Walking on My Grave

by Carolyn Hart

  Henny’s dark eyes gleamed. “PM is agile. We can delete Bob Farley from our suspect list.”

  Emma was brusque. “Not so fast. Bob gets around on a cane. He has a handicapped-equipped car. Movement takes him longer, but he could have managed.” She nodded emphatically, shaggy short cut hair quivering.

  Max’s admiring nod at his mother was, in Annie’s estimation, a trifle overdone.

  Laurel’s dreamy gaze settled on Annie. “What else can we surmise?”

  Annie said uncertainly, “Uh, PM’s pretty smart.” Annie knew she sounded lame, and Max didn’t have to look at her so kindly.

  Henny jumped right in. “Annie’s right. PM doesn’t jump to conclusions.”

  “Thinks before acting,” Emma added.

  Laurel was encouraging. “And?” She turned her hands over in a graceful gesture encouraging class participation.

  Max punched his right fist into his left palm. “Ves’s death has to be an accident.” He spoke rapidly. “If Ves is found dead and it’s murder, the police immediately want to know cui bono.”

  Laurel clapped in pretty appreciation of her son’s acumen.

  With an effort of will born of long practice, Annie maintained an agreeable expression. But honestly, sometimes Max’s and Laurel’s elevated opinions of each other were a little hard to tolerate.

  Emma, never enamored of anyone else’s cleverness—after all, she was the clever one—kept to the point. “PM came equipped to get into the house with a substance, possibly furniture polish or floor wax, to smear on an upper step, and cleaning equipment to remove all traces. Likely had a backpack, wore gloves.”

  Annie tried not to sound grudging. “It does appear that the intruder—”

  “PM,” Laurel said pleasantly, but firmly.

  Annie would have engaged in a verbal joust with Laurel but it would save time to acquiesce. “PM intends for Ves’s death to appear accidental.”

  Laurel nodded approvingly. “And that”—her husky voice was full of cheer—“means we do not have to worry about Ves being knifed or shot. Accidents take time and effort to create. Fortunately, we have no cliffs.”

  Annie almost mentioned the reddish unstable headland bluffs buffeted by swirling currents, but she understood Laurel’s point. The island had no handy canyons or gorges or narrow mountain trails, and Ves would surely not stroll near water’s edge alone with any of her recent dinner guests.

  Emma’s square face folded in a frown. “True enough. Ves may be quite safe, since she survived the fall.”

  Annie hoped she didn’t detect a shade of disappointment in Emma’s voice.

  Henny’s glance at Emma was slightly chiding. “I wish we could be confident no more attempts will be made.” Her intelligent face was grave. “We can’t make that assumption. But, as Laurel pointed out, accidents require thought, planning, the right particular moment. Failed brakes in a car. Perhaps a shove over the railing of the Miss Jolene. I believe Ves is one of the islanders who always gets out of her car and climbs to the upper deck for the crossing. Annie can suggest she not do that until we discover the identity of her attacker.”

  Annie was cautiously hopeful. “You say that as if you think there is a way to figure out who waxed the step.” Annie backed closer to the fireplace, seeking its heat to ward away the cold image of a watcher in the shadows near Ves’s backyard.

  Henny nodded in agreement. “We know the Prospective Murderer was physically present at Ves’s house at approximately five P.M. last Thursday. Where were Katherine and Bob Farley, Jane Wilson and Tim Holt, Curt Roundtree, Gretchen Roundtree, Adam Nash, and Fred Butler at that time? We will find out.”

  Emma was gruff since she hadn’t made the proposal. “Better to have Max nose around their finances, see who needs money now, ASAP. Then we can focus on the likeliest suspect.”

  Laurel’s smile was kindly. “Ranking the depth of monetary desperation can be a challenge. I address that in my collection of Merry Musings: Sufficiency for one is deprivation for another.” A benign smile. “Or, even more apropos: Happiness comes from giving, not taking. However, Emma’s point is well taken. I’m sure Max will see what he can discover about their bank accounts and current financial statuses.”

  Max’s expression was wry. “Easier said than done.”

