He sighed and draped himself against the poster of the rice bed. “How about a drink?”
She shook her head wearily.
“Rain check? I’m bushed.”
He didn’t even protest.
She didn’t blame him. The room was stuffy and airless and about as comfortable as a wadi in the Sahara. Damn Idell. You couldn’t leave the room for five minutes without her slipping in to turn off the air conditioner. Crossing to the window, Annie punched the button. After a shuddering cough, it slowly ground to life. She glanced out, admiring the patterns of shadow the moonlight splashed across the grounds and the Society Building next door.
The Society Building. If only stones could talk. Who had typed that letter after hours? If they only knew that….
AS ANNIE LIFTED the brush to stroke her hair, a shriek from downstairs knifed through the thin wooden door. She stared at her early morning reflection in the mirror, her eyes startled, her mouth parted in surprise. A second scream resounded, louder still and with a growing undercurrent of hysteria.
Something was very amiss within the stuffy confines of Swamp Fox Inn. Max burst through their connecting door, and Annie grabbed her shorts.
He looked tremendously relieved, then his eyes widened with pleasure.
She stepped into the shorts and pulled on a t-shirt. They moved toward the door. Max opened it, and they scrambled through at the same time.
On the balcony, the sounds of distress were louder still, and the words bubbling between sobs brought them both pounding down the stairs.
“Dead … horrid … sticky and wet … oh my God, dead …”
The assistant manager shook the shoulders of the gray-haired maid. “Shut up! You’re going to wake everybody up. Dammit, Frieda, you’re not making any sense. Shut up! Who’s dead?”
“Idell. She’s laying in there …”
The assistant manager and Annie and Max turned at once, abandoning the sobbing Frieda. They halted abruptly in the open office doorway. Idell Gordon sprawled stiffly on the love seat behind a small glass-topped coffee table. A decanter sat on a Chinese lacquer tray. She still wore her black polyester funeral dress, and it pulled at the seams against her ungainly pose. Staring eyes were fixed on the ceiling. Her face was pinkish, and her mouth agape, the lips strained back in a twisted smile.
The young man made a noise deep in his throat and backed up, crushing Annie’s foot. She yelped; he jumped, glared at them, and yanked the door shut. “I’ve got to call the doctor.”
“And the police,” Max added quietly.
A woman in the knot of guests clustered behind them began to whimper.
“Everybody go to your rooms, please. We’ll be talking with you as soon as possible. If you have important business, Sergeant Harkey will take your name. Back to your rooms please, ladies and gentlemen, we have an unexplained death here, and it will take time for everyone to be seen. Back to your rooms, please.”
Annie leaned disconsolately against the window, an elbow on the hiccuping air conditioner.
“God, it’s my fault.
It’s my fault.”
“How old was she?”
“I don’t know. Fifty-five. Sixty? She’d be older if—”
“A grown woman. If she knew who the murderer was, she knew who to tell. Chief Wells. That she didn’t tell him is no fault of yours. Besides, it doesn’t sound all that clear-cut to me that she knew.”
“She’s dead.”
“Okay. Good proof. But nothing she said to you yesterday was that obvious.”
“I guess you’re right. But she was excited—and positive Leighton wasn’t the killer. She must have seen someone slipping out of the Society late at night.” Annie whirled around, paced to the door. “Wells has to listen to me now.”
A vein pulsed in Wells’s bulging forehead. The wad of tobacco in his cheek was motionless.
“She was excited! And she asked if we were interested in the reward. Chief, I’m sure she saw the letter writer.”
His big hands balled into fists. “I got a murder here. Another one. And it’s the kind of murder smart people try. So I don’t give a damn about that stupid letter. I want to know how many times you came back to the Inn last night?”
