Walking on My Grave

by Carolyn Hart

  “Glad I found you in.” She charged to an apple red chair in front of his desk and plopped down. “The financial news out of China continues to be worrying.”

  He immediately was judicious, ponderous. “Have to keep a sharp eye on commodities. In times like these, it’s good to seek a safe harbor . . .”

  Emma listened as he extolled several financial havens he highly recommended, all of which would pay handsome commissions to him. Emma was not a woolly minded writer when it came to investments. She could talk currencies, dividends, and mutual funds with ease, but she kept her gaze wide and admiring. “Oh my, it’s all so complicated.”

  He was instantly reassuring. “You have come to the right place, Emma. I’ll be glad to take charge of your portfolio—”

  She watched his eyes, saw the eager, hopeful, desperate glint. Pond scum accented by avarice.

  “Well”—she tried to sound anxious, not a usual tone for her—“I just haven’t made up my mind what to do. I’m talking to several people.” She rose. “I’ll need a financial statement. Just to be sure your firm is in good order. I know you won’t mind sending it. After all”—an arch smile—“if you are to know all about my finances, it seems fair enough for me to know about yours.”

  Adam pushed back his chair, came to his feet. His face was no longer alight. “That’s not customary.”

  She gave a bark of laughter. “I think you know I don’t give a rip about customary. But it’s up to you. Send me your financial statement. Or don’t.” She paused at the door, appraised him with cold blue eyes. “I believe in people keeping office hours. I do when I’m working on a book. You weren’t here the day I came by. I decided to give you another chance. But I don’t understand why your office was closed a little before five on Thursday.”

  “Thursday? If you knocked—”

  Emma was brusque. “Turned the knob. Door was locked.”

  “I was here.” His voice was flat. “I was working on some figures, didn’t want to be disturbed.”

  • • •

  Max knew a dozen ways in and out of the Sea Side Inn. He parked in the west lot, strolled to the terrace. On a chilly February morning the umbrellas were furled at the tables around the pool. One hardy swimmer stroked methodically. Max used the back entrance. He didn’t need to check the note in his pocket. Gretchen hadn’t hesitated to give good old Goofy her son’s room number. Interesting that he wasn’t staying with his mother.

  Max walked up to the second floor, stopped at room 227. He held a clipboard in his left hand. knocked with his right. He assumed a pleasant, slightly vacuous expression. He’d taken pains with his choice of clothing, a navy polo that was slightly worn, chinos, loafers.

  The door opened. “Put it—” Curt Roundtree’s freckled face looked annoyed. “You’re not room service.”

  “Sir, I’m canvassing—”

  “Good for you.” The door slammed shut.

  • • •

  Henny pulled into the oyster-shell lot north of the police station. She spotted Hyla’s yellow scooter parked neatly next to a rack that held several bikes. The island was small enough that it was easy to commute to work in fair weather on a bike. Henny sat with her hands resting lightly on the steering wheel, the driver’s window rolled down. She knew and respected Officer Hyla Harrison, who had joined the force a few years ago, seeking a new place, a new life. She’d been an officer in Miami and seen her partner shot and killed. Hyla was reserved, retiring, intelligent. She would never divulge information about an investigation.

  But, as Henny had learned long ago in teaching, there are many different paths to the same goal.

  Hyla came swinging around a palm tree on the oyster-shell path to the parking lot, slender, trim, moving with a purpose.

  Henny opened her door, slammed it shut, turned to the path, her face transforming into recognition. “Hyla.” Henny hurried toward her. “I’m glad to see you. I was going to drop by this morning and say hello after I talked to Mavis.” Mavis Cameron was Police Chief Billy Cameron’s wife as well as a dispatcher and a crime scene tech. Henny patted her purse. “I’m hoping to recruit Mavis to help serve chili at the Friends of the Library supper. Can I can count on you as well?”

  Hyla stopped, her freckled face pleasant. As always she was immaculate in a crisp uniform. “Chili supper?”

  Henny gave her a brilliant smile. “Two weeks from Tuesday at the library. Two bucks a bowl, corn bread and iced tea free. Can you help? We need servers there at five thirty, doors open at six. Runs to eight o’clock.”

  Hyla pulled a small notebook from a back pocket, flipped it open. “Will do.”