  Emma’s shoulders squared. “Sounds like shilly-shallying to me. I suggest we lay our cards on the table.” A vigorous nod.

  Laurel’s eyelashes fluttered.

  Annie watched in fascination as Laurel murmured, not quite loud enough for Emma to hear, what was clearly another quote from Merry Musings: Indulge a friend’s weakness for trite pronouncements.

  “And,” Emma continued forcefully, “shoot a warning shot across the bow.”

  Laurel winced.

  Emma bowled ahead. “Just like Inspector Houlihan says to Marigold in the new book: Don’t hesitate to be tough. It’s one of my favorites from Detecting Wisdom.”

  Henny smiled serenely at Emma, but her voice was firm. “A careful perusal of Earl Derr Biggers’s The House Without a Key yields this observation from Charlie Chan: ‘I have many times been witness when the impossible roused itself and occurred.’ Our aim is to discover the whereabouts of Ves’s guests at the time the step was doctored without their realizing that five P.M. Thursday is important. Let’s move with the silence and stealth of a panther so we don’t alert our prey that we are in pursuit. There is always time to be tough”—an admiring nod at Emma—“but circumspection will better serve us when we talk to Ves’s dinner guests.”

  4

  Laurel sat with a partially open window in her green convertible and observed Tim Holt loading boxes in the back of a black pickup truck. The truck wasn’t new but it was clean and well kept. Quite an attractive young man with curly brown hair and strong features. He moved with easy grace. She enjoyed young men, so virile, so . . . She must focus on her task. She smoothed back a curl, opened her oversized calico catchall bag, lifted out a legal pad. She opened it to the first sheet and admired the schedule she had produced quickly and efficiently last night. Dear Max had perhaps been too generous in his praise. She made no claim to brilliance, except perhaps in the sheen of her golden curls. She had never succumbed to an overinflated view of herself. That would never do. After all, when one was fortunate enough to be beautiful, graceful, and perceptive, tributes naturally flowed.

  She glanced at her darling serpentine watch, a gold-and-silver band coiled around her forearm from a tail embedded with tiny emeralds to an almond-shaped timepiece, a gift from a young man in Dallas. Texans topped her list of manly men. It was one minute to nine. The plan was as choreographed as a Broadway musical. She, Henny, Emma, Max, and Annie would approach Ves’s dinner guests on a precise schedule to be sure their quarries had no opportunity to collaborate on a version of last Thursday afternoon.

  Laurel stepped out of her Porsche, welcomed the breeze that fluttered her hair and she knew becomingly molded her pale blue dress against her. She didn’t bother to lock the car. She turned to a fresh sheet in her pad, perched the pad against her left arm, and strolled unhurriedly to the recently waxed truck. She noted the painted sign on the driver’s door: HOLT ODD JOBS.

  A thud as he slid a crate into the bed of the pickup. Despite the chilly temperature, Tim Holt wore a short-sleeved tee. His jeans hung low on his hips and his sneakers were well worn.

  Laurel admired the ripple of muscle in his near arm. Very nice. “Tim Holt?”

  He turned and looked at her as men usually did. Men were so predictable. He stood a little straighter, brushed a smudge of dust from one arm. “I’m Tim Holt.” His voice was low, the kind of voice a man might use in a bar when he turns to a woman sitting alone next to him, an attractive woman who might be willing to play.

  Laurel beamed at him and, regretfully, made her tone a trifle arch and definitely not beguiling. “I’ve been
asking around.” She gestured vaguely behind her, perhaps implying she’d dropped into some of the downtown shops. “I’m looking for young people for a survey. I’m L. D. Roethke from Consumer Characteristics Commission. I have a few questions and, of course, CCC offers remuneration for your time. Fifty dollars. I do hope you can help us out today.”

  As she’d expected, his brown eyes glinted at the fifty-dollar offer. “I’ve got a few minutes. What do you want to know?”

