Edith slowly turned, and Annie was disturbed to see the glitter of tears in her eyes.
“Someday someone is going to kill that woman.” She lifted her hands, pressed her palms against her burning cheeks. “Sometimes I wonder why I don’t just leave, just say to hell with it all, but Paul and I were so happy here.” She tried to smile, but her lips were trembling. “My husband. He died last year, and ever since I’ve spent every minute with my organizations. But I’ve always loved it, you know, loved the history and the wonderful old houses and the people, since we first came here when Paul was stationed at Parris Island. Corinne’s not typical, thank God. She never lets you forget it if you aren’t a native, and she manages to make so many people miserable. Like me. I guess they’ve told you how she screwed me out of being president of the Society. And it shouldn’t matter a damn—but it does. There are so many things that need to be done—”
A soft voice interrupted. “Edith, I know how hard you’re working. I brought some lemonade for you and Annie.”
Gail Prichard held out a silver salver holding two frosted glass goblets with sprigs of mint poking over the rims, and her gentle eyes offered amends.
Edith smoothed back her curly hair and managed a smile. She had the worn look common to so many redheads in late middle age, and Gail’s shiny youthfulness and sleek auburn hair emphasized the contrast. “Thank you, dear. You’re very thoughtful.”
“It looks marvelous. Let me put my stuff down.” The clues could wait for a few minutes. Annie hurried over to the Police Headquarters tent and tucked the mallet and the box of clues behind a folded card table she intended to use for the Death on Demand display. Then, with a grateful smile, she took the goblet. “Thanks for thinking of us.”
“I was watching from the verandah. Is everything coming along all right?” Gail’s glance at Edith was uneasy.
“Oh, just fine,” Annie said quickly. “Except the tables haven’t come. I’m going to call again in a minute. The lights aren’t working, and I can’t get the audio hooked up yet—” She clapped a hand to her forehead. “My God. I forgot to pick up Resuscitation Rhoda! Edith, is the Red Cross closed? Can we get in?”
“She’s sitting in the back seat of my car. Let me know when you’re ready, and I’ll go get her. I’m parked behind the Inn,” and she waved her hand generally northward.
Annie nearly collapsed with relief. “Oh, thank goodness. Lord, what else do you suppose I’ve forgotten?” She dug in her skirt pocket, searching for her list, then panicked, checking her watch again.
“Relax,” Edith admonished. “Believe me, I’ve put on a hundred of these kinds of things. Miraculously, they always come off.”
Gail nodded in agreement. “Everything will work out. What you both need is to take a break for a little while. Edith, why don’t you show Annie through the Prichard House? She’ll be too busy tonight to go through on a tour.”
Annie didn’t miss the byplay, the obvious flash of reluctance in Edith’s eyes, Gail’s attempt to reassure Edith that she was indeed welcome. Or the tacit admission when she added quickly, “Corinne’s gone over to the Museum. Something more about Tim’s paintings.”
Annie was worried over losing the time, still concerned about the audio, the tables, and clue strewing, but refusal would thwart Gail’s attempt at an apology.
They started in the kitchen of the Prichard House, returning their empty lemonade goblets and meeting Chloe, the cook, who had provided the refreshment. “Of course, this isn’t the original kitchen,” Edith explained. “As you know, kitchens were separate from the main houses to avoid fires, but this was added to the Prichard House in 1880. The blue Delft earthenware has been in the family since it was bought by a new bride on a trip to Europe in 1817.”
As they emerged into the central hallway, Annie realized this was the way Gail had come the day she arrived to scout out the terrain for the Mystery Nights. She recognized the French Empire card table with the dolphin feet and the Chippendale mirror topped by the gilt eagle. Once again the wide double doors on either side of the hall were open. Annie glanced uneasily up at the curving staircase. Today it was empty. Presumably, Corinne was wreaking havoc at the Museum.
Edith led the way into the big drawing room, giving a rapid-fire commentary. “Look at the overmantel with the short pilasters and broken pediment above. Those are original to the house. Note the stucco reliefs of classic figures. And, of course, the decoration in this room is glorious, the dentil cornices and the ornamental plasterwork on the ceiling.”
