Walking on My Grave

by Carolyn Hart

  Ves used the cane for leverage to rise to her feet. “I have an announcement to make.” She moved slowly, the cane thumping with each step. She reached the archway, turned to face the room, standing about two feet from Max.

  Every eye followed her. There was a general air of uncertainty and a hint of irritation.

  Fred Butler sat with his shoulders rounded and tight, chin low enough to hide his neck. Adam Nash smoothed back a lock of silvered hair, maintained his usual dignified posture, but a reddish flush stained his cheeks. He was accustomed to deference, likely found the assembly odd, the ambience unpleasant. Curt Roundtree, casual in a short-sleeved polo and khakis, slouched comfortably in a wicker chair, but the intensity of his gaze indicated close attention. Gretchen Roundtree nervously fingered a gold filigree necklace, dark brows in a tight frown. Jane Wilson’s young, rounded face puckered in concern as if she found herself in the middle of an argument and wished she weren’t there. Tim Holt was in his work clothes, a flannel shirt, jeans, and boots. He looked at Jane, gave a shrug as if to ask what the hell was going on. Despite the haggard paleness of Katherine Farley’s face and the almost fervid glances she darted at her husband, she was her usual elegant self, dark hair shining, a beige textured top and black slacks and heels. Bob Farley’s gaze slid past Ves with every indication of disinterest, a man enduring a social evening until he could go home.

  “Each of you will be wealthy when I die.” Ves spoke in a thin, clipped voice. “One of you”—she took her time, gazed directly at each in turn—“tried to kill me last Thursday.”

  This was the moment, if there was to be a moment, the instant when shock might reveal a look of guilt. Max tried to catch a glimpse of each guest. Fred’s plump face sagged and he began to shake. Adam leaned forward, looking predatory and wary. Curt gave a low whistle, raised a skeptical eyebrow. Gretchen sat as still as stone, her fingers clamped hard on the necklace. Jane’s eyes widened and her lips rounded in an O. Tim looked blank, then his big mouth twisted in a sardonic smile, clearly dismissing Ves as some kind of nut. Katherine’s lovely face was rigid. She clutched Bob’s arm, held tight. Bob appeared unaffected, a man only minimally aware of his surroundings.

  The moment was past.

  Adam Nash lifted his leonine head. “You are obviously hysterical. Of course, you’re a woman of a certain age.” His tone was disparaging.

  Ves gave him a cool stare. “A rather curious response, Adam. Instead of asking what happened, you respond with sexism. But perhaps you didn’t ask because you know what happened Thursday.”

  “You are either hysterical or deranged. To accuse one of us”—his big hand gestured at the others—“of murder is absurd.”

  “The accusation stands. I do not yet know which one of you committed the crime. I have a friend here tonight”—she gestured toward Max—“as a witness. If I am murdered, he will inform the police about each of you and your motives. Further, I have written an account of Thursday for the police.”

  Jane Wilson burst out, “Murder? Oh, you must be wrong.”

  Tim Holt folded his arms, leaned back as if in a theater, a man ready to be entertained. “Are you playing a game with us? I like murder nights, but this is starting to sound kind of crazy.”

  Gretchen’s face was hard. “That is a serious accusation.”

  “Serious. True. Here’s what happened Thursday afternoon . . .” When Ves finished, her mouth twisted in a humorless smile. “What do you do when you know someone tried to arrange a fatal accident? You think, My God, who wants me dead? That’s where it got easy. Not nice, but easy. I don’t have enemies. I never saw any point in quarreling with people. Nobody wants me dead because I cheated them or stole a lover. But when I die, each person in this room will be much, much richer. And”—a slight hesitation, then a shrug—“when I brought the dessert in to the dining room the night we had our dinner, I knew one of you wanted me dead.”

  Adam sneered. “I suppose one of us stuck pins in a voodoo doll.”

  Ves lifted a thin hand, rubbed against one cheek. “I grew up here. I can tell you things about voodoo that will make you never want to leave the safety of a lighted room. The room was lighted that night. I had candles in the centerpieces and the chandelier was bright. But one of you had already made the decision that I had to die. I knew it then. I know it now. One of you was here Thursday, came inside, made a high step slicker than a greased pig.” She paused, swallowed. “What’s worse”—her voice was low—“the murderer waited long enough to watch me limp to my car, then came inside and cleaned the step. I suggest each of you look around because—”

  Again Max tried to capture a mélange of faces. As he looked, perhaps too quickly, he had a sense he’d missed something important, an expression, a movement, a glance . . .