  “Wonderful. Free chili for the volunteers. And”—Henny reached out, touched Hyla’s sleeve—“on another matter entirely, I like Katherine and Bob Farley. You went above and beyond the call of duty to let Katherine know. I want to thank you.”

  Hyla’s fair cheeks turned pink. “Nothing special for me. Part of the job. Knew it was a near thing. Have to alert a family member.”

  “Katherine’s been worried about him. Their good fortune you took action.”

  Hyla’s narrow face was grave. “I was on my way home and I came up beside his van. I looked up. I saw his face. I saw trouble. Funny thing, when I was in Miami I had a friend in the K9 unit. Her dog always knew when somebody was going to die. That’s how I felt. I lagged back, followed him. He wasn’t looking in his rearview mirror. I guess he was thinking a lot of things but not about the road behind him. Pretty soon I figured out where he was heading. I went off trail. I got to the point and hid my scooter. I hiked up the trail, waited there in the fog. If he didn’t come, well, I was just going to be late getting home, no big deal. But he came. When he got close to the edge, I started talking to him, slow and easy.”

  • • •

  Ves Roundtree stood near the mantel, her left hand tight on the ivory head of her cane. Her reddish hair was subdued into a chignon, which emphasized the dark splotches beneath her eyes, the pallor of her fair skin. She had the aura of a woman who’d suffered either a debilitating illness or a psychic shock. She pressed her lips together.

  Annie felt sure that in its long history the old house had no doubt witnessed joy and sorrow, but this might be the first time murder was the focus of those gathered.

  Emma Clyde, imposing in a maroon velvet caftan, occupied most of the Chippendale sofa. Emma’s blunt chin jutted. She was in her combative mode. Laurel Darling Roethke, ethereal in a pale blue dress, perched lightly at one end of the sofa. Her dark blue eyes were concerned. Henny Brawley sat with her usual erect posture in a straight chair near the fireplace. Always intuitive, Henny looked uneasy.

  Annie sat stiffly next to Max on the brocaded love seat. She had a sense of something momentous about to happen, like a jagged bolt of lightning when the sky hangs purplish and heavy before a summer storm.

  Ves had listened without comment as each of them spoke, her thin face taut and intent. Abruptly, her lips curved in a wry smile. “Clever devils, all of you. If I’d tried to ask each of them where they were at five on Thursday, I’d have asked straight out. Instead, none of them have any idea I’m aware. I suppose my murderer thinks I was so shaken by the fall, I didn’t question why I fell. It would have been nice if I could drop a name from the list. I’m inclined to drop Bob Farley. Climbing the stairs to fix a trap and climbing them again to remove any evidence would require a huge effort. But the rest of them”—she ticked them off one by one—“are fair game. Katherine needed money before Bob went to Gurney Point. Now she must be desperate. Fred Butler didn’t go to the dentist. Something was important enough to him that he lied to his supervisor. He has a nine-to-five job. If he wanted to get to my house before I got home, he had to get off work. Jane Wilson says she stayed late at work. Was it simply a coincidence her late day was Thursday? Her boyfriend claims he was at her house.”

  Laurel was plea
sant but definite. “It sounded at the time as if she was there, too.”

  Ves nodded. “To be fair, maybe he didn’t intend to imply Jane was there, maybe he has a key. He told you where he was and didn’t think her late arrival mattered. He’s obsessed with his plan for a shopping center. If he’s counting on Jane’s inheritance, he must feel very certain she’ll marry him. He’s a possibility.” Ves massaged one cheekbone. “I wish I had a fortune wheel and I could give it a spin and it would stop at the most likely. The arrow might point to Gretchen. She has a substantial monthly income from her divorce settlement. She’s always been a big spender, loved going to high-society places, Martha’s Vineyard, Scottsdale, Rancho Mirage. When she came back to the island, ended up working at the cosmetics shop, I thought maybe she was trying to set a good example for Curt. But now it looks like she’s in big trouble. No wonder she wants money. It looks like she pilfered one time too many, got caught in the act, and came up against somebody as ruthless and greedy as she is. She must be paying big-time blackmail. If she’s cut Curt off, that makes two of them that would enjoy my obituary.” She glanced at Emma. “I’ll be interested if you get a financial statement from Adam. If you do, you can bet it’s fake.”

