by Carolyn Hart
The whole prospect was absurd. That’s why no one—with the possible exception of Emma Clyde, and Emma might have chosen to remain with Pamela simply because she was unconscious, not because Emma feared for Pamela’s safety—was willing to believe Annie’s insistence that murder had been attempted. Who would try to kill Pamela Potts? It was as ridiculous as imagining a plot against Raggedy Ann.
Annie pushed away that thought and focused on the lifeboat and the curve of metal overhanging the sea.
If Pamela had fallen on the other side of the lashed boat, she would not have been visible to Cole Crandall. Therefore she tumbled over right here, within inches of where Annie stood. Cole said there had been no one about and then he heard screams and he turned toward the bow. But Pamela wasn’t screaming. Pamela was already unconscious.
Annie glanced toward the deck that ran between the railing and the housing for the upper saloon. The windows were now dark. When the boat was in the Sound, the cabin was lighted, but those inside would not be able to see out into the night.
There were occasional lights strung along the deck, but this portion was shadowy.
Someone—including Pamela—could have stepped out through the doorway as Cole sauntered aft.
Annie eased back to the chain, slipped beneath it. She walked to the cabin door. “Max”—she waved toward the stern—“pretend you are Cole. Go toward the stern. Take your time.”
Max did as she asked. At a slow amble, he moved into the darkness.
Annie was quick. She darted from the doorway and ducked under the chain. There was even time to pause and watch Max’s slow progress. Definitely there was time enough for someone to come out of the cabin and hurry across the corridor. Max was just now turning to look toward her.
But every time she came back to her bedrock conviction: Pamela followed the rules, all the rules, from a prohibition to remain behind a chain to the church’s admonition to finish the course. Pamela wouldn’t step over the chain, and most emphatically Pamela would never commit suicide. Pamela would have abhorred being a public spectacle, bringing the boat to a shuddering stop, becoming the subject of a dramatic rescue effort.
So, if there was time for Pamela to cross the deck, there was time for someone else to do so. But where was Pamela when this person crossed? Surely there wasn’t enough time for an altercation. What could have happened?
The puzzle pieces slotted in her mind. Pamela didn’t scream. The scream came from an onlooker who spotted Pamela in the air. She tumbled, arms and legs lax, because she was unconscious.
Annie moved out to the lifeboat, once again ignoring the cautioning calls. She ran the flashlight along the rim of the boat. A piece of the covering tarp sagged. It was loose. She tugged and the canvas yielded in her hand. She pulled it back, swung the flashlight over the interior of the wooden boat. The boat was old, the wood discolored. She squinted, bent nearer, held the beam steady. Careful not to touch anything, she craned to look between the seats, studied every inch of the flooring.
A scrap of black plastic was snagged on the bottom.
Annie felt a surge of triumph. “Come here, Ben. I need you to be a witness.”
He approached slowly, his eyes suspicious. He stepped over the chain, held to the side of the boat, looked inside.
Annie pointed the light straight at her discovery. “Do you see that piece of plastic? It looks like it came from a big black trash bag.”
“Maybe.” His shrug was casual, disinterested.
“Yeah, that’s what it looks like.”
“How did it get there?” She kept her tone reasonable, simply an inquiry.
Ben scratched his bristly cheek. “Maybe it blew there. Maybe it was stuck on a crewman’s shoe the last time somebody checked the boat.” He tilted his head. “Didn’t you find the cover loose?”
“Yes.” Annie knew why. There hadn’t been time to fasten the tarp.
Ben tapped his flashlight on the boat. “A loose cover means that plastic could of got there a bunch of ways. The wind. Or maybe it was a crow. They carry things and put them the damndest places. One time on the Miss Jolene, I kept seeing a crow duck under a port lifeboat. I took a look and found a stash of shiny beads. That little scrap of plastic don’t mean a thing. Thing is, you’re trying to make something out of nothing.”
Annie carefully replaced the tarp, her face grim. Ben dismissed the importance of the snagged plastic. One glance at Max told her his attitude was the same. Billy would agree with them. Not with her.
