by Carolyn Hart
Reed stood on the threshold, staring at Annie. He was tall and slender, his shoulders bony beneath his polo shirt. His khaki shorts sagged. His huaraches had a battered appearance as if they’d been immersed in salt water and left to dry in a hot sun. He looked like a man who’d just arrived home from the office, a trace of five o’clock shadow on his pointed chin, and changed into casual clothes. In the campaign posters there had been more of a youthful aura, his dark hair neatly combed.
He broke the silence. “Hello.” The single brusque word held surprise and a question.
Annie understood his response. Obviously she’d not arrived on his doorstep by chance. The house was isolated, bounded by the forest reserve on one side, an undeveloped tract on the other, the ocean to the east. It didn’t attract itinerant salespersons or distributors of handbills.
“Hello.” Annie tried for a charming smile. “I’m Annie Darling—”
“Annie Darling!” It was an exclamation. There was immediate recognition and a flash of something—was it hostility or wariness or perhaps simply curiosity?—in his light green eyes. Then the moment was past and Annie was uncertain what, if anything, she had glimpsed.
He pulled open the door. “Come in. But you didn’t need to come and see me.” He looked uncomfortable, almost sheepish. “I wanted to talk to you about your calling up the medical examiner in regard to Meg’s death. Her daughter asked me to speak with you. Jenna was upset, but as it turns out—I had a talk with the police chief—your insistence on an autopsy was warranted.” His sudden frown was dark, intense. He looked angry, sad, and forlorn. “I can’t believe Meg’s dead.” He took a deep breath. “So there’s no complaint to be made. I should”—his look and smile were suddenly boyish and much more attractive—“have made sure of my facts before I called you. No harm done, I hope. But I’m sorry you came all the way out here for nothing.”
Annie brushed back a tangle of thick curls. “Oh, I didn’t come to see you.”
If he’d been puzzled earlier, he now looked bewildered.
Annie wished she weren’t always blurting out the truth. His phone call afforded a great opening to talk to him, possibly to learn more about Meg Heath and what had been happening in her life. But no, here she was, making it clear she wasn’t in this out-of-the-way spot in regard to Meg Heath’s death. Well, that was all right. Billy Cameron wouldn’t thank her for sticking her nose into his investigation anyway.
“Mr. Reed, I’m looking for Cole Crandall.” She darted a look beyond him into the spacious hallway with its pale gold ceramic floor and slender, twisting terra-cotta vases. With dramatic flowers—perhaps vivid and elegant stalks of bird of paradise or Heliconia—the passageway would have glowed with romance and style. Instead, the vases were empty, dust smeared the golden floor, and the mirror along one wall was streaked. Even as she spoke, Annie realized the house behind him had an air of emptiness with no sounds of occupancy, no voices or footsteps, music, or murmur of television. She pulled facts from her memory. Reed was divorced. She didn’t recall the circumstances. Obviously his son, Stuart, was in his custody because the high school student was of an age where the choice to go or stay would be his. In any event, the lack of commotion probably meant that Stuart Reed wasn’t there nor was his guest, Cole, if Annie’s experience with Rachel was any indicator. The house immediately began to buzz when she came home from school, with phone calls, giggling girls coming in and out, Ping-Pong, TV, and always music, usually the latest by BBMac and Rascall Flats. She considered Annie and Max’s jazz favorites bo-ring.
“Cole?” He glanced behind him as if a visiting teenager might tumble from behind a curtain. “Yeah.” His tone was vague. “He’s been staying with Stuart but they aren’t here. You know how it is”—a shrug.
“They’re probably at some pizza hangout.”
Annie was no authority on dealing with teens. Rachel had only been living with them for a year and a half. But there were some rules. If Rachel didn’t intend to come straight home from school, she called and left word where she would be. Maybe it was different for guys. Obviously it was different for Stuart Reed.
“Anyway”—Wayne’s smile was disarming—
“they’ll roll in sometime. I can ask Cole to call you. Any message?” Reed jingled car keys in his pocket.
