by Carolyn Hart
“Mr. Reed, listen, I got an idea.” Cole talked fast. He moved stiffly toward Rachel and her captor.
“Rachel and I can go out in a boat. C’mere, Rachel.” His face was white as paste. His eyes looked huge. A spiderweb hung down over one ear. He would have looked silly, like a Halloween joke, except for the dreadful understanding in his glance. He knew that Death was there, waiting for them. He gestured toward Rachel, urging her to come toward him.
Rachel took one step, then another away from Reed.
“See, I’ve got a rowboat”—Cole pointed toward the distant dock that poked out into the Sound—“and we can go for a row while you—” Cole was even with her now. He stepped past her, moved closer to Reed. He was close enough that Rachel could see the spatter of freckles standing out against his dead white face. Cole pointed again toward the Sound. His face suddenly lightened. “Oh, hey, wait a minute. There’s Mr. Durrell. See, he’s coming—”
Reed jerked to his right, looked toward the marsh. He was a figure of danger and desperation, his face wolflike, his shoulders hunched to do battle. The hand with the gun swerved, too.
Cole’s right foot flew up. The kick caught Reed’s wrist. The gun went off, the sound enormous in the silence of the summer afternoon. Cole lunged forward, his face desperate and afraid. With the rigid side of one hand, Cole chopped at Reed’s neck. The lawyer grunted in pain, wavered on his feet. The gun clattered onto the ground.
Cole yelled, “Run, Rachel.”
Reed clawed at his throat. He took a halting step, then another, toward the gun, which lay near the base of a ragged saw palmetto.
His breathing ragged, air whistling through half-open lips, Cole started after him, his hand lifted to strike again.
Reed twisted and caught Cole’s arm, flung him heavily to the ground, then reached down, pulled him to his feet, and heaved him through the air. Cole smacked against the ground, lay still, panting for breath.
Rachel wanted to run. She wanted to escape the dreadful struggle, the harshly drawn breaths, but Cole had come out to save her and she couldn’t leave him alone to face this terrible danger. Her eyes fixed on the shiny blue-black metal of the gun, she stumbled forward, grabbed it, and turned to aim at the shambling figure coming toward her, face twisted in anger, hands outstretched.
Car brakes squealed. A door slammed. “Rachel!” Annie’s agonized cry rose in the bright afternoon.
Rachel backed away as Reed came nearer and nearer. She held the gun straight, the barrel pointed at Reed’s chest. She had to shoot. She must. He was close now, only a few feet away. If he got the gun…Rachel whirled, using every ounce of strength, and threw the gun in a high arc toward the marsh.
Reed’s scream of anger was as vicious as a blow, harsher than the sirens shrilling nearer and nearer. Dust plumed beneath their wheels as two police cars roared down the street and bucked across the dusty yard. Doors opened and officers jumped out, service revolvers in hand.
Reed broke into a heavy-footed run.
The shout blared over a bullhorn. “Police. Halt. You’re under arrest.”
Reed was almost to the marsh when a swift Lou Pirelli came up from behind and slammed him to the ground. “Got him, Chief.” The lawyer lay facedown in the gray dirt. Lou knelt, manacled his captive’s hands behind him, jerked him to his feet.
Annie closed her arms around Rachel and Cole. Max gathered them all into a tight embrace.
Rachel twisted to watch as Lou escorted Reed to the police car. “He was going to kill us.” Her voice wavered, high and thin and breathless. “But Cole came right up to him and karate-kicked the gun out of his hand and that’s the only reason he didn’t shoot us.” She looked at Cole’s pale face and dark eyes so near her own. “You saved my life.”
Cole took a deep breath. “And you saved mine.”
Fourteen
HENNY BRAWLEY BEAMED at the assembled guests. She was a regal figure atop the temporary wooden stage, a rhinestone tiara perched on her silvered chignon. A loop of her long red chiffon dress was draped over one arm. Matching rhinestone buckles glistened on white pumps. She might have been at the opera or a music hall. Annie was thrilled that Henny was playing her role so magnificently. Only Henny could carry off such a dramatic costume at a watermelon feast on a sweltering August afternoon. They’d sent invitations, of course, to everyone who had attended the mystery cruise.