Yet she knew what had happened as clearly as though she’d stood and watched. The murderer came aboard with a plastic trash bag folded as small as possible, tucked in a back pocket or a purse. At some point, the tarp on the lifeboat was loosened, the plastic bag spread between the seats, Pamela was knocked out, dragged to the lifeboat, and tumbled inside it. Later, when the coast was clear, the deck empty except for Cole Crandall walking aft, the murderer darted from the saloon, stepped over the chain, lifted Pamela from the lifeboat, and dumped her over the edge. Her attacker grabbed the trash bag, pulled the tarp over the boat, and ducked around the far side of the lifeboat to hurry along the deck to the stairs. By this time everyone’s attention was focused on Pamela’s fall. The bag was quickly folded and put in a pocket or purse.
Annie felt certain she knew what had happened. No one would believe her. No one, not Max or Ben or Billy. But the murderer knew that Pamela had survived and was now at the hospital.
Who was looking out for Pamela right this minute?
The taillights of the Maserati glowed.
Annie pulled even with the car, fumbled to find the window controls, lowered the pane on the passenger side of Emma’s Rolls-Royce.
Max’s window was down, too. “Annie, I’ll meet you at the hospital.”
She shook her head. “There’s no need. You’re still wet. Go home and take a hot shower. If I leave the hospital, Emma can bring me.”
In the glow from the dash, his face was concerned. “If you leave?”
“Pamela’s in danger. If somebody pushed her off the boat—and I know that’s what happened—the objective was to kill her. Well, everybody on that boat knows she’s going to be in the hospital.” She wasn’t angry, but she was determined. “I’ll stay the night if there’s no one who will be with her.”
It took him a moment to answer. But he wasn’t grudging when he spoke. “I understand. I don’t believe she’s in danger, but you could be right. Call me when you know what you’ll be doing.”
“I will. Give Dorothy L. a hug.” Their plump white cat adored Max and most likely would never notice Annie’s absence.
Max’s car pulled ahead. Once on Sand Dollar Road in a long line of cars, Annie drummed her fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. She wished Max agreed with her conviction that Pamela was in danger. However, she understood his attitude and Billy’s as well. They didn’t really know Pamela. They saw her as a single woman who might have succumbed to depression. But she was grateful that Max understood her decision to go to the hospital to protect her friend. She saw his taillights receding as she turned right, taking the road to the hospital.
Traffic thinned and the big Rolls zoomed forward. Annie wondered if the captain of the QEII felt nearly as empowered. What a car, the engine a low throaty purr, the massive body rolling noiseless and unstoppable. No wonder Emma had such presence. Of course, Emma would see it the other way about, supremely confident that the magnificent driving machine merely reflected her persona.
At any other time, Annie would have been thrilled to drive the Rolls. She’d once bested Emma in a contest, winning the right to drive the Rolls as a prize, but at the last minute Emma had held tight to the keys.
Annie turned the car smoothly into the hospital parking lot, the occasional golden pool of light from the lampposts emphasizing the black shadows of the hedges, throwing long streaks of darkness from the tall pines. She wished the jaunt in the car was the reason for her outing, not the frightening prospect of a help
less Pamela at risk from an unknown attacker. The thought seemed absurd. Who would attack Pamela? Why Pamela?
She parked at the far end of the lot, leaving a free space on either side. Far be it from her to leave Emma’s Rolls vulnerable to scratches. Walking fast, she headed for the emergency room, carrying with her, an odd accompaniment on a journey into fear, the ripe banana smell of a huge pittosporum bush. When she stepped inside, the sweet scent was overwhelmed by hospital odors, medicines and food and disinfectants and sickness.
Emma Clyde lounged, sandaled feet crossed, on a green vinyl sofa right next to the automatic door that led to the cubicles for emergency room patients. She held a cell phone pressed to one ear.
As Annie’s shoes clicked on the faux marble floor, Emma looked up, lifted a stubby hand in greeting. Her silver nails matched the silver streaks in her georgette caftan. “We’ll change shifts at two A.M…. No word yet…. I’ll let you know.” She clicked off the phone, patted the cushion next to her.
Annie didn’t sit down. She laced her fingers together and stared at the closed door. “How is she?”
“So far as I know, there’s been no change.” Emma was reassuring. “The outlook is positive. She was breathing very well en route. Dr. Burford’s with her now.”