Her deep-set green eyes sparkled as she pointed out the English Regency chairs and an eighteenth-century portrait of Abigail Prichard, who entertained the English general quartered in her house during the Revolution while sending information to Marion’s troops by an overseer of one of her plantations.
Looking up at the smooth, young face in the portrait, Annie imagined her listening with grave courtesy to the general, while her heart churned with worry for her absent husband.
In the dining room, Edith pointed out the silk damask curtains, gold-and-cream patterned Aubusson rug, Hepplewhite sideboard, and reddish-brown mahogany dining table and chairs. “Notice that wonderful Chippendale mirror hanging between the windows.”
At the front door, they thanked Gail for the visit, and Edith led the way out. Midway down the marble steps, she paused to gesture at the massive octagonal columns. “Pure Greek revival, of course, and what outlanders always envision when you talk about a Southern plantation house. Actually, not many of the Low Country plantations look like Tara, although that style is common in the South. We’re fortunate to have houses of three very distinct types here that have survived to today, and part of the very great charm of Chastain is that the old homes are freestanding on large lots. Many of them are counterparts of true plantation homes. A few, in fact, were boxed up and moved to town by planters trying to escape the bad air. That’s what they attributed malaria to, of course. Bad air from rotting vegetation.”
It was obvious that Edith adored her adopted home. Annie was impressed by her fund of knowledge and enthusiasm for her topic, even when the house she was describing in such admiring terms belonged to a woman she obviously loathed.
“How long have you lived in Chastain?”
The sparkle dimmed in her companion’s eyes. “We came to stay about six years ago, but we had lived here several times over the last twenty-five years when Paul was stationed at Parris Island. He was career military. A lot of military people retire here. We were from Indiana originally. Paul loved to fish and hunt, and I guess there’s no better place in the world for that.” The emptiness in her eyes echoed her grief. “And now that he’s gone … I don’t have anywhere else to go. No family.” She tried to smile. “Most people here are very gracious and welcoming. But the natives, even the nice ones, always know who belongs and who doesn’t. It reminds me of an anecdote by Mrs. St. Julien Ravenel in her book about Charleston. She is talking about a man whom everyone in town liked and admired very much. Then she comments that he was a stranger among them for eighteen years.”
“Oh. Wow. And I suppose she said it in all seriousness?”
“Oh, yes, but she meant it quite kindly. Not like Corinne.” She glanced back at the Prichard House. “What amazes me is how sweet Gail is. And Corinne tries to run her life, too, of course. If Gail doesn’t get free of it, she’ll end up warped, just like Leighton. But I don’t know of anything short of death that will stop Corinne.” She drew her shoulders in, then turned away from the mansion. “Well, let’s see. Shall we go left or right? The McIlwain House is quite lovely. It was restored by Lucy Haines.”
“Restored?”
“It was a boarding house from the early thirties until she bought it about twenty years ago. Of course, it doesn’t have family pieces, but she has purchased some very fine antiques, many of them authenticated to some early families. She inherited a great deal of money from a bachelor brother, and she’s really enjoyed working on the old house. I
t is an example of absolutely lovely symmetry. At one time, it belonged to some distant cousins of hers, so I suppose it’s family in that sense.”
Annie looked across the lush sweep of the Prichard lawn. Through the low spreading limbs of live oaks, she glimpsed portions of the exquisite Georgian mansion. “A boarding house. That’s hard to believe.”
“Oh, my dear, if it weren’t for the Historical Preservation Society and very hard work by its members, we would have only a handful of old houses still standing. You see, this part of town—” her wave encompassed the McIlwain, Prichard, and Benton houses “—has long been encroached upon by the commercial. Over in the next block, past the alley, it’s all commercial, although much of it is old, dating at least to the 1840s. Doctors’ offices, lawyers. And the library is on the corner directly behind the Historical Preservation Society. That makes it very convenient for Lucy.”
An orange WE-RENT-IT truck rattled into the circular drive, jolted to a stop by the buffet tables, then grated screechingly into reverse.
