Design for Murder

by Carolyn G. Hart

  Team Captain No. 6 probed deeper. “Funny how you can see and hear so much about everyone but your mistress. Tell us now, when was the last time you saw the necklace in her possession?”

  Lucy’s distrait silence was perfect. Finally, she responded sharply, “I know that necklace like my own hand. I saw it that very morning. But you can’t fault me for having eyes and ears, and Mr. Nigel’s not telling all he knows.”

  A high, sharp voice urged her teammates, “Oh, let’s hurry. Let’s get a search warrant against Nigel Da-vies.”

  Annie would know that voice anywhere. As the team members broke into a trot, heading for the Police Investigation Tent, she called out, “Mrs. Brawley.”

  Slowly, reluctantly, a slight figure with a fox-sharp face paused for an instant.

  Annie reached out, gripped a bony elbow. “You were here last night.”

  Mrs. Brawley lifted her chin defiantly. “I have a ticket tonight, too.”

  “That isn’t fair.”

  “There’s not a thing in the rules that says you can’t come every night, if you buy a ticket.” Mrs. Brawley shook free of Annie’s hand. “And I bought a ticket for every single night.” She darted away.

  Annie stared after her.

  Obviously, it was cheating. By the time she’d been on four different teams, it would be a bloody miracle if she weren’t the first to figure the mystery out.

  But Mrs. Brawley was right. There wasn’t a single thing in the rules to prevent it.

  It was not, Annie decided, a surprise that so many murders occurred, but so few.

  She stalked after Mrs. Brawley and her team, and arrived in time to see the members receive their information from the search warrant on Nigel Davies.

  They learned: Nigel Davies had been expected to marry his girlhood sweetheart, Susannah Greatheart, and friends had been surprised when his engagement to the worldly Miss Snooperton was announced. Nigel and Miss Snooperton had been observed quarreling, with Nigel threatening to break the engagement. The search of his room at the Manor revealed a note from Miss Greatheart, which threatened suicide if he did not return to her.

  With happy clucks of anticipation, the team rumbled off en masse to return to the Suspect Interrogation tent and a session with Miss Greatheart.

  Annie glanced at her watch. Nine-forty. Thank heavens, the madness would soon be over.

  “Miss Laurance.”

  She knew that voice, too.

  “Could I talk to you for a minute?”

  It was politely phrased, but Bobby Frazier’s tone brooked no disagreement. His face was shadowed by a tall, perfumed pittisporum shrub.

  “Certainly.”

  He jerked his head toward the Benton House. “Let’s walk over by the fence.”

  They found an oasis of quiet near the gate between the two houses.

  In the yellowish glare of the overhead security light, he looked drawn and tired, tension lines bracketing his mouth.

  “What did Gail tell you?”

  Annie didn’t like his peremptory tone.

  “Why don’t you ask her?”

  Frazier swallowed jerkily. “Look, I’ve got to know. I’ve got to know what the hell is going on.”

  “Pick up a phone,” she retorted. “Call her.”

  “I can’t.” He grabbed a bar of the fence. He should have looked inoffensive, a young man in khaki slacks and a yellow sports shirt with pencils poking out of the pocket, but he reminded Annie uncomfortably of a predator crouched to spring, every muscle taut, every nerve stretched to the highest pitch. Then, with evident effort, he smoothed out his tone. “Look, Miss Laurance, I just want to know what she told you. It’s no state secret, right?”

  “She told me about her talks with you the day Corinne was murdered.”

  His hand tightened convulsively on the bar. “You may have gotten the wrong impression.”

  She waited.

  “Gail’s a nice girl, but she’s not interested in me—and I’m not interested in her.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. We’re just Mends. That’s all.”

  “I guess you forgot to tell her.”

  He reached out, gripped her arm so tightly that Annie gasped softly. “What the hell do you mean?”

  Because his tone frightened her, Annie responded fiercely. “Gail is a nice kid, Mr. Frazier. She doesn’t know any better than to tell the truth, and she’s telling everybody—and I’ll bet that includes Chief Wells—that you didn’t give a damn about her not having any money and you intended to go on seeing one another.”

