“Okay, you’re wonderful, Maigret. Share with me the results of your investigation.”
“It’s a nice, small list. The members of the Board and Louisa Binning.”
“Oh, sure. Sure. It certainly figures. That means somebody was enjoying the hell out of my presentation of the Moneypot’s plot.” She wriggled her shoulders in distaste.
“Maybe. Maybe not. A Board member or anybody with access to a Board member’s keys.”
“Like Leighton.”
“Or even Merrill’s wife.”
Annie pushed her plate away. “That brings up a critical point. Did the letter give somebody there a murderous idea? Or is the letter writer the killer?” She banged a small fist on the table and beer foamed over the top of Max’s glass. “Why won’t Wells listen to us? The letter is absolutely critical. Whether Lucy admits it or not, the woods are full of suspects, including Leighton, Dr. Sanford, and Roscoe Merrill. And if Wells won’t investigate them, we will!”
The spicy smell of cedar potpourri didn’t quite mask the underlying odors of burnt coffee, chlorine, and un-swept corners. The bar of sunlight which flooded in as they opened the front door revealed, too, that the black-and-white tiled entry of Swamp Fox Inn was long overdue a good scrubbing. Annie thought longingly of the exquisite cleanliness of Death on Demand, but soldiers of fortune had to make camp at the battle site. At least it was quiet this afternoon; the indefatigable tourists were out thirstily absorbing Chastain culture.
“Miss Laurance. Oh, Miss Laurance!”
The foyer, with its scuffed tile floor, led directly to the old-fashioned oak counter. A desk littered with letters, brochures, empty soda cans, a greasy box with two soggy glazed doughnuts, and a flyswatter shared space with a Depression-era switchboard and a wall letter box with numbers affixed for guests’ rooms. Idell Gordon stood on tiptoe behind the counter. She wore a dark brown cotton dress with speckles of lint from the dryer.
Reaching up to the slot for 312, she pulled out a scrap of paper. “For you. Miss Laurance. Chief Wells left word for you to call. I have the number for you.” She pushed forward the telephone that sat on the counter. Her protuberant eyes glistened with curiosity.
“Oh, thanks so much. I’ll call from upstairs.”
Annie was pink with suppressed giggles as she unlocked the door to her tiny room. “Did you see her face? She was quivering for me to use that phone so she could hear.”
Max draped himself comfortably on her bed. “Either way, your call has to go through her switchboard, sport. I’ll bet a scrod (you eating) that she listens in.”
“I don’t gamble,” Annie countered righteously.
She pulled up a wicker chair next to the telephone stand and dialed. She was put through immediately.
“You called?”
“Oh, Miss Laurance.” The greeting sounded like a dungeon door dragging against twelfth-century flagstones. “Thought you might be interested in the autopsy report.”
“Yes, of course.” Alarm tingled down her spine. Why tell her?
“The skull injury was caused by the end of the croquet mallet. But it wasn’t the cause of death.”
“It wasn’t?”
“She drowned.”
Annie remembered the heavy, wet figure face-down in the duckweed-scummed water.
“Medical Examiner figures someone struck her from behind, and she pitched forward into the water.”
She tried to picture it. Corinne arguing, then swinging around arrogantly to walk off. No, Corinne must have turned away and faced the pond, and someone snatched up the mallet and flailed out.
She had a funny feeling of ESP when Wells’s heavy voice grated, “Hard to picture why she would turn her back on somebody, look out at the water.”
There was something about him that brought out Annie’s combative streak. “Oh, I can think of a lot of reasons. She and this person were standing there gazing across the pond, and the other person stepped back and let her have it.”
“That’s not the way I see it.”
She didn’t like his tone. At her frown, Max swung off the bed.
“No,” Wells rasped. “I see it this way. She’s quarreling with somebody and turns away and starts to leave, and then she’s struck from behind and plops forward.”
She didn’t relish being his straight man, but she couldn’t resist asking, “How could she have drowned, if she fell forward on the path?”
“Drowned?” Max mouthed.
Wells bulled ahead. “Her killer realized she was still breathing, but it’s too late then to back down, so the murderer pulls her around and shoves her into the water and holds her head down.” His heavy breathing echoed on the wire. “You were goddamned wet and muddy, weren’t you?”