The boardwalk by the marina was jammed. An accordion, tuba, and trombone oompahed the “Tic-Toc Polka.” The summery crowd flowed in and out of Death on Demand. Many of the customers clutched newly purchased books. Children played hide-and-seek near a huge oak tree. Teenagers spit watermelon seeds in a distance contest. A cocker spaniel danced at the end of its leash, yapping at a schnauzer. The schnauzer’s lips drew back in a ferocious growl.
Henny held up a garish costume jewelry necklace of shiny green stones. “Here are the fruits of the theft. As all of you on last Sunday’s cruise will remember…”
Pamela Potts looked up happily at Annie. A bright orange tam hid most of the discreet white bandage on the back of her head. “I loved the little play!” Pamela was still pale, but her eyes sparkled from the warm reception she’d received. She was abashed to be the center of attention, but basking in her welcome from friends and well-wishers.
Annie patted Pamela’s shoulder. “Thanks, Pamela. I didn’t know you would remember.”
“Oh yes.” Pamela’s eyes glowed. “I remember the play. Annie, it was so clever. And Henny’s narration was wonderful. First she described the crime scene, an antebellum tabby house with double verandahs, Ionic columns on the first floor, Doric on the second—”
Annie didn’t listen closely. After all, she knew the play. She’d written it! Her shopkeeper’s eyes scanned the throng on the boardwalk. Whoopdedoo, the turnout had surpassed her most hopeful expectations. She grinned. A red-faced and beaming Duane Webb stood just outside Death on Demand, waving his straw boater in a pitch-perfect imitation of a carnival barker: “Step right in, ladies and gentlemen, books for every taste. Come right in and get your armchair passage to Zanzibar, St. Mary Mead, Istanbul, every destination guaranteed.”
Pamela waved a hand at the live oaks on the terrace. “…a country house with live oaks and azaleas. It’s springtime and the yucca and magnolias and daylilies are blooming. Wildlife abounds, otters and turtles and raccoons and possums….”
Annie and Pamela applauded as Henny introduced the cast members one by one. “…Wanda Wintersmith, mistress of Mudhen Manor. Wanda is dressing for a dinner dance. When she emerges from her bath, she finds that the famous Green Fire necklace of matched emeralds has disappeared from the dresser in her bedroom. Present at the antebellum mansion that evening are her husband, Walter, niece, Periwinkle Patton, nephew, Augustus Abernathy, and two guests, Heather Hayworthy, an aspiring actress much admired by Walter Wintersmith, and Moose Mountebank, a handsome young man who has been attentive to Wanda.” As each name was called, the player crossed the stage to thunderous applause.
Pamela clapped enthusiastically. “And such wonderful motives! Mrs. Wintersmith is mad at her husband because he’s having an affair with Heather. Mr. Wintersmith needs money because Heather is a gold-digger. Heather’s told everyone how great she would look in the emeralds. Periwinkle wants to escape to the isle of Capri and write the great American novel but her aunt won’t give her any money. Augustus has embezzled from his bank and the auditors are coming next week. Moose told Heather maybe they should run away together, but neither one has a bean.”
Annie’s gaze moved on to a picnic table only a few feet from the stage. Her eyes misted. She swiped with an impatient hand. Now was no time to be emotional. Pamela Potts’s arrival had brought forth cheers, and the watermelon feast to conclude the interrupted mystery cruise was a resounding success. But Annie was too near the trauma of Rachel and Cole’s near rendezvous with death to be cavalier when she looked at those she loved. Once again thankfulness swept her. They had been a quiet an
d reflective but joyful group when they gathered for hamburgers Friday night. Cole had been recognized as their hero. But Rachel’s rescuer had been somber, still shaken by Wayne Reed’s arrest and the heartbreak for Stuart Reed. Cole had taken some comfort from knowing that Stuart had left the island, gone to join his mother. But right now they were all here, everyone who mattered to Annie, gathered happily at the picnic table. They were here and they were safe—Max and Rachel and Laurel and Pudge, along with Sylvia Crandall and Cole. A grinning Cole, carrying two plates loaded with watermelon slices, held one just out of Rachel’s reach. His mother, shoulder to shoulder with Pudge, called out, “Don’t tease, Cole.” Rachel whooped and grabbed Cole’s baseball cap and backpedaled. “Catch me if you can.”