There was, of course, no way to give any inkling of the true reason for her visit. It would be hideously embarrassing to Cole for there to be any discussion of his mother and Pudge. Annie thought it likely Wayne Reed would be understanding, but it would be counterproductive to give Cole a reason to dislike her and by extension add to his grievances against Pudge. Realizing that her silence had stretched to an uncomfortable length, she bolted into speech. “Oh, it’s not important. I wanted to talk to him about what he saw Sunday night on the Island Packet.” She backed down the steps. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll get in touch with him. Sorry to have bothered you….” And she was at her car and opening the door.
As she drove off, Annie slumped in the seat, hot, tired, and cross. She hadn’t handled that very well. But at least she hadn’t revealed the true reason for her effort to contact Cole. Let Wayne Reed make of her visit what he would.
Tomorrow, after all, was only Tuesday. Sometime before Friday she’d figure a way to talk to Cole Crandall. The car picked up speed. For now, she was going home.
Home. What a lovely, happy, good word.
She whistled “A Happy Wanderer” all the way to their gray curving road and only broke off in midtune when she saw the long pink Rolls-Royce parked in the drive.
Ten
EMMA’S GLARE GAVE her strong features a Mount Rushmore grandeur. A summery pink caftan with white polka dots in no way softened her appearance. It was rather like adorning one of the massive granite visages with a peppermint-striped bowtie. She stood in front of the mantel in their terrace room, grim, purposeful, and determined. She held a tumbler of iced tea in a good imitation of a death grip.
Annie took a deep swallow of Max’s perfectly brewed iced tea, enhanced by a sprig of mint from their garden and slices of orange and lemon. It didn’t cool her off. The more she thought about Emma’s astonishing news, the madder—and hotter—she got. “I can’t believe that’s what Billy’s decided! It doesn’t make sense.”
Max was quick to come to his old friend’s defense. “Now, ladies, let’s be fair—”
“Fair.” The grumble came from deep in Emma’s throat. “As far as I’m concerned, he’s a sexist pig.”
Annie plopped her glass on a coaster, popped up from the cheerful yellow sofa, began to pace. “That’s exactly right. Now if we were talking men, he’d never insist on accident or suicide. Women, hey, they fall down, pop pills, whatever. According to Billy, Pamela somehow fell overboard, and since she doesn’t remember what happened, well, what else do you expect with a head wound?”
Emma joined in. “And he insists Meg committed suicide even though she was planning a special dinner for tonight. Women do not plan dinner parties and then gulp down enough sedatives to choke a horse.”
Max folded his arms. “Give Billy his due. His judgment has nothing to do with sex. He’s looking at the facts, Emma, just like he told you. Nobody saw anything on the excursion boat to suggest that Pamela was attacked. Admittedly Pamela doesn’t remember what happened. Billy says she’s obviously too weak to be dissembling, so Annie was right and she didn’t jump. But he thinks she had a touch of vertigo—you know how she hates heights—and stumbled forward, lost her balance, banged her head, and over she went. He’s on even firmer ground with Meg’s death. He says it has to be suicide since there was no trace of the drug in the sherry decanter and Dr. Burford says the dose was much too big to be accidental.”
Max looked from Annie to Emma. He lifted his shoulders in a rueful shrug. “You’ve got to admit nothing in the evidence points to murder.”
Emma glowered. “All right. Let’s look at it. Here are the facts according to Billy: One—Meg’s death resulted from in
gesting an overdose of a sedative, specifically diazepam, aka Valium. Two—residue in the wineglass was drugged. Three—no trace of the sedative was found in the sherry decanter. Four—in her bathroom wastebasket, a prescription vial in her name for Valium was found empty. Five—her fingerprints overlay any foreign prints on the vial. Six—the assumption is that she—and only she—dissolved the tablets in her bedtime glass of sherry.” Emma looked like Mount Rushmore on a glacial day in February. “I don’t give a rat’s ass about facts. She didn’t do it.”
“And Pamela was pushed.” Annie drank thirstily.
“If Billy refuses to see that the three crimes are linked, he’ll never solve this case.”
Max leaned back in the overstuffed chair, turned his hands palm up. “What difference does it make which crime he solves if there’s only one perp?”