She got it then, like buckshot between the eyes. “Now, wait a minute, for God’s sake. I was trying to get her out of the water.”
He didn’t say a word, just stood there and breathed, and Annie felt like a hapless soprano being stalked by the phantom of the opera. The jerk. Trying to use psychological warfare on her.
She opened her mouth for a withering reply, but he beat her to it.
“And the only fingerprints on that mallet are yours. Clear as a bell most places; smudged and partial on the grip.”
She felt the icy calm that precedes panic. “Of course my prints are on it. I carried it down to the pond. I brought it to Chastain. I must have touched it hundreds of times.”
A worried frown creased Max’s face.
Once again, that infuriating, accusatory silence from Wells.
Her fingerprints. That simple statement indicated a great deal of police effort directed at her. “How did you get my fingerprints?”
“Frank Saulter. Broward’s Rock police.”
“You’re a busy little man.”
Max immediately began a frantic waggle of sign language.
“Too bad you’re wasting your time and the taxpayers’ money. Listen, Chief, I’ve got some information for you. The letter—you know which one I mean—the letter that lays it out about who hated Corinne and why— okay, that famous letter was typed late at night on the old Remington right next door from here at the Society. It was typed after hours on either March 19, 20, or 21. Now, nobody broke into that massive old fort—so what does that mean? The typist had a key. That’s right. And you know who has keys to that building? Only the members of the Board of the Chastain Historical Preservation Society. I’m telling you that whoever wrote that letter was either the murderer—or has a hell of a good idea who the murderer is. And I think I know who wrote that letter.”
Even in her fury and despite the chief’s stertorous breathing, Annie heard a telltale gasp. So Idell wasn’t missing out on much.
But she didn’t care who heard what she said.
“I’ll tell you who wrote that letter—Who knows everything that goes on in town? Who’s a thwarted old spinster who hates everybody? Who’s the only member on the Board who wasn’t listed as a suspect? I’ll tell you—Miss Dora!”
Max made an “Oh-God-I-can’t-believe-it” face, then drew his finger across his throat.
But there was no stopping Annie now. “So you just keep on hounding innocent people and see how much good it does you. If you won’t find out the truth, I will!”
MAX BELLOWED IN HER EAR. “We don’t have time to do this!”
“We’ll take time!” she insisted. Then, standing on tiptoe, she struggled to see over the bobbing heads. “For Pete’s sake, what is that awful noise? And why are people jumping around?”
He reached up and grabbed a gnarled live oak limb and nimbly hoisted himself up. Dropping down in an instant, he yelled, “It looks kind of like a cross between square dancing and tap dancing.”
“Oh, of course. The cloggers,” she shouted.
“Don’t be silly. They don’t have loggers in South Carolina.”
She gestured helplessly toward the side street, and, heads down, they fought their way into the less densely packed mob on
Lafayette. The thunderous clacking was reduced from the roar of an approaching subway train to merely the thunder of nearby surf.
“Clogging,” she explained. “I read all about it in the Chastain House and Garden Tour brochures. It originated in Ireland and Lancashire, England, and it’s here by way of Appalachia. That bit of news was tucked next to the information about the magic shows on the hour at Prichard Museum. And the flea market in the Armory. And the praline eating contest in the basement of the Methodist Church.” She grabbed his arm, and they broke into a half trot. At least they were moving against the traffic flow now.
“Is there any other excitement you’re keeping from me?” He darted a worried glance at his watch. “Annie, your cast is going to show up in twenty minutes for a warm-up.”
“They’ll keep. And everybody did swell last night. This is more important.”
She did slow for a moment, however, at the corner of Ephraim and Prince streets to point up a curving drive at the greenish-gray plaster of a Greek Revival mansion. “Lady Lust lives there.”
“Sybil Giacomo?” It would not be inaccurate to say his tone quickened.
Annie shot him a disgusted look. “The one and only.”
“Hey, why don’t we talk to her now? We need to find out where she and Tim were when Corinne was killed.”
Annie grabbed his arm firmly. “Tomorrow.”
