Annie would have gagged except for the magical effect of this honeyed flow upon Edith. She was settling back into her chair, the afghan draped loosely over her lap, and a faint flush of pleasure stained her powdered cheeks. “I’ve dealt with all kinds of people over the years, Mr. Darling, and, let me tell you, I can see through a false face pretty quick.”
Max beamed at her. “I knew you were the right person to talk to.”
Annie might as well have been invisible. She stifled a malicious urge to give a piercing whistle.
Max’s voice was as smooth as chocolate mousse. “Tell us about the Board members. What are they really like? And who do you think wrote the letter?”
Edith’s face sharpened, like a hawk preparing to dive. “You’re right, of course.” Her voice was more animated than Annie had ever heard it. “It must have been done by a Board member. And I think I know which one.”
She paused and received the attention she sought. “I think Gail wrote it.”
“Gail!” Annie’s voice rose. Max nudged her again, harder.
“You can only push any living creature so far. Corinne was killing that girl, crushing the life out of her.” Edith’s voice vibrated with emotion.
“Would Gail know all of the things in the letter?” Max asked.
Edith moved her hands impatiently, jangling her silver charm bracelet. “Of course, she would. She lived in that house. And everyone in town knows how Corinne and John Sanford were wrangling over the hospital funds, and about Tim’s paintings and Sybil.” She paused, and a frown drew her carefully lined brows down. “I don’t know about Roscoe, though. I had heard a few whispers, something about some young woman lawyer in Atlanta. I suppose if I’d heard, Gail could have heard.” She tossed her head and her red-gold hair rippled. “It’s like Gail, though. A weak person pushed to attack and doing it secretly.”
“So you don’t think John or Roscoe were likely to have written the letter?” Max persisted.
Edith didn’t dismiss them outright. “Oh, I don’t think so. It’s too calm and studied for John. As for Roscoe—actually, Roscoe is a very complex man. You rarely know what Roscoe is thinking; he keeps his own counsel. He seems so dry, such a stick, but I don’t think he really is. He’s absolutely crazy about Jessica. That’s why I thought that story about a girl in Atlanta might be false—but he did seem upset when you read the letter. I was watching him, and his face went absolutely livid for a minute. So I can’t imagine that he would have written it.”
“Unless that was a particularly clever double bluff,” Max suggested.
“What would that achieve?” Edith asked reasonably. “No, I can see where John and Roscoe would have the necessary knowledge, but they both seem unlikely.”
“How about Lucy? She’s an old Chastainian,” Max observed.
Edith nodded. “Oh, yes, she is. And I’ve heard, too, that Corinne ruined her romance with Cameron. But that was a long time ago. Isn’t it a little late to try for revenge? So far as I know, they were on the best of terms. In fact, I guess Lucy was about Corinne’s only friend.”
“How about Sybil?” Annie ignored Max’s involuntary wriggle and concentrated on Edith.
“Sybil.” Edith dropped the name like a pound of butter in boiling chocolate. “Ah yes. Sybil.”
For the first time in their acquaintance, Annie saw a glint of humor in those huge green eyes.
“I’d like to think it was Sybil. Everyone believes Sybil capable of anything outrageous, but frankly it would take too much time and be much too subtle for her.” Her mouth curved in a sardonic smile, admiration mixed with disgust. “If you dumped Sybil in the middle of the Sahara, there would be a half dozen sheikhs there within the day. There’s something about her—”
Max opened his mouth, intercepted Annie’s glare, and wisely remained silent.
“She sends out signals,” Annie said dryly.
Max opted for a diversion. He ticked them off on his fingers. “So, John’s too abrupt, Roscoe’s too careful, Lucy’s too unlikely, Sybil’s too—impetuous. You think it’s Gail.”
“I’m afraid so.”
But Annie was shaking her head. “You’re both wrong. It’s obvious as it can be. Miss Dora wrote that letter.”
To her surprise, Edith was adamant. “Oh no, she wouldn’t do that. No, you have to understand Miss Dora. She’s devoted heart and soul to Chastain, to its history, its traditions. Nothing matters as much to her as Family. She wouldn’t do anything to harm the Society.”