  “Oh, shit.” His fingers unloosed her, and he banged through the gate and was gone.

  Annie stared after the yellow shirt until it was swallowed by the darkness. What did that mean? Nothing good for Gail. Was this a less than graceful effort by Bobby Frazier to remove himself from suspicion?

  Annie sighed, turned to return to the fray, and froze. Was there a rustle in the bushes behind her? Swinging around, heart thudding, she peered into the shadows. Yes, there was movement and a dark splotch of cloth. Suddenly, she shivered. The bushes lay quiescent now. But she had glimpsed a wizened face and malevolent eyes.

  Hadn’t she?

  With a feeling of horror, she plunged up the path toward the tents.

  ANNIE WATCHED IN DISMAY as Max poured their coffee. “Can’t you see? It’s yellow. It’s not even brown.”

  “We could walk down the street to the Harbor Lights. I understand they have wonderful Belgian waffles and excellent coffee.”

  Annie glowered down into her coffee cup. “She’d find out, then we’d never get another word out of her.”

  “I’m not sure she knows anything.” Max’s tone was reasonable.

  “She has to. She’s too nosy not to know something useful. Shh-h. Here she comes.”

  Idell Gordon swept into the patio, smiling in satisfaction at the crowded tables. She stopped beside Annie and Max.

  “Good morning. And how are our detectives this morning?” she asked archly.

  After a restless night on a lumpy mattress, a two A.M. search for a three-inch cockroach, and a rapid approach of a crise de nerfs because of severe caffeine withdrawal, an honest reply quivered on the tip of Annie’s tongue. However, she forced a grim smile and remained tactfully silent.

  Max, annoyingly, rose gallantly to his feet. “Will you join us for some breakfast, Mrs. Gordon?”

  “Oh, my dear boy, I’ve been up since dawn. A proprietor’s work is never done, you know.” She waved him back to his seat. Her protuberant, questing eyes dropped to the newspaper, the Wednesday edition of the Chastain Courier, with its screaming headlines about the investigation into Corinne’s murder. “Did you notice who wrote the story?”

  She didn’t have to say which article.

  They nodded. It was bylined to Bobby Frazier.

  “What would Corinne think, if she knew?”

  Considering the question rhetorical, they waited.

  This morning, Idell had ill-advisedly chosen to wear a faded pink shirt and tight white polyester slacks. Neither were flattering. She stood by their table and stared down at the newspaper, her eyes shiny. “Did you see where Leighton is offering a $5,000 reward for information leading to the arrest of the killer?” She looked at them sharply. “Are you going to try for the reward?”

  Max shook his head. “No. We hadn’t even thought about it.”

  “Are you?” Annie asked.

  Idell stepped back a pace, a hand at her wrinkled throat. “Oh, no, no. Of course not. How would I do that? Well, enjoy your breakfast. I must check the kitchen now,” and she scuttled away.

  “She has something on her mind,” Annie observed, tartly, “but it will be a cold day in hell before she tells us.”

  “Do you really think so?” He yawned and picked up the paper.

  Annie sighed and took another sip of what purported to be coffee. “Anything new in the story?”

  “A few things. Let’s see, Mrs. Webster was last seen by t
he cook, starting down the path from the kitchen steps. That was about five o’clock. Nobody admits seeing her after that time.”

  Annie fished the spiral notebook out of her skirt pocket and flipped to a fresh page.

  5:00—C.W. leaves Prichard House.

  5:30—Annie discovers body.

  She checked back at some earlier notations.

  4:25—Annie at gazebo, Gail and Bobby arrive and quarrel.

  4:30—Bobby follows Gail, tells her to find out what happened to C.W.’s check.

  4:35—Gail to Prichard House, calls back, quarrels with C.W.

  4:50—Gail leaves in search of Bobby, finds him, tells him C.W. intends to block her inheritance. Gail returns to house, Bobby where?

  5:00—C.W. leaves house. Why?

  She studied her times. “Where was Corinne going?”

  “Since I don’t specialize in seances, I can’t tell you.”