Annie flung out her hands, talked fast. “What if there’s another entrance to the ER?” Annie thought there was. Maybe she ought to scout out the hospital right now, find out. “Somebody tried to kill her and now she’s unconscious. We need a guard. The doctor will be in and out. If she’s all by herself, she’s helpless—”
Emma reached out, grabbed Annie’s hand, pulled her down to the sofa. “Take a deep breath. I didn’t forget what you said in the saloon. You think she was pushed.” She raised an eyebrow. “Maybe she was. Maybe she wasn’t. I’m not taking any chances.” One silver-tipped finger pointed down the hall, empty except for a custodian pushing a mop. “There’s one other entrance to the cubicles. You go through those swinging doors”—she pointed at doors to the left of the ER reception counter—“and go down a hall—the one that leads to the hospital proper—then turn right into a short hall. There’s an unmarked door across from the women’s rest room. It’s for doctors and staff. I called Henny, told her everything. She came immediately and she’s on duty there.”
“Henny?” Annie began to relax. Henny was much more than simply an actress and a mystery devotee, she was capable and savvy, had been a World War II pilot, a teacher, and, after her retirement, a two-time Peace Corps volunteer. Henny could be counted on.
Emma held up her cell phone. “We’ve got it worked out. Henny’s been on the phone to the members of the Altar Guild. They’ll be here in relays. Two will be on duty through the night when she’s moved to a room. Now, Annie, I want to know all about Pamela’s cruise ticket.”
Annie related what she knew, which, of course, wasn’t much.
Emma tugged on a silver ringlet, pursed her crimson lips. “So, from what Ingrid told you, your impression is that Pamela had no doubt you’d sent the ticket. Pamela is very literal. There must have been a clear link to you.”
“Exactly. Besides…” Annie reiterated Pamela’s reverence for order. “So she didn’t jump. She wouldn’t do that. And in the lifeboat…” As Annie described the loose tarp and the scrap of plastic bag, she realized she had a rapt audience. Emma’s sapphire blue eyes glowed. She reminded Annie of Agatha poised to leap, every muscle supple, dangerous to any creature unwise enough to make a sudden movement in her presence, a huntress sure to capture her prey.
“Very good, Annie.” Emma’s raspy voice exuded admiration. “All that from a scrap of plastic bag. Oh, that’s very good. I’ll have to use it someday, the torn piece of trash bag snagged in a lifeboat providing the only telltale trace of premeditated murder.” She clapped her broad hands together, a huge diamond flashing. “Yet the scrap isn’t definitive proof of a crime. Had there been a strand of Pamela’s hair in the lifeboat, that would require the police to rethink their position. Instead, all we have is the remnant of a trash bag…. Sheer brilliance. Nothing to excite the police, only our canny investigator. Therefore Marigold—”
Annie gritted her teeth. That rapt attention was nothing more than Emma being a writer. The way Emma spoke the name of her septuagenarian sleuth—her voice brimming with blatant arrogance—drove Annie berserk. Annie wanted to shout, “She’s a maddening character, and Emma, SHE ISN’T REAL.” But Annie knew without doubt that she’d rather come snout to snout with the alligator in the lagoon behind her house than confront the Grande Dame of the American Mystery.
Emma flicked Annie an amused glance, her square face almost crinkling into a smile.
Annie had a horrid sense Emma was reading her mind with the same ease with which she plotted her whodunits.
Emma folded her arms across her imposing chest. “—must pursue the investigation without assistance. The resolution, of course, demonstrates once again the ineptitude of Detective Inspector Hector Houlihan.” Her canny blue eyes narrowed. “Marigold would perceive at once that Pamela was pushed. Just as you did.” A decisive nod. The springy silver curls quivered.
Annie exploded. “Emma, I don’t give a damn—” She jolted to a stop. Her eyes widened. “You believe me?”