Annie gave one look, leaped down the remaining steps, and hurtled toward the truck, yelling, “Stop. Stop!”
The truck shuddered to a standstill not more than three feet from the yellow-and-green DETECTION TEAMS CONFERENCE tent.
Panting, she reached the cab. The driver squinted down sourly at her. “Yeah?”
“You just about knocked down the tent. Do you have the tables?”
“Gotta get ’em close enough to unload, lady.”
“You’re within three feet—and they won’t do us any good without the tents. Put the long conference tables in the black-and-white striped tent and the round tables in the other tents.”
Edith joined her. “Now you’re all hot again.”
“It’s all right.” She looked around. “You know, I’m almost afraid to say it, but it’s taking shape.”
And it was. Order was emerging out of chaos. Black and gold balloons tied to the open front gate bobbed in the gentle afternoon breeze. Similar clumps of balloons marked the entrances to the Benton and McIlwain houses. The truck driver and several helpers were efficiently unloading and setting up the tables in the proper places. Servers were unloading food from the caterer’s two pink vans.
And Max was industriously arranging the Death on Demand display in the Police Headquarters tent.
Her spirits zoomed. Suddenly, nothing seemed difficult. She beamed at Edith. “I’d love to see the other houses with you, but I’d better check with Max. How about tomorrow?”
As they parted, Annie called over her shoulder. “Would you bring Rhoda to the police tent?”
Yes, it was all falling into place. She might even begin to have fun. Especially if she could avoid Corinne.
Max stood a few feet back from the card table. As she joined him, he shook his head solemnly. “Why just one card table? We need a lot more space.”
We. What a nice word it was.
“We’ve got t-shirts, bookmarks, and the posters.” He threw up his hands. “There isn’t room for the posters.”
“You’re right.” She looked around and waved energetically at the rental employees. “Hey, bring one of the long tables over here.”
“Terrific,” Max crowed. “We can hang the t-shirts around the edges, then use the t-shirt boxes to prop up the posters.” He opened a box and held up a t-shirt.
A throaty laugh, like the gurgle of an overfed pigeon, sounded behind them. When they turned, Sybil read the legend on the t-shirt. “Let Me Haunt Your House. Oh, God, that’s wonderful. Save one for me.” She spoke to Annie, but her eyes devoured Max, who was proving a theorem she vaguely remembered from basic biology, something about living plants bending toward the source of light. If Max leaned any farther forward, he was going to topple on his handsome nose.
“Max, this is Mrs. Giacomo, a member of the Board. Max Darling.”
Sybil was already past Annie and a scant inch from her quarry. She held out both hands, magenta-tipped nails today and yet another array of gems, two rubies and a winking diamond surrounded by a glint of emeralds. “Max Darling.” If her voice went any lower, it would slither on the ground. “I want you to come over here in the shade and tell me all about yourself.”
“I know he would just love to do that,” Annie said sweetly, “but he’s promised to go get our victim for us.” She eyed him sternly. “The CPR doll.”
Max shot a fascinated glance at Sybil, then grinned lopsidedly at Annie. “Sure. I was just on my way. Mrs. Giacomo, I’ll look forward to visiting with you later.”
As he moved off toward the parking lot, Annie and Sybil exchanged measuring glances. Each understood the other perfectly.
“I’ll be sure and save a t-shirt for you, Mrs. Giacomo. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I must go strew clues.”
Annie crouched in the gazebo, peering at the floor. It was a little on the order of playing Hide the Thimble. Clues must of necessity be in plain view, but not so obvious they bleated. She yearned for the skill of E. C. Bentley, who was a master of slipping unremarked clues into his narratives. She’d stuck the croquet mallet into a clump of reeds by the pond, the handle clearly visible. But it was more difficult in the gazebo. She twisted to look toward the steps. The detection teams would be limited to a view from the steps. Couldn’t have them stepping right into the gazebo, or they would mess up some of the clues. And the red herrings, of course.