But when they reached the long, dark line of wrought iron two doors down, she felt a funny little thump in her chest. The late afternoon shadows threw deep pools of shade across this immense stretch of lawn. Spanish moss hung in ghostly filaments from the live oaks. The day was still and somber, and the sweet scent of the pittisporum hung in the air like a powerful perfume, dizzyingly.
She pulled open the gate with its ornate pineapple motif. The reluctant shriek of the metal was worthy of Inner Sanctum’s finest hours.
Midway up the stately avenue of live oaks, she stumbled to a stop. “Look, there’s another one.” She might have been pointing out a tarantula.
This placard was bound with scratchy brown twine to an especially low and thick branch:
“This live oak was the site of eight recorded duels, only one of which resulted in death. The facts are these: Harold Anderson Chastain derided the conduct of Judge Arthur Winyard, declaring him to be the servant of the factor and disloyal to his duties as a magistrate. The judge’s son, Thomas, sought out Mr. Chastain and, after a heated exchange, struck him with a riding crop. The men met in combat at the hour of noon on August 18, 1805, each walking twenty-five paces, then turning to fire. Mr. Winyard was mortally wounded and died at the scene. He was 22 years, 8 mos. and 6 days of age. Mr. Chastain suffered a grievous injury and passed from this earth on September 6, 1805, at the age of 32 years, 9 mos., and 17 days.”
She shivered, and the chill came from more than the sunless dark beneath the trees.
“She’s crazy,” Annie whispered.
She took Max’s arm again, purely for companionship, of course, and they continued up the shell drive. In the silence, oppressive after the roar near the riverfront, the sound of their footsteps carried clearly.
A low tabby wall enclosed the house, which was built of brown-toned plantation bricks. Four huge tabby-covered Doric pillars supported a two-story verandah and a flat roof with a balustrade around the top. They mounted the steps. A rattan rocker faced the front yard. Annie knocked vigorously.
They might as well have pummeled a tomb door in the Valley of the Kings. No sound. No movement. No response.
“Dammit, she can’t accuse me of murder, then go to earth like a rat in a burrow.”
But Miss Dora’s house brooded in the light of the setting sun, impervious to Annie as it had proved impervious to intruders throughout its history.
Frustrated, Annie lifted both fists and pounded again, but with no more effect than before. They were turning to descend the steps, when she reached out, gripped Max’s arm.
“Look. There. Did you see?”
“Where?”
“The window. That curtain moved. I swear it did.”
Annie stared at the dusky folds of velvet, pressed against the pane. Was there a slit there, a fine line open to vision? Were malicious black eyes staring out at her?
They gave it up, finally, and started down the steps, but Annie knew she was engaged in a duel. A duel of wits that might prove deadly.
Annie was forewarned for Tuesday night. She had, after all, survived Monday night, the kick-off of the English Manor Mystery, a k a “Alas, A Sticky Wicket.” Ingrid was on duty in the Police Headquarters Tent, emphatically instructed to be certain that each team received only one search warrant and warned to be suspicious of everyone, especially sturdy little old ladies with angelic expressions. Further, she was keeping a vigilant eye on the clue table. Tonight Annie intended to personally roam the Suspect Interrogation Tent to ensure that the Mystery Night detectives stayed within some bounds of reason.
After she made her brief speech introducing the suspects, she followed them and the charging crowd to the tents. She waved at Max, who was busy signing up teams to visit The Scene of the Crime, now moved to the rose arbor near the tennis court. Ingrid flapped her hands frantically. Annie started toward her. She was dodging her way around clumps of conferring detectives, when a piercing voice demanded:
“How about the real murder, Ms. Laurance? Are you snooping around?”
Walrus Mustache, beaming genially, hefted his camcorder and focused. Mother bounded forward, microphone outstretched.
Annie had often wondered what it would be like to be the cynosure of all eyes; abruptly, she knew. A hush fell, like the dead air at a hurricane’s center.
“Understand you and the police chief had some words.”
The intelligence-gathering capabilities of the Sticky Wicket detectives should be studied by the CIA for possible emulation.
“We have discussed the crime,” she answered carefully.
“Come on, now, girl. Let us in on the real scoop.”
“I don’t really know very much—”
A disappointed collective sigh rose.