Wells had ordered Annie to stay in her room, but Max made forays in and out, and he picked up quite a bit of information from other guests. Idell had been quite cheerful the last night of her life, visiting animatedly with various guests. She hadn’t changed from the dress she wore to the funeral. She ate dinner in her apartment on the east side of the second floor, and was on duty at the desk during the early evening, giving way to the night clerk at nine P.M. When found Thursday morning, she was dressed as she had been the night before. She was in her office, which was to the left behind the counter area. A door from the office opened out into the Inn grounds. That door was open. The office light was on. On the floor, where it had fallen from her hand as she fell back in a seizure, was a single sherry glass. The sherry remaining in the glass had spattered on the wooden floor. The glass with its dried residue had been sent to the laboratory for examination, as had the crystal top of the sherry decanter. The sherry too, had been sent to the laboratory. Beneath her body, crushed against the faded damask rose upholstery, was the Wednesday afternoon issue of the Chastain Courier. Red pencil circled Bobby Frazier’s byline to the lead story, and red pencil underlined the sentence reading: The bereaved widower is offering a $5,000 reward for information leading to the arrest and conviction of Mrs. Webster’s murderer.
After the last policeman finally left, Max and Annie slipped out the back door.
Annie glanced back over her shoulder. “Do you suppose Wells will arrest me if he finds out I’ve left my room?”
Max wasn’t worried. “No. You just hacked him, bringing up the letter again.”
They took the alley to the McIlwain grounds. Annie stiffened at the back gate, pointing to the placard jammed into the grayish dirt.
“Although this is now known as Whitsett’s Alley, after the proprietor of a print shop which stood here in the early 1800s, this is the site of the earliest Chastain racecourse, which was laid out in January of 1735. Races began in February and nearby planters entered the pride of their stables. Prizes included silver cups, bowls, or salvers. Race week culminated annually in the Jockey Ball, which opened with a stately minuet but included vigorous country dancing. Supper might have included baked turkeys, terrapin stews, iced cakes, partridge, quail, and goose, Madeira and Port wines, and punch.”
Annie glanced wildly around. “That old woman is everywhere, but you never see her. It’s giving me the creeps!”
The gate screeched like a cat with a stepped-on tail, and Annie jumped a foot.
“Gothic heroine,” he murmured.
“Don’t be obnoxious,” she retorted.
They found Lucy at the side of the house, pruning a wisteria vine. She wore a floppy pink gardening hat, a denim skirt, and tailored cotton blouse. At the sound of their footsteps, she looked up, took a deep breath and visibly gathered strength.
“I suppose it’s true.” But she didn’t need their confirmation. “I don’t understand it, though. Corinne and Idell had nothing in common. Oh, they knew each other, of course. We all know each other. We’ve lived here so long, and we are neighbors. But why would anyone kill both Corinne and Idell? I don’t suppose Idell had a heart attack?” She looked at them hopefully. “Could it be that?”
“They aren’t sure yet what killed her,” Max said, “but I heard the cops talking about poison. That’s what they’re looking for.”
“It doesn’t make any kind of sense. Not Idell.”
“Actually, it does make sense.” Annie described Idell’s interest in the reward, and the idea that she may have seen the writer of the plot letter.
Lucy’s face looked as though it had been chiseled out of pond ice.
“Louisa Binning insists the letter must have been written after hours,” Max explained.
“And that means the
typist had a key to the Society building.”
Lucy drew her breath in sharply. “That’s dreadful.” If her face had looked worn before, now it appeared absolutely stricken. “Oh, my God. Someone with a key.” Then she shook her head. Her voice was high. “Chief Wells doesn’t believe the letter matters.”
Annie looked at her gravely. “Don’t you see how wrong that is? Lucy, please. You know these people. You know everyone who could have gotten into that building. Won’t you help us? Won’t you tell us what you really think?”
For an instant, Annie felt that it trembled in the balance, because Lucy understood.
Who could better judge the motives and passions of her longtime friends and neighbors? Lucy knew them all:
Leighton, the charming, handsome, not-so-grieved widower.
Gail, the emotional, love-struck, frightened niece.
Bobby, the abrasive, tough, self-serving reporter.
Roscoe, the self-contained but passionate lawyer.
John, the ambitious, determined, aloof doctor.
Sybil, the lusty, willful, spoiled sybarite.
Tim, the gifted, immature, self-centered artist.