  “Max, be serious. This is important. Why did Corinne leave the house? Where was she going?”

  “Maybe she was ready for the start of the evening’s festivities.”

  “It wasn’t time. The gates were to open at six. So where was she hotfooting it at five?”

  He put his hands behind his head and stared up at the three stories of balconies, which slanted suspiciously toward the patio. “One good earthquake and I’ll bet this place collapses.” At her impatient wiggle, he held up a broad hand. “I am pondering. Why did Corinne leave the house? Oh, offhand I can imagine at least six reasons. She wanted to come and harass you a little more. She was going to check on the arrival of the caterer. She decided it was an opportune moment to commune with nature. She had a secret lover, and they planned a rendezvous behind a yew hedge. She was on her way to Roscoe Merrill’s office to deal him a little grief, or ditto Dr. Sanford. That’s six, isn’t it?”

  “Five o’clock,” she muttered. “She must have had something specific in mind. It wasn’t time for the gala to start, and she’d already been on my case several times. No, this is important. We’ve got to find out why she left the house.”

  Chloe was small, dark, and weary. “No’m, Miss Corinne she didn’t say nothin’.”

  Sunlight sparkled in the immaculate kitchen of Prichard House. The copper cookware above the chopping block glistened. The smell of apple pie and roasting meat hung in the air, but there was no corresponding holiday mood. Chloe was preparing food for the family after the funeral that afternoon.

  She looked at them with teary eyes. “She was upset, and walking mighty swift.”

  “Do you think she was on her way to meet someone?”

  Chloe kneaded her hands against her crisp white apron. “I don’t know. She’d had too much upset. Miss Gail’s a foolish girl, running after that upstart young man. She ought to have listened to Miss Corinne. And they’d fought something awful, and Miss Gail burst out of the house. Then the phone done ring.”

  Annie leaned forward. “Was it for Mrs. Webster?”

  The little woman nodded lugubriously. “Yes’m. She said, sharp like, that her mind was made up, that’s all there was to it. Then I went to the pantry. In a minute or so, that was when she left.”

  Max frowned. “Where was Mr. Webster while all this was going on?”

  “In my study.”

  Leighton Webster stood in the doorway to the kitchen, his heavy face cold and unfriendly. There was no genial charm in his manner today. His powerful hands were bunched into fists at his side.

  Max was always willing to try. He smiled goodhumoredly at Webster. “We’re trying to discover your wife’s destination when she left the house. Did you happen to hear any of her conversation on the phone?”

  “I was not in the habit of eavesdropping on my wife. Furthermore, I believe the police are in a better position to ask questions such as these.” His eyes flickered over them dismissively. “I understand Gail’s asked you to investigate, which I consider absurd—and offensive.”

  “Why do you object to our trying to discover the murderer?” Annie demanded.

  Leighton rubbed a hand across his cheek, then sighed heavily. “I don’t know what happened.” Truculence gave way to uncertainty. “I can’t believe anyone would hurt Corinne intentionally, and certainly not anyone she knew. It had to be a stranger, one of those dreadful things that can happen.” He looked at them in mute appeal. “Don’t you agree?”

  “It could be,” Max said gently.

  “You’re going around, talking to people. Ask them if they saw any strangers.”

  “It wasn’t a stranger.”

  Leighton and Max both stared at Annie.

  “How could it have been?” She lifted her hands in a query. “Think about it. Corinne turned her back on the person who struck her. It had to be someone she knew—and didn’t fear.”

  “I don’t believe it. I’ll never believe it.” Leighton’s voice was rough with anger.

  “Why not? She’d made everybody in town mad—and how about you? After I read that letter at the Society, didn’t she ask you whether you were involved with another woman?”

  Annie was aware in the shocked silence that followed of Max’s incredulous glance and of Leighton’s sudden immobility.

  She’d prodded a raw wound. There was no righteous anger of the innocent.

  He made no answer at all, but looked past them, as if they weren’t there, misery and heartbreak in his eyes. Then, without a word, he turned and stumbled blindly from the room.

  Annie and Max were silent as they headed down the back steps of Prichard House. They started down the path toward the pond.