“Because”—Emma sounded as didactic as Sherlock Holmes—“motive matters. Billy’s going to look in all the wrong places. His theory is that Smith’s murder grew out of a carjacking or holdup. Maybe even a sour drug deal.”
Annie fluffed her hair, wished she could do the same for her spirits. “How can he ignore the fact that Bob Smith came to see Meg Friday morning? Doesn’t he think it’s just a tiny bit curious that Smith is shot Saturday night, Pamela is pushed off the boat Sunday night, and Meg is dead Monday morning?”
Emma was sardonic. “Billy doesn’t quite go so far as to claim it’s all a coincidence, but his mind is working on the general theme that Smith was probably an old friend of Meg’s and that Smith’s arrival couldn’t have been a very big deal because Meg kept right on with her regular schedule. Billy talked to Claudette Taylor and she said Meg had dinner at the club Friday evening with Wayne Reed, saw Jenna and Jason Saturday afternoon, went to the ten o’clock service Sunday morning and on the mystery cruise Sunday night. There’s no suggestion she had any further contact with Smith. Billy’s trying to trace Smith’s activities on Saturday. Billy hopes someone will remember seeing him, but in August it’s hard for anyone to stand out, even a dandy in white trousers and a striped blazer.”
Annie plucked the slice of orange from her glass, chewed the pulp. “That’s the trouble with writing off Meg as a suicide. Billy’s not looking at the main suspects.”
“What suspects?” Max looked blank.
“Like Emma said”—she was sure Emma had said it at some point—“money is a very good motive. Jason and Jenna are going to be very rich now and I’ll bet Claudette’s legacy is substantial.”
Max slowly shook his head. “If there was no sedative in the sherry in the decanter, the sedative must have been put into the glass. I don’t see how anyone except Meg could have done that.”
Emma’s blue eyes gleamed. “As Marigold said in The Case of the Lumbering Lizard: When the dragon of impossibility lifts his fire-breathing snout, beware the sting in the tail.”
Annie did not look at Max. He did not look at her. They were both silent. Annie would not have admitted to a stricken silence. Indeed, she was once again fighting a compulsion to shout, “Marigold isn’t real.” Instead, she tried to frame a response. What could she say? Beware the sting in the tail…. What the heck did that mean? Was Marigold suggesting that appearances are deceptive? Annie was appalled to realize she was seriously considering the pronouncements of a fictional detective. Moreover, as far as Annie was concerned, Marigold Rembrandt, despite her legion of admirers, had all the charm of Emma on a bad day. Marigold reflected her creator’s overweening confidence and she did it with just about as much grace as that lumbering lizard…. Sting in the tail…If you were looking at the burst of flame from the creature’s head, you wouldn’t watch the tail.
“Oh.” Annie was as excited as a retriever splashing toward game. “Of course. That’s what we’re supposed to think. That’s why there isn’t any Valium in the decanter. The murderer emptied it out and put in fresh sherry. Therefore when the lab found residue of the drug only in the glass, everyone was supposed to assume Meg put it there.”
Emma was nodding her approval. Max looked thoughtful.
“Exactly.” Emma was utterly confident. “It’s the only possibility. Someone ground up the pills and put them in the decanter. Meg drank the glass of sherry Sunday evening, and of course she never woke up.”
“Wait a minute.” Max held up a hand. “Are you suggesting someone entered her room late Sunday night and replaced the sherry in the decanter?”
“Précisément.” Emma smiled with the regal condescension of a queen dealing with doltish ministers.
Annie gritted her teeth. Marigold’s habit of replying in French was another irritant. “Yeah.” Annie’s all-American growl went right over Emma’s silver coiffure. But Annie was too excited at their theory to harbor a grudge. “Of course that’s what happened. And”—she leaned forward excitedly—“this morning Claudette found her body, and that means the door to Meg’s suite was unlocked.”
Max reached out to stroke Dorothy L. The plump white cat gazed at him with adoring blue eyes. “So I guess Billy needs to get out the handcuffs for Claudette. Isn’t she the only one who was there Sunday night?”
Emma tapped stubby fingers in a quick tattoo on the mantel. “Surely Meg’s children have keys to the house. I don’t think we can assume Claudette is guilty simply because she was the only one in the house last night.”