“—but I can tell you this much.”
The quiet was absolute.
“It looks like the murderer is someone who had known Mrs. Webster very, very well.” She waved her hand, smiled, and turned away. Let Chief Wells stuff that in his jaw and chew it.
She was in high good humor when she reached a besieged Ingrid and the clue table.
“Aren’t there supposed to be five exhibits?”
She glanced down at the table, which held a train ticket, a crumpled initialed handkerchief, a Turkish cigarette stub, and a note that read I can’t come.
She felt disgust but no real surprise. These addicts were capable of anything. “Somebody’s ripped off a clue,” she muttered to Ingrid. “I’ll be right back.” Thank heavens, she had duplicates of all the clues at the Inn. Replacement seemed simple enough, but she hadn’t taken into account the limpet-like qualities of the detectives. She was accosted three times en route to the front gate, then had to struggle through the county-fair-strength crowd on Ephraim Street. This evening, the free entertainment featured a ventriloquist with a talking banana. Fortunately, the Inn was just the other side of the Benton House. She wormed through the coffee bar patrons, raced up to her room, grabbed the cast of a footprint, and hurtled back downstairs.
Idell poked her head out of the untidy office behind the counter.
“Miss Laurance, oh Miss Laurance!”
“Sorry, I’m in a hurry—”
“Miss Laurance, do the police think the person who wrote that letter to you is the same as the murderer?”
Halfway out the door and barely paying attention, she yelled back. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
She replaced the pilfered clue, then began to circle unobtrusively. At least, this investigation was proceeding smoothly, although not everyone appeared enchanted with her Stately Home murder. A skinny man in black-checked trou
sers perilously held up by yellow suspenders snarled to a fat woman in pink tights, “This is a sissy kind of murder. As far as I’m concerned, you need a hero.” He paused, then said gruffly, “Down these mean streets—” “Oh, my God,” his companion groaned, “if you’re going to quote Chandler …” Annie turned away to hide a grin. In the Interrogation Tent, Team No. 4 concentrated on the search, and its captain, a white-haired Chastain lawyer, bore down on Reginald Hoxton.
“Can you tell us how you earn your living, Mr. Hoxton?”
Sanford lolled back in his chair, a wolfish smile on his dark face. He wore a pale yellow shirt with a round white collar and pale blue slacks. It wasn’t nineteen-thirtyish, but he was the epitome of a man from whom you wouldn’t want to buy a used car. For the first time, Annie suspected the abrasive doctor of having a sense of humor.
“Investments,” he replied airily.
“Investments in what, Mr. Hoxton?” the lawyer persisted.
“One business today, another one tomorrow.”
“Perhaps your real business is taking advantage of women, Mr. Hoxton.”
“Those, sir, are scurrilous words.”
“Oh? Can you explain the testimony of Lady Alicia’s maid? She tells us Lady Alicia owed you 3,400 pounds.”
“Lies, all lies.”
“Agnes tells us you have badgered her poor mistress for huge sums of money, claiming she owes them to you for losses at cards. Is this true, Mr. Hoxton?”
Smiling, Annie moved on and came up behind the circle of questioners around Agnes.
Her smile faded. Poor Lucy was obviously miserable. She sat unsmiling and rigid in her chair. Tonight she wore an attractive black-and-white silk dress and white gloves. Her face carried an unaccustomed splash of color on each cheek, and Annie knew she’d tried to use make-up to hide her pallor. Lucy listened attentively to her questioners, answering each question dutifully, but her gloved hands were clenched in her lap.
“Agnes, what exactly did you hear Mr. Nigel say to Miss Snooperton?”
Lucy glanced down at her prep cards. “It was shocking to me, sir, that I can tell you. Mr. Nigel was all upset. He kept saying he wanted to know how long she’d been seeing Lord Algernon on the sly. Miss Snooperton denied it had ever happened. Mr. Nigel said he wasn’t going to marry anyone who would lie to him, but Miss Snooperton told him he’d given his word and she wore his ring and it would be a scandal if he broke it off. Mr. Nigel stormed away, but she called after him that she’d talk to him later, as they’d planned.”
Design for Murder Page 17