Catch me if you can…. Annie took a deep breath. They had arrived in Painted Lady Lane with not a minute to spare. If they hadn’t sped to the house, if Reed had found that gun in the marsh…But Lou Pirelli caught Reed in time. Now the lawyer was in jail and Annie felt sure he would be convicted. There was so much evidence once they started to look. The accountants had quickly discovered how he had plundered Meg’s estate, a bogus sale of the great Mandarin Copper Mine through a dummy company. He’d tried to hide his tracks, setting fire to the storage building with all Duff Heath’s business records. He’d told Meg the mine had been sold at a loss. Reed had pocketed almost two million dollars. There was no likelihood of discovery unless the worth of Meg’s inheritance came into question.
“…but of course the telling clue was about the raccoon who sat in the live oak tree to listen to Mozart.” Pamela nodded decisively.
Annie jerked toward her, stared at her in amazement.
Pamela was emphatic. “Oh yes, I saw it at once. The emeralds left on the dresser, the late afternoon sun streaming in through the open windows to the verandah”—Pamela looked wise—“spring, you know. There was so much emphasis on the season, I knew it had to be important. Well, you only have open windows in the spring. And then Henny said how the raccoon—Harry, I think he’s called—was known to climb up the live oak tree and listen when Mrs. Wintersmith played CDs. That made everything clear, especially since the door from her bedroom into the hall was locked and I doubted her husband had a key since they weren’t on very good terms, and how could the others have gained access? Oh it was clear to me right from the start, and so clever of you, Annie, theft by a masked intruder, Harry the raccoon. I wonder who’s going to win?” She looked eagerly up at the stage.
Annie knew the answer. She took Pamela by the hand. “Let’s go up close to the stage.”
Henny moved to the edge of the stage, microphone in hand. “Despite the brilliant minds of our sleuth passengers, I am amazed to report that no one—”
Annie started up the platform steps. “We have a winner.” She turned, tugged on Pamela’s hand. “Right up here, Pamela.”
Henny looked startled. “We didn’t have an entry from Pamela.”
Annie reached for the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to announce that the mystery of the jewel theft has been solved by Pamela Potts, who told me the correct answer just a moment ago. As most of you know, Pamela was the victim of an attack aboard the Island Packet Sunday night and so had no opportunity to submit a formal entry. However, I know all of you will be delighted that Pamela tonight revealed the identity of the jewel thief, and it is”—Annie paused for dramatic effect—“Harry the raccoon, the masked intruder who entered Mrs. Wintersmith’s bedroom by way of the live oak tree and the verandah. Ladies and gentleman, our winner, Miss Pamela Potts.”
Cheers mingled with a few boos. Annie was sure the boos were not directed at Pamela but at Harry as the miscreant. Annie nodded toward Henny.
Henny reached out, shook Pamela’s hand. “Pamela, the prize is a hundred-dollar gift certificate to Death on Demand. Congratulations!”
Pamela’s face flushed a bright pink. “Oh, Annie, I don’t know what to say.”
“Come on, let’s go inside. You can start picking out books.” They were stopped a half dozen times as they made their way across the street, and Annie was pushed to defend Harry as the culprit. She was a trifle defensive by the time they reached the coffee bar. “I think Harry was a fair choice.”
Pamela’s gaze was serious. “Of course it was fair. After all, no one else was wearing a mask.”
Annie decided not to analyze Pamela’s deductive reasoning. There had been quite a few clues to Harry, including the fact that there were no prints on the floor, and all the others would have left prints. Annie was recounting to herself the trail that would have been left by the others for one reason or another—wet feet, shoe polish, bath powder, mulch, sequins, mud—when she realized Pamela was pointing at the paintings.
