat with his arm on the back of his wife’s chair, his fingers resting on her shoulder. Jessica appeared absorbed in Annie’s recital. Sybil opened her double-handled Vuitton satchel and drew out an embroidered cigarette case. Miss Dora’s snapping black eyes shot Sybil a look of disgust, then moved to Annie with scarcely more enthusiasm.
Annie smiled determinedly at the old lady. “Mr. Webster plays LORD ALGERNON, a stalwart, soldierly figure, known in the village for his champion pigs. He doesn’t have much to say, though the village whispers he’s been neglected of late, since Lady Alicia spends all of her time playing cards, going to London for several weeks at a time to stay with different friends, playing bridge for money far into the night. He has been very attentive to one of their guests, Susannah Greatheart.
“Lucy Haines plays AGNES, Lady Alicia’s maid. Not much misses her notice. She is fiercely loyal to her mistress.”
Lucy smiled and bent to whisper to Miss Dora, who pursed her lips and nodded.
“Roscoe Merrill is NIGEL DAVIES, who motored down with his fiancée, Matilda Snooperton, but Nigel, a reserved Oxford don, has been noticeably glum this weekend and was observed by Agnes in a quarrel with Matilda. In his pocket is a love letter from Susannah Greatheart.
“Our love interest, SUSANNAH GREATHEART, is played by Gail.” Gail managed a faint smile. “She has known Nigel since their school days and has always adored him. She had expected they would one day marry and was shocked when his engagement was announced to the strongwilled and determined Matilda Snooperton.
“Our last cast member, Dr. Sanford, isn’t here yet. He plays REGINALD HOXTON, a man about town in London. No one is quite certain how he earns his living and some men mutter, ‘Cad,’ when he is about. He’s known to follow the races and is quite adept at cards and roulette.”
Annie aimed her most charming smile at Miss Dora, whose dark eyes darted from face to face with reptilian swiftness. “Everybody a volunteer, I suppose?”
Taken aback, Annie nodded.
“Amateurs, all of them. And Jessica’s much too pretty to play the part of a raddled old gambler. Should have got an older member.” She cackled maliciously. “Why didn’t you give Corinne a role?”
The juxtaposition wasn’t lost on Corinne. Or on anybody else.
Annie wondered wildly why she’d ever thought Miss Dora, with her unpredictable tongue, would be any help at all.
Sybil didn’t lose any time. She blew a waft of perfumed smoke heavenward and looked like a wicked but pleased dragon. “Perhaps there should be some changes in the casting. After all, is Roscoe the right man to play a lover? Leighton should have that role.”
Lucy trotted to the rescue. “Actually, Miss Laurance has done a superb job—not only in the casting, but the program as a whole. Why, it reminds me of my very favorite mystery writers, Christie and Allingham and Sayers and Marsh. It just couldn’t be any better.”
Corinne spoke in a carefully controlled voice. “I would under no circumstances consider playing a role in a murder program. I would find it degrading.”
“Oh, now, Cory, that’s too strong,” Leighton admonished gently.
It was like hearing Dr. No called Doc.
He smiled reassuringly at Annie. “Of course the program’s good. Very good. I just hope it doesn’t take too much acting talent. But I suppose I can stand around and say ‘Eh, what,’ without too much difficulty. You’ve put together a good show. Miss Laurance.”
Annie knew good-humored “Eh, whats?” wouldn’t satisfy the mystery participants. She’d been to several murder weekends and knew the detectives took their tasks with utmost seriousness and fancied themselves as a composite of Holmes, Vidocq, and Maigret, with a dash of Peter Wimsey.
“Most of your time,” she said quickly, “will be taken up with answering questions from the mystery night participants. Now, I have a sheet for each of you which contains information known only to you. You can, of course, lie to the detectives on critical points. You are forced to tell the truth only when a detective team formally accuses you of the murder.”
“Oh, this is marvelous fun,” Lucy exclaimed. “I think I already know the murderer.”
“You can’t possibly,” Jessica objected. “That would outdo even Ellery Queen.”
“Ellery Queen?” Leighton’s voice was puzzled, and he thumbled through the sheets. “I don’t see a character named Queen.”