“Just strangers she sees as a threat,” Annie muttered. “Like me.”
Annie wasn’t enchanted about their next interview, but she realized it was necessary.
It didn’t improve her humor to see one of Miss Dora’s placards posted on the main entry gate.
“The present structure, built in 1833, is the third home at this site. It is Chastain’s oldest surviving Greek Revival home. (The Prichard House on Ephraim Street was built in 1834.) The first home at this location was built by Chastain’s founder, Reginald Cantey Chastain, and the property remains in the Chastain family to the present day. The younger son of an English settler in the Barbadoes, Chastain established the settlement which bears his name in June of 1730. Of an energetic and adventurous nature, he came to the province of Carolina at the age of 23 years and, within five years, amassed a fortune to compare with those of the factors in Charleston. He was a well-built man, standing almost six foot tall with curly chestnut hair and eyes of the palest green. He was married to Anna Margaret Hasty on January 9, 1736, and they had five sons, Thomas, Nathaniel, William, Percival, and Harold.”
Reginald was probably a rapacious swashbuckler. Sybil no doubt came by her appetites honestly. Heredity, Annie decided, was an awesome force. She glanced up at Max, who was striding eagerly toward the marble steps, his dark blue eyes gleaming with anticipation. Perhaps she should give some thought to Mendelian truths before September.
Max poked the doorbell, then bent down to whisper. “Look, honey, why don’t you let me handle this one?”
“Are you suggesting that I lack tact?”
“Mmmm,” he said, displaying his own exceptional perceptiveness, “let’s just say, I think this one needs a man’s touch.”
“Ooh-la-la,” she hissed as the door opened.
Annie immediately felt like a pile of sunbleached bones. Today Sybil wore red. Flaming red. A red that rivaled that of the San Francisco fire. She was riveting in a linen dress that most women would categorize as skimpy even while recognizing a Bill Blass original and lusting in their hearts. Whether for the dress or a little of Sybil’s panache, it would be hard to say. Who else but Sybil, at her age and voluptuous state, could look magnificent in a dress that ended three inches above the knee? When she turned to lead the way down the hall, navigating on four-inch red leather heels, the curving hem rose high in the back, revealing more leg than a rack of lamb. She managed to overshadow even the spectacular length of hallway with three intricately patterned oriental rugs and a spectacular four-tiered crystal chandelier.
Sybil led the way to the library. The Pompeian red walls certainly provided a dramatic backdrop for her raven black hair, Annie thought cynically. She dropped into a Queen Anne wing chair with embossed creamy satin upholstery and waved them negligently toward a Chinese rosewood couch with scrolled back and arms. As they sat, Sybil deftly fitted an extra-long menthol-tipped cigarette into an ivory holder, lit it, and blew a cloud of minty smoke. She gestured at a heap of brightly colored brochures and magazines spread across the mahogany Sheraton drum table.
“I’ve had the most marvelous day.” Her throaty voice was as mellifluous as the warble of feasting doves. “Trying to decide just how the exhibition folder should look.” At their blank silence, she crossed one silk-clad leg over a knee, and jounced her foot impatiently, exposing a well-endowed thigh. “Timmy’s New York exhibition, of course.” Her crimson lips curved in open amusement. “What’s wrong, sweeties? Do I seem to lack a funeral air?”
She shrugged, and Annie sourly noticed that the dress also provided ample view of fulsome breasts. “Don’t worry, I’ll be at the funeral. But I don’t believe in crocodile tears. And, certainly, it does solve a problem for us.”
“Have you expressed this sentiment to Chief Wells?” Annie inquired.
She tapped the cigarette in a silver ashtray. “Oh, he won’t bother me,” she said carelessly. Her eyes, as black as licorice, swept Annie, but with as little interest as an electronic eye in an elevator. “I was talking to Leighton. He told me Wells is after you. Or that reporter.”
“Hasn’t Wells even talked to you?” Annie demanded, feeling her cheeks heat. “Doesn’t he know how you and Corinne were feuding about Tim’s paintings?”