“I love all these books—Death at Wentwater Court by Carola Dunn, Masquerade by Walter Satterthwaite, Death by Misadventure by Kerry Greenwood, The Cincinnati Red Stalkings by Troy Soos, and Our Man in Washington by Roy Hoopes.”
“Pamela”—Annie’s voice rose in awe—“you are definitely on a roll.”
About the Author
An accomplished master of mystery, CAROLYN HART is the author of fourteen previous Death on Demand novels and has won multiple Agatha, Anthony, and Macavity Awards. Sugarplum Dead, a recent excursion to Broward’s Rock, won the 2000 Oklahoma Book Award for Fiction. She is also the creator of the highly praised mystery series featuring retired journalist-turned-sleuth Henrietta “Henrie O” O’Dwyer Collins. Ms. Hart lives in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, and is one of the founders of Sisters in Crime. You can visit her website at www.carolynhart.com.
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AN OCEAN OF PRAISE FOR MULTIPLE-AWARD-WINNER CAROLYN HART, THE DARLINGS, and MURDER WALKS THE PLANK
“Carolyn Hart has established herself as the queen of the traditional mystery in America…Nobody does it better than Hart, whose plotting skills rival those of Britain’s Agatha Christie…Murder Walks the Plank is a skillful and pleasant diversion.”
Cleveland Plain Dealer
“Carolyn Hart’s craftsmanship makes her mystery’s Queen of Cs—cozy, clever, and chock full of charm.”
Mary Daheim
“Winning…heart-wrenching…a compelling puzzle and a fast-paced plot…This latest can only reinforce Hart’s high standing among the cozy mystery cognoscenti.”
Publishers Weekly
“I’ll admit it. I’m a sucker for Carolyn Hart’s Annie and Max series.”
Robert Crais
“Hart is an expert at seamless storytelling.”
Ft. Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel
“In the first eight pages, Hart introduces seven suspects, some of whom will become victims. There’s no escape then; a reader is hooked. The book that follows is plotted and written just as efficiently. Hart’s writing is a masterful example of the mystery writer’s profession…We can only hope that she and Annie keep at their jobs.”
Sunday Oklahoman
“With sharp and imaginative writing, plus a well-stocked cast of colorful characters, Hart spins a hard-to-put-down tale.”
Orlando Sentinel
“It’s always a delight to find a new book by Carolyn Hart.”
Chattanooga Times
“The Darling duo is as winning as ever.”
Baltimore Sun
“One of the most attractive pairs of sleuths since Dashiell Hammett’s Nick and Nora Charles.”
Chicago Sun-Times
“Carolyn Hart embodies the spirit of Agatha Christie more than any other contemporary writer.”
Dean James
“The joy in Hart’s novels derives from revisiting recurring characters from previous Annie and Max novels—especially Annie’s rambunctious mother-in-law, Laurel, and her two cats, Agatha and Dorothy L.”
San Diego Union-Tribune
“[She] keeps the reader guessing all the way.”
Denver Post
“Hart’s
laurels need no burnishing.”
Washington Times
Books by
Carolyn Hart
Death on Demand
DEATH OF THE PARTY
MURDER WALKS THE PLANK • ENGAGED TO DIE
APRIL FOOL DEAD • SUGARPLUM DEAD
WHITE ELEPHANT DEAD • YANKEE DOODLE DEAD
MINT JULEP MURDER • SOUTHERN GHOST
THE CHRISTIE CAPER • DEADLY VALENTINE
A LITTLE CLASS ON MURDER
HONEYMOON WITH MURDER • SOMETHING WICKED
DESIGN FOR MURDER • DEATH ON DEMAND
Henrie O
RESORT TO MURDER • DEATH ON THE RIVER WALK
DEATH IN PARADISE • DEATH IN LOVERS’ LANE
SCANDAL IN FAIR HAVEN • DEAD MAN’S ISLAND
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
MURDER WALKS THE PLANK. Copyright © 2004 by Carolyn Hart. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Epub Edition © FEBRUARY 2007 ISBN: 9780061864933
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