  “Poor bastard.”

  “I know. I’m sorry,” she said defensively.

  “That’s all right. God knows he should be at the top of Wells’s list.”

  “Except Wells can’t see past the fact that he’s mayor.” Annie scuffed through a covering of pine needles.

  “Do you suppose he did it?”

  Reaching up, she grabbed a crinkly handful of Spanish moss. “His insistence on the mysterious stranger makes me wonder.”

  They came up on the gazebo. Beyond it the pond lay placid and blackish-green without a breath of breeze to stir the reeds. Their footsteps echoed in the morning air as they climbed the steps. They sat down on the wooden benches, and Annie stared glumly at the place where Corinne’s body had lain.

  “It makes a hell of a lot of difference whether somebody got mad at her and serendipitously picked up the club and swung, or whether somebody lured her down here with murder in mind.”

  “Why?” Max asked.

  “A difference in the kind of person. Take Leighton Webster for example. I can’t imagine him plotting a murder in advance. He’s too much of a gentleman. But if he got mad, and there was a weapon handy—”

  “Why would he be quarreling with her at the pond? They had that enormous house to quarrel in.”

  Annie shot him an appraising glance. “I think you’re sorry for him. Maybe Leighton had just asked her for a divorce, and she’d said no deal, he couldn’t have one. Chloe may have been mistaken about the phone; maybe Corinne was talking to Leighton. She was mad, so she stalked out to take a walk. He went after her, found her at the pond, they continued fighting, and whammo.”

  “Maybe,” Max said doubtfully, scuffing the dust with his shoe tip. “That would be unpremeditated, but I think the murder was planned to the last detail. Somebody knew that mallet would be here, called Corinne, and talked her into a meeting. That’s how I see it.”

  She tapped her fingers impatiently on the arm of the bench. “What we need is some clever analysis of our suspects. Kate Fansler always figures out how everybody’s mind works.”

  “I’m agreeable, whoever Ms. Fansler may be. What do you suggest?”

  “Some tête à têtes.”

  Edith Ferrier reluctantly invited them inside and led the way to a side piazza. Cheerful red and black cushions made the white wicker furniture comfortable. A partially completed yellow afghan lay atop a wicker
coffee table.

  She gestured for them to sit on a divan and took her place opposite in a straight chair. She looked at them unsmiling, her heavily mascaraed jade green eyes wary. “I don’t know why you want to talk to me.” Her chin gave an infinitesimal backward jerk.

  Here, you couldn’t hear the tourists. Bees droned in the honeysuckle that nuzzled the verandah balustrade. Swallowtail butterflies flitted near a blossoming dogwood with white flowers as brilliant as a snowy peak. The manicured garden, though much smaller than those of the show houses, was April perfection, but the tension on the porch was thick enough to cut.

  “We’re talking to everyone who had a motive to kill Corinne.” Annie knew it was the equivalent of a flung gauntlet, but why not?

  Again, that nervous tic, but Edith kept her awkwardly rouged face impassive. “That doesn’t include me.”

  Annie continued on the attack. “You were the clubwoman mentioned in the letter.”

  “No one can prove that.” Her fingers nervously worked the pleats in her navy silk skirt.

  “It’s obvious. And you admitted on Monday, when Corinne was deviling you, that she’d kept you from being president of the Society.”

  Edith picked up the afghan and began to crochet, her eyes intent on the flashing hook.

  “I am busy with a number of organizations. Certainly, I can find plenty of opportunities to fill my time, and there are many in Chastain who appreciate my efforts.”

  Before Annie could speak again, Max knocked his knee against hers and smiled winningly at Edith. “Actually, I’ve been looking forward to our chance to visit with you.”

  The crochet hook eased to a stop.

  “Since Annie and I are strangers, we have to depend upon others for information about Chastain and the people who knew Corinne. As a mainstay in the city’s power structure, it seems to me that you are an invaluable resource with your contacts, and, even more importantly, that you are singularly well qualified because of your extensive volunteer work to be able to look past the obvious and give us real insight into personalities.”