  Laurel delved into her bag, pulled out a pen and a crisp fifty-dollar bill. She pinned the bill against the pad with a thumb, held the pen with her other hand. She spoke in a rush, a canvasser with a canned presentation. “A little bit about CCC first. We are seeking to determine buying habits of consumers ages eighteen to thirty with an emphasis on late-afternoon activities. Our specific time frame is from four to six P.M. To avoid the distractions of the incipient weekend, which can easily distort buying patterns, we focus on Thursdays. Now”—she gave him an encouraging look—“please tell me where you were at four P.M. this past Thursday.”

  He leaned against the back fender. “Thursday.” His face crinkled as he concentrated. “Let’s see. I needed a battery for my cell phone . . . No, wait, that was Wednesday. Thursday . . . I picked up a riding mower at the inn, took it over to Haney’s Repair. Shot the breeze with Big Al in the back shop. That was my last job. I dropped by the fish market at Parotti’s around five, got a pound of shrimp, took it over to my girlfriend’s house.”

  “I guess she was glad to see you with something for dinner.”

  “Yeah. We fixed gumbo.”

  Laurel leaned nearer as he talked, her eyes widening. “I think I know why you look so familiar. Was it Friday? No. Before that. Oh, Thursday, it must have been Thursday. Where was I?” She pulled out a small notebook, riffled through several pages, looked up in satisfaction. “Sunshine Lane, of course. Did I see you around five o’clock?”

  He grinned. “I wasn’t anywhere near Sunshine Lane. Jane lives on Bluefish Road close to the church.”

  • • •

  At nine A.M. Annie glanced in the display window of You Want It, We Have It. Floor spots angled up to illuminate a tan-and-gold sweater dress draped over a shabby rattan chair, a bright pink suit spread on a worn blue sofa, a man’s tweed coat with leather elbow patches dangling from a slightly listing coat tree, and a cocktail dress with spangles pinned to a makeshift clothesline. The effect was cheerful and inviting, the displayed items freshly cleaned and pressed, the window clear and sparkling, the flooring obviously old but gleaming with a high polish. Annie felt a pang. How long had it been since she mopped the flooring of the Death on Demand display window?

  She noted the store hours as she opened the door: 9 to 5 winter hours. A bell jangled as she stepped inside. Her nose wrinkled at a combination of potpourri, furniture polish, and dust, not casual house dust but dust embedded in old books, rugs, and cushions.

  The store was long and narrow, racks of clothing interspersed with wooden chairs, side tables, sofas, and filled bookcases. A rattle of steps, and a young woman hurried forward. Honey brown hair framed a gentle face with a high forehead, slender nose, generous mouth, and soft chin. A Donna Karan striped pullover sweater was flattering to her willowy figure. Gray wool trousers bunched stylishly over low silver leather boots. The outfit new might have cost around $1,000. Annie wondered what the markdown was in the store.

  Big blue eyes were quick, understanding Annie’s appreciative glance. “I’m a walking ad for the store. These clothes came in a couple of weeks ago and were priced at twelve dollars each for the top, slacks, and boots. And”—a happy gurgle as she came nearer—“I get an employee discount. If you’re interested in clothes, we have some real prizes.” She carried a can of furniture polish in one hand, a cloth in the other. “Feel free to browse. Clothing is sorted by size, casual wear in the front, dressier as you go to the back.” She skidded to a stop in front of Annie, looked at her with sudden recognition and perhaps a dash of surprise. If she recognized Annie, she knew well enough that Annie had no need to shop for fine clothes at a used store. “Oh, hi. Are you here to check out the books? We have all kinds. Not like your store, of course.” A shy smile. “I’m Jane Wilson. My mom loved mysteries, especially old ones. I used to look for her favorites in your used books. They made her happy.”

  Annie nodded quickly. “I remember you.” Jane’s face had been thinner, graver when she used to shop, buying books for a woman who had not long to read. Annie glanced at a nearby bookcase, squinted. Was that an early edition of The Album by Mary Roberts Rinehart? She resolutely returned her gaze to the shop assistant. “I wish I were book hunting today. Instead, I’m here for the Island Council of Retail Merchants. We’re asking around about store hours, thinking we might come to an agreement for all the shops to close at the same time in the winter. I know you close at five, but I’d like to get your input. We decided to focus on Thursdays. We’re asking everyone to give us an estimate of their traffic between four and six.” Annie pulled a note card and pen from her purse. “How many customers did you have last Thursday from four o’clock until you closed?”