“I don’t know.” Her indifference was monumental. “Now, let me ask you, don’t you think two paintings per page at the most?” She reached out and picked up a brochure. “Here’s a good one from a recent sale at Sotheby’s. What do you think of this format?”
Annie would have exploded, except for the viselike grip Max wisely planted on her wrist. She swallowed angrily, and glared at him. He’d pay for this—later.
“Sybil, I know you don’t think it’s too important,” Max said smoothly. “But we’re trying to account for everyone’s whereabouts at the time of the murder. Can you tell us what you were doing?”
Those pit-black eyes moved to Max, lingered on his face, moved slowly down his body.
“What you were doing,” he repeated stoically.
“Oh sure.” She smiled, and this one was X-rated. “Sure. I was making Timmy feel better.” She put the cigarette holder in her mouth. “We were upstairs in my room. For a long time.”
Annie was still seething as they fought their way up the marble steps to the double, fourteen-foot-tall bronze doors that marked the entrance to the Prichard Museum. It was slow going because everyone else was herding down the steps. When an elbow cuffed her in the ribs, Annie snarled, “Hey, watch where you’re going!” “Honey,” a soft voice soothed, “you’re goin’ the wrong way. There won’t be another magic show for twenty minutes.” But, finally, a bit battered, they reached the doors, and Max pulled one open. They stepped into a magnificent rotunda, and Annie was delighted to see only a sprinkling of tourists. She was, all things considered, getting tired of tourists, no matter how many t-shirts they bought from the Death on Demand display.
Sunlight sparkled through the stained-glass dome, illuminating the glass cases that sat around the perimeter of the circular room. Annie paused by the first one, which contained a silver-plated reproduction of a silver trivet created in 1763 by a London artisan. Other cases held reproductions of authentic colonial pieces, including candlesticks, doorknobs, wall sconces, and bookends. A neatly printed card in the corner of each case announced: Replicas created by Tim Bond, artist-in-residence, Prichard Museum, Chastain, S.C.
A brisk young woman greeted them eagerly. “I see you are interested in our reproductions.” Perhaps they were a welcome change from the magic devotees. “Prichard Museum is famous for the quality and quantity of its reproductions, and, in the bookstore, we have a catalog which lists all of our offerings. If you would like to tour the Museum, tickets are two dollars each. The Prichard Museum was built in 1843 as a meeting place for the Chastain Thursday Night Club. As you can see, it is built on three levels, and the supporting columns are Doric on this floor, Ionic on the next, and Corinthian on the third. The ballroom is on the second floor and is still used today for the winter balls.”
“We would love to see the Museum,” Annie said, “but today we’ve come to see Tim Bond. If you can direct us to his office …”
“Oh, certainly. This way.” She led them through the bookstore in an ornate sideroom to a back hallway. “Tim’s office is in the basement. Now, these stairs are dreadful. Watch your step as you go down. The offices are to your right.” She opened the door, and the faraway bang of a hammer echoed up the stairwell.
Annie led the way and was glad of the advice. The steps pitched so steeply that she had to cling to the metal banister for balance. A light dangled from a cord at the landing. Unshaded bulbs hung in various parts of the basement, providing brilliant circles of light that emphasized the dark reaches between them. The rhythmic thud of the hammer masked the sound of their footsteps on the cement floor. They passed a door labeled Darkroom and a second one with Curator stenciled on it. A third door, a dingy yellow, bore a placard with the warning POISON. Tables and workbenches paralleled the corridor. At the far end of the basement, Tim Bond stood beside a cluttered workbench, driving nails into the ends of a crate. The light here was very bright, a circle of yellow against the blackness of the cellar’s recesses.
“Hello, there,” Max called out.
For an instant, those narrow shoulders stiffened, then he turned and faced them, hammer in hand. The harsh light bleached the color from his gaunt face. In silence, he watched them approach. He wore a paint-spattered shirt and frayed cut-offs. His sea-green eyes had a wild look, like a horse ready to bolt. He shifted from one big foot to the other.
“What do you want?”
“We just wanted to visit with you a little,” Max said soothingly. “What are you working on?”