“Actually, this would be a perfect case for Miss Seeton,” Roscoe suggested, with a mischievousness Annie would never suspect he possessed.
Miss Dora crisply explained Ellery Queen and Miss Seeton to Leighton, while other voices rose disputing the identity of the murderer.
“Hey, wait a minute. Who the hell are you? Oh no, come on in here.” The brusque voice of Dr. Sanford cut through the goodnatured chatter.
Sanford came through the archway, his hand tightly gripping the elbow of a scrawny figure in a navy blue warmup, navy scarf, and grass-stained tennis shoes. “Who’s this? She tried to run when I came in.”
Despite the dark headcovering, Annie knew instantly. She stalked across the stone floor. “Mrs. Brawley, what in the world are you doing here?” As if she didn’t know.
“Oh, Annie, I didn’t know you were here.”
Sanford released her bony elbow. “You know her?”
“Yes. Mrs. Brawley and I know each other well.”
Freed from the doctor’s firm grip, Mrs. Brawley gave Annie the look of a rabbit at bay, then bleated, “I was looking for the Inn and made a mistake.” She took two quick steps backward. “It could happen to anybody.” Then she whirled around and fled.
Corinne arched a thin golden eyebrow. “What was that all about? Was that woman a prowler?”
“Nothing so dramatic. One of my more active customers. She loves to win, and I suppose she couldn’t resist the temptation to learn something about the Mystery Nights ahead of time. Actually, no harm done. She didn’t hear anything that would give the mystery away.” Annie frowned. “I don’t like it, though. I’m running an honest Mystery Nights program. Damn, I wish that woman could channel her competitiveness into something useful—like stamping out pornography.”
Corinne’s face had all the warmth of a Steuben glass polar bear. “I don’t see that this is a matter for levity.”
“I’m not laughing,” Annie replied sourly.
“A flippant remark doesn’t hide the seriousness of the situation. Obviously, if the program is compromised, the Board must meet its responsibility.”
Annie had a funny feeling, like catching herself on the edge of a twelve-story drop.
“Just exactly what do you mean, Mrs.
Webster?”
“The Board of the Chastain Historical Preservation Society represents the community and is responsible to the community for the probity of its programs. We cannot offer a contest in which an unfair advantage has been given to a customer of yours.” Corinne pushed back her chair and stood to her full five feet six inches, which gave her the advantage of height over Annie. She stared down arrogantly. “In fact, I believe it must be clear to all the members that this unfortunate and foolish attempt to mix entertainment with our serious exposition of history is a failure and should be dropped.”
“All hell broke loose then.” Annie pushed back the lock of hair that struggled over her forehead. She still burned with fury. Usually, the serenity of Death on Demand at night with the book jackets gleaming in the dim light could smooth away even the most difficult of days. But tonight’s unpleasantness had been scorching.
“I hope you told her to go to hell.” Max’s normally pleasant face reflected her own anger.
“Oh, I did. In a choice assortment of words.” She paused, recalling her tirade with a tickle of pleasure. She hadn’t minced words with Mrs. High-and-Mighty Webster. “Of course, I’m not sure how much she heard, because everybody else was yelling—even nice Lucy Haines. But Morgan settled Corinne down in a hurry. He made it clear that we’d signed a contract.” Annie grabbed Max’s hand. “That was smart of you to insist we do it that way.”
He gave her hand a warm squeeze. “Always put it in writing. I knew that before I went to law school.” But he was pleased at her gratitude. He lifted his bottle of Bud Light. “Are you still going to go through with it?”
“Go through with it? I intend to put on the Mystery Nights program in Chastain if I have to play every part, answer every question, explain every clue, and play the corpse all by myself.” The tightness in her shoulders began to ease. “But I don’t have to do it alone. Everybody rallied—and, of course, that hacked her, too. It wasn’t the jolliest session I’ve ever coached, but we worked on the roles for an hour, with Corinne pulsating like a toad and Sybil trying every trick in the book to get closer to Leighton. Honestly, she did everything but unzip his pants.”
Design for Murder Page 9