Edith, the nervous, sensitive, hardworking clubwoman.
Miss Dora, the eccentric, unpredictable, waspish old woman.
Annie held her breath. Lucy could help them. She felt so sure of it. If only she would—
Lucy tucked the shears under her arm, slipped off her gardening gloves. Then she clasped her hands together to hide their trembling. Tears glistened in her eyes as she shook her head. “No.” Her voice was as faint as the whistle of wind in a cavern. “No!”
Max ordered veal marsala. Annie debated between corned beef on rye and a chili hamburger and picked the latter.
“There has been some mild concern of late about cholesterol,” he said conventionally.
“I think I’ll have chocolate fudge pie for dessert.”
“How about adding a dollop of whipped cream?”
“Good idea.”
He sighed. “You are almost Victorian in your pigginess.”
“If I could go back in time, for culinary pleasures, it would be difficult to pick between a Christmas dinner in Victorian England and a wedding feast in ancient Rome.”
“Does this mean you are going to develop a matronly figure in your old age?”
“Gee, I don’t know. Stick around and find out.”
“And have a lot of fun along the way.”
“I’ll shake on that,” and she stuck out a hand. She pumped his hand hard for an instant, then paused and the pleasure seeped out of her face, replaced by worry and discouragement. “Dammit, Lucy knows who wrote that letter. Don’t you think? Why else would she always get in such a swivet when we ask her about it?”
Max put down his fork, looking about as stricken as Lucy had.
She mumbled past a mouthful of chili hamburger. “What’s wrong?”
“God, do you suppose Gail wrote it?”
Annie stopped chewing to stare at him. “What makes you think that?”
“Lucy’s crazy about Gail—and she’s looked like hell ever since Corinne got bumped off.”
She put her burger down on the plate. “That makes just enough sense to be true.” She squinted in concentration. “No, no, wait a minute. That doesn’t jibe, because Gail’s panicked about Bobby.”
“Is she?” Max said coolly.
“Sure she is. She ran to us to see if we could help. She’s acted like a heroine tied to the rails every time Bobby is mentioned.”
“Look at it this way,” Max suggested. “If she’s a double murderess, that lavender blue persona of hers has to be more than a little contrived. There may be a hell of a lot more to her than just a pretty face.”
Annie looked at him admiringly. “Beneath that Jack Armstrong exterior lurks a Stephen King imagination. I’m impressed.”
He smiled modestly.
They ate in silence for a moment, then, as Annie swallowed her last fat-laden bite, she said purposefully, “Okay, we’ve got first-class analytical brains. Right?”
“Of course.”
“So let’s think. Why was the letter written?”
“One, to embarrass Corinne,” Max suggested. “Or, two, to warn her. You know, something on the order of those street corner signs: repent while you have time.”
“Or, three,” Annie offered, “it might have been designed to stir up trouble between Corinne and the not-so-well-disguised suspects in the Moneypot plot so that the water would be well-muddied when Corinne was murdered. Or, four, to implicate me.”
Max pounced on the last two. “But they would presuppose that murder was intended when the letter was first written.”
Annie sighed heavily. “Maybe we don’t have first-class brains.”
The waiter removed their plates, and Max ordered two beers.
Annie reached for the dessert menu, murmuring, “Fudge pie.”
“Nobody would mix beer and fudge pie.” But his tone wasn’t altogether certain.
Annie reluctantly put down the dessert menu. “Actually, I’m full. Another time.”
Max returned to the letter. “If we knew the real reason it was written, it would be a hell of a lot easier to pick out the writer.”
She propped her chin on her hand. “Sure. Reason one is motivated by anger. Reason two is more ambivalent. The writer is mad but willing to give her another chance. But reasons three and four—”
He nodded. “Yeah. The die is cast.”
Max pulled an envelope from his pocket and listed their suspects.
Annie nodded at the first name. “Okay. Let’s take Leighton. He married Corinne and lost the career he wanted. No kids. Not much to care about in his life, so he started to go to seed. Drank too much. But always a gentleman. Then he meets this attractive young woman, who cares about him as a person, not as the financial underpinning of a big house.”