She opened her clue box, lifted out the crumpled handkerchief with the initials SAG marked in red ink in the right-hand corner, and dropped it near the bench.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
Her head jerked up.
Bobby Frazier, the broken-nosed, abrasive reporter, glared across the placid green waters of the pond at Gail, who stood framed by the dangling fronds of the willows, looking ethereal, vulnerable, and anguished.
Neither saw Annie, still on her hands and knees in the gazebo. Before she could reveal her presence by clearing her throat, Gail replied, “I saw your car. I knew you’d be here.”
“Right. I work for a living.”
The girl jammed her hands into her skirt pockets and looked at him sorrowfully. “Money’s awfully important to you, isn’t it?”
“Is that what your aunt told you?”
“She told me—” She pressed one hand hard against her trembling mouth.
“Did she tell you I’d called? And called back all week?”
“No.”
“The last time I called, she said you never wanted to see me again.”
Tears began to slip unchecked down her face. “Just tell me—is it true you took a check?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I did.”
She turned and thrashed blindly up the path.
He stared after her. “Goddammit it to hell,” he said harshly. Head down, face working with anger, he lunged past the gazebo, following Gail.
In the gazebo, Annie sighed. If anybody wanted her opinion, and no one was clamoring for it, she thought she detected the fine Italian hand of that good old monster Corinne. Shaking her head, she arranged the rest of the clues: the initialed handkerchief, a Turkish cigarette stub, a crumpled note with no salutation that read ‘I can’t come.’ Her last item was an old boot filched from Max. Carrying the clue box, empty now, she paced to the edge of the pond and artistically mashed the boot into the muddy bank. On her way back to the tents, she glimpsed Gail and Bobby on the path behind the Prichard House. They were deep in conversation.
Annie stepped back to admire the five posters, displayed against the backing of the t-shirt boxes. Fabulous. Nobody could pass by those colors without a second look. She only hoped she’d ordered enough—
The thud of running steps cut across the expected background noises, the low chatter of women’s voices, the clang of oyster shells being dumped into the ovens, the muted hum from the crowds wandering Ephraim Street. Annie whirled, her pulses racing. Something was wrong.
The running man pounded up the marble steps of Prichard House to the
immense front door, and the hammering of his frenzied knock echoed across the lawn. Everyone paused to look his way, the docents, the workmen for the rental company, the catering staff, Annie. And Corinne, who had just appeared, walking up the drive from the gate at Ephraim Street.
“Tim.” Corinne’s clipped, cool voice overrode the thunderous rapping. He stopped, one fist upraised, then swung around and clattered down the steps. He loomed over her, basketball-player tall, but thin to the point of emaciation. He had a mop of soft chestnut hair that curled on his shoulders.
“You can’t take my stuff. You can’t do it.” His huge hands gripped her shoulders. “You can’t do it, I tell you.”
“Let go of me.” Her tone was imperious, contemptuous.
His hands fell away. His Adam’s apple juggled in his throat. “My stuff—all stacked up, ready to be boxed. Who said you could send my paintings away?”
“I am the director of the Prichard Museum. The disposition of our holdings is my responsibility—and I’m responding to a request from some sister museums for a traveling exhibit. You should be pleased, Tim. Your work will be on view across the Southwest for several months.”
“We’ll see about that.” There was nothing sexy or soft about Sybil’s voice this time. She faced Corinne with the intractable expression of Daddy Warbucks guarding a mound of gilt-edged bonds.
“I’ll kill her. I swear to God I’m going to kill her.” A sob hung in the painter’s throat.
Sybil turned and slipped her arm around him, and it was oddly touching, the young, almost frail, too-tall young man with his soft, curling hair and the voluptuous, lusty woman. “It’s all right, Timmy. Don’t be upset.”
“But she’s—”
“No, she won’t. I promise you. I’ll get your paintings for you.” Sybil looked over her shoulder, her face tightening like a leopard’s upon attack. Her voice hung in the air, husky and penetrating as the warning rasp of a foghorn. “You haven’t heard the last of this, Corinne,” and then, gently, she steered Tim toward the street.
Design for Murder Page 11