  “I was quite effective as a possible client.” Emma was amused. “In any event, he didn’t learn the purpose of my visit. The criminal has no inkling an investigation is underway. I employed a technique I’ve utilized in many books. As Marigold is quick to say: Casual conversation has been the undoing of many.”

  Annie was incensed. Emma’s authorial ego apparently knew no bounds, but this wasn’t the time or place to indulge her. Annie leaned forward. “I think—”

  Henny gave Annie a warning glance. “I agree with Annie. We can’t do better than to call on Emma for guidance. We are fortunate Emma is sharing with us one of the entries in Detecting Wisdom.”

  Annie was unimpressed. What did Emma mean? Did she have any idea what she meant? Undoing of whom?

  Emma basked in Henny’s admiration. “Precisely.” Emma nodded approvingly at Henny. “As I reported, either Katherine Farley or Adam Nash could have been here Thursday afternoon. I can’t prove it either way. But I can tell you that Katherine Farley is a shaken woman. She looked eons older than when I saw her at the market last week. Eons. Moreover, her conversation was disjointed. She scarcely seemed to pay attention to what I said, though she obviously is desperate to make some sales. Katherine Farley deserves serious consideration.” A decisive nod as she scooped up cashews from a pottery bowl.

  Ves had insisted on iced tea or sherry for the ladies, a beer for Max, and had placed bowls on side tables with cashews, walnuts, and spiced pecans.

  Ves picked up a glass of sherry with her left hand, lifted it in a toast. “Quod ad summam illam.”

  Annie looked at Max. She depended upon him for Latin translations.

  He murmured, “That’s the sum of it.”

  Ves sounded reflective. “One of my father’s favorite lamentations when everything’s gone to hell. He always said it mournfully when the Dodgers lost. We’re talking the Brooklyn Dodgers, and they seemed to love to lose. Dad would murmur, ‘Quod ad summam illam.’ That’s how I feel, like an old Dodgers fan. You’ve all gone to bat for me, but we haven’t scored a run.” Her voice was brittle. “Nobody has an alibi for five o’clock Thursday afternoon. Everybody needs money, even Jane Wilson. She hated asking me, was backing toward the door the whole time, but that young man has her under his thumb.” A cold smile. “He doesn’t mind asking. He was still pleasant after I said no, I’ll give him that. Which means my future—if I have one—is up to me. Someone who ate at my table wants me dead, tried to kill me, slipped away in the fog. So, what am I going to do about it?”

  Max was firm. “Go to the police. You should have made a report Thursday.”

  Ves arched a sardonic brow. “Billy Cameron’s a good guy. He’d listen. He’d come out, look at the step, maybe bring a crime tech, check for traces of wax or polish. What if they find it? What’s he going to do? Arrest everybody on the island who has some floor wax or furniture polish?” She laughed without humor. “I don’t believe in wasting time. His or mine. I’ve got some ideas. I’m not done. But I want to thank all of you.” Her tone softened. “You are my friends. You’ve tried, done your best. Now it’s up to me to spin the wheel. Is it Katherine or Bob Farley, Jane Wilson, her boyfriend, Adam Nash, Fred Butler, Gretchen Roundtree, Rufus’s son? I will find out which one came. I will survive.”

  Again she lifted her glass, her gaze intense, her hand steady. She had the air of a soldier before battle, hearing the far off rattle of guns. “Audentes fortuna juvat.”

  • • •

  As the Lamborghini leapt forward, Annie turned toward Max.

  He spoke before she asked. “Fortune favors the bold.”

  The car plunged deeper into the shadows beneath interlocking tree limbs. Annie stared into the night. “What is Ves going to do?”

  6

  Annie sketched three chapbook covers, shooting stars for Laurel’s Merry Musings, a mélange of famous titles like spokes around a wheel for Henny’s Classic Crimes, and a huge magnifying glass for Emma’s Detecting Wisdom. This was going to be fun. Each chapbook would be distinctive: pale blue background for Laurel, simulated parchment for Henny, a police blotter format for Emma.