“If he wrote it, it would have to be Reason Three.”
“Because he wasn’t really mad at Corinne, was he? He was disillusioned, and maybe a little bitter. But not mad. And he wouldn’t expect that letter to change her, certainly not in any way that could benefit him. Her pride would never allow her to agree to a divorce. So his only motive to write the letter would be to provide a handful of suspects in her murder.”
“Which it should have accomplished—except the police chief suffers from xenophobia.” Max put a checkmark by Leighton’s name.
“Is Leighton that kind of man?” Annie wondered doubtfully. “Devious and crafty? He seems so above-board, so likable—”
“Such a gentleman,” Max parroted sarcastically.
“Well, he is!”
“Yeah. But he’s a man, too. And he’d fallen in love. What was it worth to him?”
“I don’t know.” She looked at Max for a moment. What was his love worth to her? Everything. Anything. Yes, maybe she had to reconsider Leighton’s motives.
“As for Gail, I hate to say it, but I sure can see her writing the letter.”
Annie nodded reluctantly. Gail was weak, but she had the cunning and stubbornness of the weak. She would fight for what mattered to her, with any weapon she could find. “She could have written it to strike back at her aunt.”
“Or she could have figured that a letter like that would go a long way to spread the wealth in a murder investigation.”
“That’s too Machiavellian for her,” Annie objected.
“How about Bobby? He could have gotten Gail’s key to the Society.”
Annie shook her head vehemently.
“Sure he could have,” Max insisted.
“Oh, I know that. But he wouldn’t have written that letter. He’s too direct. Too masculine.”
Max’s brows drew down in a dark frown. “I seem to notice a pattern to your objections. Apparently, good-looking men are exempted from suspicion.”
“Don’t be silly. I can’t help it if Leighton and Bobby are attractive.”
“
How about Sanford?”
“He isn’t attractive, but that’s not the reason I can see him doing the letter. Actually, he’s a natural. He acted furious when I read the letter, but that could be a cover.” She remembered his angry face in his office, and his cold laughter. I could have strangled her. She shivered. “He’s kind of scary.”
“How about Roscoe?”
“No way. He’s much too careful to do something like that. I mean, he is a lawyer. He’d figure out the letter could be traced to the Society. He’d think it was a crazy idea.”
“Something no lawyer would dream of doing. Right?”
“Oh.” She considered it. “He might have done it because he’d figure nobody would expect him to do it. That would be doubly clever.”
“He’s a very clever fellow.”
“How about Jessica?” she asked.
“Jessica would act out of pure anger, if she knew how Corinne were upsetting Roscoe.”
“The same would go for Edith. And believe me, Edith would have loved to sandbag Corinne. As would have Sybil.” Her mouth twisted dryly. “But I doubt if Sybil can write her name. And the same goes for Tim.”
“Oh, I think you underestimate Sybil,” Max began.
Annie almost rose to the bait, until she saw the mischievous pleasure in his dark blue eyes. She folded her lips firmly shut.
Max made a star by the last name. “Of course, Lucy’s an excellent suspect. She has keys and lives right next door to the Prichard House.”
“She certainly could have managed it,” Annie agreed, “but what happens when we try on the motives? Did she have any reason to be angry with Corinne? All we’ve picked up is an old story about Gail’s father. Seems a little weak to me.” She finished her beer, thought briefly about fudge pie, and turned her hands up in defeat. “I still think it’s Miss Dora. Or maybe it’s like Murder On The Orient Express. The Board members all got together at three in the morning and wrote the damned thing together.”
Every time Annie saw one of the people on their list that evening during the final Mystery Night program, she wondered: Did you write the letter? Kill Corinne? And Idell?
The Mystery Night crowd was sparse. Only fifty-seven showed up, although the evening had been a sell-out like all the others. Both detectives and Mystery Night suspects showed a marked lack of enthusiasm and a tendency to look over their collective shoulders, except, of course, for the indefatigable Mrs. Brawley, who cornered Annie in the Suspect Interrogation Tent.
Design for Murder Page 22