Annie recalled the sunporch with its view of the sea. “This morning the door from the balcony into Meg’s suite was unlocked. If you saw that house, you’d know that anyone could easily climb to the second floor up the iron grillwork of the supporting columns.”
Max’s expression was skeptical. “So somebody—this mythical murderer—poisoned the decanter sometime on Sunday—”
Annie broke in. “It was easy as pie. Smith was killed Saturday night, and everything must have been planned by then. Meg went to church Sunday morning and very likely Claudette went with her. That left the house empty. There are no neighbors. Anybody could climb one of those wrought-iron pillars, scoot inside, drug the sherry, and be out of there in five minutes. Or if it was one of the family, unlock the front door and hurry up the stairs. If Claudette’s the murderer, she had all afternoon to drug the sherry.”
Max continued unabashed. “—and returns that night, presuming Meg to be dead, and unlocks the front door or crawls up to the balcony or tiptoes in from the hallway with a fresh bottle of sherry, dumps out the contents of the decanter, rinses it, pours in fresh sherry, and departs, carrying the empty bottle. Sounds too complicated.”
“Somebody has gone”—Annie’s tone was grave—“to a lot of trouble, decoying Bob Smith out to Ghost Crab Pond, checking him out of the inn and removing all his belongings, delivering a free ticket to entice Pamela on the cruise. If we’re right, if somehow the decanter was cleaned up, look how successful it was! Billy’s sure that Meg committed suicide and he’s not looking at anyone connected to Meg.”
“But we will.” Emma was as confident as Marigold Rembrandt at her most insufferable.
For once, Annie was in complete agreement.
Annie and Max climbed the stairs hand in hand. On the second floor, she stopped, looking toward Rachel’s room and the line of light beneath her door.
Max squeezed her fingers. He understood without her saying a word. “Are you going to talk to her now?”
She hesitated. When would there be a better time? Despite the grim day, dinner had been fun, with cheerful descriptions of Rachel’s day at school, an admiring discussion of Emma and Dr. Burford’s stratagem to protect Pamela, and a serious discussion, although Max didn’t contribute, of whether Ben Affleck was the handsomest star of all. Annie hadn’t mentioned the plan to have Pudge, Sylvia, and Cole over on Friday night. She had grown up with the maxim that unpleasant topics are never discussed at the dinner table and she was afraid that no matter how she couched the invitation, Rachel would be upset. Annie remembered Rachel’s cheerful goodnight. “Don’t let the bedbugs bite,” she’d caroled as she ra
ced up the stairs. Rachel always moved fast when she was happy, and tonight she’d been her energetic, bubbly, laughing self.
Annie squared her shoulders, tapped on the door. “Rachel?”
Max gave an approving nod and strolled toward their room.
There was no answer.
Annie knocked again, eased the door open wide enough to peek inside. Rachel, fresh from her bath in green shorty pajamas, reclined in the comfortable embrace of her purple beanbag chair, eyes closed, headphones covering her ears. One foot waggled in time to music that would most likely have sounded like clanging trash cans to the unschooled taste of Annie and Max. Max loved jazz and Annie adored show tunes. In fact, she had a secret admiration for John Philip Sousa. A good march pleased her almost as much as a mesmerizing mystery. There was nothing like a march to energize spirits.
Annie’s face softened. How dear of Rachel to use headphones. Yes, in the afternoon their house boomed like a teenage haunt, but at night Rachel was sensitive to the presence of others.
Rachel’s eyes popped open. She saw Annie, smiled, pulled off the headphones. The music blared, then she switched it off.
“Hi. May I come in?” Annie waited in the doorway. Rachel spread her hand at a blue beanbag. “Sure. What’s up?”
Annie dropped onto the supple vinyl and felt as if she were back in college. There had been lots of late-night talks about life and love and men and dreams. She curled her legs underneath her. “Rachel, have I told you lately that I love you?”
Rachel made a circle with her thumb and forefinger. “Me, too.”
That’s what love was. A circle. Without start or finish. A golden band of caring and goodness and respect.