“Of course.” Emma’s gaze was abstracted. “But I understand why no one else does. Have you ever considered a less likely candidate for attempted murder than Pamela Potts? Yet we can be assured that Pamela was the intended victim because of the ticket. Pamela was not a person to jump to conclusions. Or”—a raspy chuckle—“from a boat. Therefore she had reason to believe the ticket was provided by you. If that was a lie, it was deliberate, and the purpose was to hide the identity of the provider. When the result of Pamela’s presence on the cruise was her near death, it is reasonable to assume—as you have and as Marigold would—that the generous gesture was a mask for murder. All right”—her tone was decisive—“Pamela’s death is planned. Why?” Emma’s eyes glowed. “Oh yes, I like it. Instead of the victim everyone loves to hate, we have a victim no one could possibly wish to kill. What are the classic motives?” She ticked them off, those silver nails flashing. “Passion. Pride. Greed. Hatred. Revenge. Fear. All presuppose an intensity of life that has entirely escaped dear Pamela. She has never had a love affair—”
Annie wanted to hold up a hand, stop the remorseless flow of words. But she was spellbound.
“—and a quarrel that caused enough offense to result in a plan for murder would surely have been public knowledge. Therefore we can dismiss pride as a motive. That leads us to greed.” She shook her head. “Pamela has no money. We can, of course, check and see if she has a life insurance policy and, if so, the name of the beneficiary. But life insurance costs money. Pamela had no extra. Hatred? Who could hate inoffensive, boring Pamela? Revenge? Pamela’s life is an open book. So”—her voice was as near a purr as Annie had ever heard in a human—“that brings us to fear. Why would anyone fear Pamela? Because—”
Annie leaned forward, scarcely daring to hope. But Emma sounded so certain, so confident.
The writer’s eyes glittered with triumph. “—Pamela knows something.”
Annie sagged back against the sofa. The plastic squeaked. What a disappointment. “Emma”—Annie tried not to sound pettish, knew she’d failed—“Pamela would immediately call Billy if she saw something illegal going on.”
“Ah,” Emma crowed with certainty and delight, “but she doesn’t know that she knows.”
“Wait a minute.” Annie held up both hands. “If she knows, but doesn’t know she knows, why would anybody care? To be specific, if she doesn’t know she knows, there’s no reason to silence her.”
“But”—Emma’s lips curved in pleasure—“the murderer foresees that Pamela is certain to realize the importance of some piece of information. Therefore, he—or she—has no choice. Pamela must go. Now…” Emma pressed silver-tipped fingers to her temples.
Annie watched with the same f
ascination she would accord a butterfly emerging from a chrysalis.
Emma’s hands fell away. Her broad forceful face looked triumphant. In a rapid-fire, raspy monotone, she announced, “We will discover Pamela’s schedule for the past week and the upcoming week. We will find out who she saw this past week and who she would be seeing. We will cross-check those names against the list of passengers from tonight’s cruise. We will ascertain what activity on Pamela’s part triggered the murderer’s perception that information in her possession was of deadly importance.”
Once again Annie sagged wearily against the sofa. “Oh sure, Emma. That’s easier said than done. Talk about looking for needles in a haystack! My God, Pamela’s all over the island doing good. No, our best hope is that she’ll come to and be able to tell us what happened.”
Emma pulled a cellophane packet of jelly beans from her pocket, ripped it open, held it out to Annie.
Annie took a half dozen in her palm, welcomed the swift surge of sweetness from a papaya jelly bean, ate a red one—hmm, cherry—and munched on two grape.
Emma plumped a half dozen in her mouth, chewed. Her words were indistinct. “The ticket benefactor struck Pamela from behind. She didn’t see anybody. She won’t remember getting hit. She may not remember being on the cruise. Head wounds”—Emma swallowed the rest of the candy and her voice became authoritative—“often result in short-term memory loss. Marigold never expects to learn anything from the victim of a head wound. Forget about Pamela. It’s up to us.” Her bright blue eyes swung to Annie. “Do you have the list of passengers?”
Annie pointed at her purse. “I haven’t had a chance to look it over—”
A faint rendition of “Beer Barrel Polka” erupted.
Emma reached into her oversize carryall, pulled out her cell phone. The stanza, louder, sounded again. She punched on the phone. “Yes.” She sat bolt upright, her face intent.
Annie leaned forward, wished she could hear.
“Good work, Henny. You called nine-one-one? Good. Keep the door blocked.” A decisive nod. “Hold the fort. I’ll get help.”