  Jane gestured toward the back of the store. “Come sit down.”

  As they walked down the center aisle, Annie felt a little ashamed at the subterfuge. Jane Wilson had no reason to suspect this visit was anything other than what it seemed to be, and she was responding quite openly. Would she be this relaxed if she had anything to hide about last Thursday afternoon?

  Annie knew the answer. If Jane had crept across Ves’s backyard with furniture polish in her hand and murder in her heart, she would have no difficulty presenting an innocent face to the world.

  At the end of the corridor, Jane gestured to a blue easy chair for Annie. She put the can of polish and the dustcloth on a table, settled in an upright wooden chair. She crossed one leg over the other, hooked her hands around her knee. “Four to six? Usually it’s quiet as a graveyard here from four to five when I close.”

  “You closed at five Thursday?”

  “I stayed a little later. I didn’t get away until about ten to six.”

  There must have been a late customer. This nice girl would have an alibi. Annie was glad. She smiled. “I know how it is. Someone comes in at closing time and they are looking for something and you don’t say a word about turning off the lights.”

  Jane smiled in return. “That happens. But this past Thursday I ducked out in the afternoon. I put up the Back Soon sign. I’m the only one here, but my boss told me at the start if I need to do something, go ahead and just stay open a little later to make up the time. She doesn’t live on the island anymore. She moved to Montana. She’s trying to sell the store now.” Jane looked around. “I like it here. I like seeing the clothes come in. She buys them all over the place. I got a box from Pasadena last week. It’s been fun and there’s lots of downtime.” She gestured at a laptop lying on the table. “I’m taking some classes online until I save enough to go back to school. But Thursday I went to the hospital to visit a friend—well, I think of her as a friend even though she’s lots older, but she was so sweet to my mom when she was sick. She came and stayed through some bad days. She doesn’t have any family, and I could tell she was kind of blue. She’s very nice but very serious.”

  Annie knew at once. “Pamela Potts?” Annie had been by to see Pamela at the hospital as well. Knee replacement. Pamela, blond, placid, immensely serious, was always the first to bring a casserole or offer to help when trouble struck.

  Jane nodded eagerly. “Isn’t she swell? I guess most everyone on the island knows Pamela. Anyway I was there longer than I intended so that’s why I stayed open late Thursday.”

  “Did you have any shoppers?”

  Jane shook her head. “Nobody came in. I sorted through that box of clothes from Pasadena. I found a gorgeous tulle skirt that needed mending. I wish I had somewhere to wear it. Someone wil
l love it now.”

  “So you were late getting home.”

  Jane shrugged. “I got home a little after six.”

  • • •

  Henny Brawley followed Emma Clyde’s new Rolls-Royce as it turned onto Bayberry Lane, a narrow rutted sandy road. She was perhaps twenty yards behind the crimson Rolls-Royce. Emma’s previous Rolls had been bronze. Henny grinned at the contrast between Emma’s majestic conveyance and her own shabby old black Dodge. Henny wasn’t envious. She enjoyed outings in Emma’s chariot, but she knew everything was fleeting. Each moment had a brief life and was gone, never to return. Prized moments were never about riches, not jewels nor silks, not fine cars nor mansions, not stacks of cash nor stock certificates. Prized moments were a look of love, a gentle touch, the sight of a cat’s grace, sunlight slanting through a stained glass window. Emma enjoyed her car, but it was a plaything.

  Emma’s prized moments were the pleasure of crafting a sentence, the joy of creating an illusion that seemed real to her readers. Henny immediately thought of Maureen Summerhayes speaking in Mrs. McGinty’s Dead: “I never think it matters much what one eats . . . or what one wears . . . or what one does. I don’t think things matter—not really.” Maureen Summerhayes would have understood Emma Clyde.