Tim sniffed around the question as if expecting a trap, then answered sullenly. “I’m crating my paintings, getting them ready to go to New York.”
Annie twisted to look at the canvases lined up in a neat row. “That’s pretty important to you, isn’t it?”
“Any reason why it shouldn’t be?”
“Was it important enough for you to kill Corinne?” Annie asked abruptly.
His Adam’s apple jerked in his throat. “Hell, no.” But his voice was shrill.
“You were mad at her. She wasn’t going to let you go to New York. She was sending your paintings on a tour.”
Tim licked his lips. “It would’ve been all right. Sybil was going to make her give me my stuff.”
“How could she do that?” Max asked.
His eyes slid away, focused on the white pine board. “I dunno.” He lifted the hammer, slammed the nail in solidly.
Annie raised her voice. “Where were you when Corinne was killed?”
He stood very still, hunched over the crate, then, with a look of great cunning, said, “How should I know? I don’t even know when she was killed.”
“Don’t you read the paper?” Max asked.
The big head swung toward him. “Why should I? I don’t care.”
So much, Annie thought, for rapport between patroness and artist.
“Where were you between 5 and 5:30?” she asked briskly.
“Oh. Here and there,” he said vaguely. “I don’t pay much attention to time. I don’t even own a watch.”
A telephone jangled behind him. He reached out a big hand to pick up the receiver. “Yeah.” His pale eyes flickered from Max to Annie, then his face reddened, until his skin was scarlet to the roots of his soft, curly hair. “Oh, yeah. They’re here. Okay.”
He hung up, then glared at them defiantly. “I was with Sybil. I was with Sybil the whole time.”
Annie pulled the booth door shut, which immediately made it airless and hot, but there was too much noise from the parade proceeding up Federal to the accompaniment of a rousing “Stars and Stripes Forever” to leave it cracked. While she waited for Gail to come to the phone, she entertained herself by admiring Max’s sun-touched profile through the smudged window.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Gail. This is Annie. I’m sorry to bother you, but there’s something we really need to know.”
The tiny sigh on the other end said more clearly than words that Gail was disappointed in the caller. Hadn’t she talked to Bobby yet?
“What can I do for you?”
“Who is Leighton involved with?”
Now the silence tingled with dismay.
“I know,” Annie continued quickly. “You don’t want to say. I understand that. But we have to talk
to everyone concerned—and believe me, it’s up to me and Max. Chief Wells isn’t talking to anybody but me and Bobby.”
“Oh, God.” Silence again, then a hoarse, unhappy whisper, “Peggy Taylor. She teaches at Chastain High.”
THE SWIMMER KICKED a steady four beats per stroke, and her elbows came high as her hands knifed cleanly into the water. At each end of the pool, she made swift, nicely executed flip turns.
Annie waited patiently beside the diving board. The water glinted satiny green beneath the overhead lights, and the heavy smell of chlorine hung in the still, moist air. The high school secretary had directed her to the pool. “Miss Taylor works out at noon every day, but she won’t be finished yet.”
The swimmer neared the deep end, but instead of flipping, she surfaced and clung to the rim. Shaking her hair back, she glanced around the deserted pool, then up at Annie. “Are you waiting for me?”
“Yes. I’d like to talk to you for a minute, Ms. Taylor.”
She pulled herself up and out of the pool, without apparent effort. She had a swimmer’s body, lean, firm, and shapely.
A woman more different from Corinne Webster would be hard to imagine.
Peggy Taylor moved with the unselfconscious grace of a superbly conditioned athlete. Her Lycra racing suit revealed high breasts, a narrow waist, slim hips. She pulled off her goggles, looked curiously at Annie, then held out a firm hand. “Peggy Taylor.”
Annie shook her hand. “Annie Laurance.”
“What can I do for you?”
“You know Leighton Webster.”
Peggy’s face closed, became carefully blank. “Yes.”
“You know, of course, that his wife was murdered.”
“Why have you come to see me? I didn’t know Mrs. Webster.” Her voice was even and colorless.
“But people say you knew him very well indeed.”
Design for Murder Page 19