  There was silence in Death on Demand except for the rustle of paper and Agatha’s purr when Annie paused to stroke her sleek back. Annie enjoyed quiet mornings at the store, though she knew she should be unpacking new books, Midnight Sun by Jo Nesbø and Breakdown by Jonathan Kellerman. Instead of being relaxed and content, she felt uneasy. Every so often her gaze returned to the first entry in Detecting Wisdom: A scared rat has sharp fangs.

  Maybe she should go see Ves, warn her . . . That was the problem, wasn’t it? Ves knew she was in danger. Annie didn’t have any bright ideas on what Ves should do.

  The front doorbell rang. “Hey, Annie.”

  She heard Max’s voice with delight, came to her feet. Maybe he had thought of something. Somehow she felt sure his morning, too, had been preoccupied with concern for Ves. She met him halfway up the center aisle, gave him a hug. “You know what to do.”

  He looked startled. “Did Ves call you?”

  She had the feeling they weren’t communicating. “Call?”

  Max hunched his shoulders. “She called the future heirs, plus Gretchen and Jane’s boyfriend, said she had an announcement about Rufus’s will and to be there at eight o’clock, hung up. I’m supposed to get there a few minutes early.”

  Annie was eager. “I guess she’ll call all of us. That way we can speak up if anyone tries to change their story about Thursday afternoon.”

  Max looked uncomfortable, stared at a poster for the new Alpine mystery by Mary Daheim, muttered, “I don’t think so.” He cleared his throat, talked fast. “She wants me to stand next to her, look menacing. She said there’s nothing menacing about you or Laurel or Henny or Emma. If she included all of you, the gathering would seem like a party. She said a good time wasn’t on her agenda.”

  • • •

  Annie pointed at the yellow walkie-talkie, which looked out of place on the coffee table in their den. “It’s set on receive.”

  Max promised to put the other one in a good spot in Ves’s living room. “I wanted to use my cell phone on speaker, but I found the walkie-talkies we take when we camp. The sound should be a lot clearer.”

  Laurel’s smile was approving. “Max thinks of everything.”

  In the interests of maintaining a cordial relationship with her mother-in-law, Annie did not inform Laurel that her pink cashmere top made her look like a birthday cake and that it was Annie who dug the walkie-talkies out of the attic and insisted Max take one with him.

  Emma glowered. In her black—was she making a statement?—caftan, she reminded Annie of an irascible cat
when the doorbell rings too many times on Halloween. “Since when is Max menacing?”

  “Max is perfectly capable of looking menacing,” Annie said hotly.

  Laurel no longer looked like a pink confection. Her tone was dulcet with underlying steel. “Max is a blue belt.”

  There was a moment of silence.

  Laurel offered, “Orange belt?”

  Henny rushed to the rescue. “Black belt.” She laughed, a good-humored laugh. “Face it, ladies. Testosterone counts. Of course Ves wants a tall, strong man at her side when”—a quick breath and the smile was gone—“she confronts a murderer.”

  • • •

  Max answered the doorbell. Fred Butler was the last to arrive. When he saw Max, his eyes widened, looked huge behind the thick lenses of his glasses. The breeze lifted the gray tufts on either side of his head, giving him the appearance of a befuddled owl unsure if he’d reached the right roost. “Uh.” He started, stopped.

  Max held the door wide. “Everyone’s in the living room. Come right in.”

  Fred gave Max one more puzzled glance, moved hesitatingly to the left. The only sound was the slap of his shoes on the heart pine floor. There was silence in the living room.

  Ves sat on the brocaded love seat. Her springy reddish curls looked youthful but her face was tight and thin. The dark green of her silk blouse emphasized the brilliance of her eyes. She nodded at Fred, used her cane to gesture at a wooden chair. Fred scuttled to the chair, took his place.

  Max stopped just inside the archway, stepped to one side of a wrought iron stand that held a bust of Minerva. Ves had chosen the spot before the company arrived, said, “Whoever waxed the step is a gambler. I don’t expect anyone to clutch a hanky and faint when I talk. But it won’t hurt for you to be on the lookout for . . .” She’d trailed off. “I don’t know, maybe a hint of panic? Anything that doesn’t look normal. And you’re a big strong man, ready to pounce.” He maintained a bland expression and carefully did not look at the walkie-talkie in the bookcase by the fireplace. He’d shoved the unit between two large dark tomes. It would be noticeable only to someone studying the shelves.