  “—this may be your only opportunity to say you spent an evening with a murderer. Now I will speak directly to the murderer. I”—she paced her words—“do not intend to die.” Her cane thumping, Ves crossed to a marble-topped table. She leaned the cane against the table, used her left hand to lift the lid of a gilt and black japanned box. Her right arm was still in a sling. She reached into the box with her left hand.

  Jane Wilson gasped as a gleaming black revolver came into view.

  Ves handled the firearm with ease, pointing the barrel away from the guests. “Colt .45, 1911 model. Semiautomatic. The safety is on. At the moment.” She was crisp. “I’m ambidextrous so I’m an equally good shot with my left hand. You will notice I am pointing it to one side and at the floor. That’s commonsense handling of a gun. But be aware, whoever comes after me will be shot.”

  • • •

  Max eased an omelet onto each plate, carried the plates to the kitchen table. “Mushrooms, ham, onions, Monterey Jack jalapeño cheese.”

  Annie blew him a kiss and pushed the basket with homemade biscuits to the center of the table. “Honestly, sometimes I wonder how I could be so lucky. A handsome hunk who cooks.” She admired her plate, a serving of salsa on one side, three strips of bacon, fresh-cut papaya. She speared a piece of fruit.

  Max smiled, bent to kiss the top of her head, took the chair opposite her.

  Annie waggled the fruit at him. “You had a ringside seat last night. We heard everything, but I wish we could have seen their faces when Ves said one of them was a murderer.”

  Max cut a piece of omelet, frowned.

  Annie felt some of the morning’s pleasure, the toasty kitchen, sunlight shining through white curtains, Dorothy L determinedly jumping to the counter and Max as determinedly removing her, seep away when she saw his worried expression.

  Max looked across the table, his blue eyes dark with concern. “Ves wanted me there to watch them. I’m afraid I missed something. When Ves told them all to look around because she thought it was the only time they’d ever see a murderer, I think one of them looked—and saw a murderer.”

  • • •

  Annie gripped the plastic handle, pulled the razor tip of the box cutter through plastic tape, flipped up the box flaps. Her nose wrinkled in delight. She never tired of the smell of new books. She approved of the large type chosen for the title of Missing Pieces by Heather Gudenkauf, sure to catch the eye of browsers. She lifted out five books at a time, transferred them to a dolly, some destined for the shelves, some for an end cap, a good half dozen had been preordered and would await pickup behind the front cash desk.

  She worked steadily until midmorning, felt she’d earned a cappuccino. With whipped cream. And a cherry. She settled at the table near the coffee bar, sipped her reward, and faced the fact that she was restless and uneasy.

  Agatha landed lightly next to the cup, gave it a dismissive glance, lifted limpid green eyes to stare at Annie.

  Annie often shared thoughts with Agatha. “I’m scared for Ves. So she’s handy with a gun. How can she be alert twenty-four/seven? She thinks she’s warned off an attack. B
ut it looks to me like telling them she knows one of them is after her changes everything. The killer wanted her death to be an accident. No questions. No problems. Now that Ves is making sure the police will know about the trust, the murderer might as well kill her any way possible. He—or she—can lurk in the woods with a rifle and pick Ves off. Or wait until summer and she goes out for a swim and run her down with a motorboat. Or monkey with her brakes. I don’t think threats will stop this murderer.”

  Agatha abruptly crouched, peered down the corridor. In a swift move, she flew through the air, raced in a blur, scooped up a toy mouse, tossed it in the air, caught it.

  Annie took a last sip from her mug. Everything was out in the open now. There was no need for subterfuge or subtlety. Annie nodded decisively, pushed back her chair. So far as she knew, only one person had lied about their whereabouts Thursday afternoon. Maybe there was a good reason. Or a very bad one.

  • • •

  Annie stepped into the bank, still uncertain how to approach Fred. He’d had the hunted air of a high schoolboy busted with marijuana when Martin Ford came up behind him and laughed when Annie asked if Fred had been on a holiday Thursday afternoon. If Fred hadn’t looked so uncomfortable, she might not have called and discovered that Fred had not been at the office of a dental surgeon as he’d claimed. Should she ask him straight out, say she’d called the dental office and mentioned him and how he’d been there Thursday and thought so highly of Dr. Garcia and been surprised—

  Her interior monologue broke off. The only teller on duty was Estelle Parker. Annie hesitated. Maybe Fred was on break. Estelle had a tired but pleasant face. She was nearing retirement and often talked about her plans, she was going to go home to Idaho, live with a younger sister. Annie came up to the counter, was glad there were no other customers. “Hi, Estelle. Looks like you are handling everything alone this morning.”

  Estelle’s placid face was untroubled. “I guess Fred has the day off. Mr. Ford forgot to tell me, and he took the early ferry this morning. He’s picking up his wife at the airport. Anyway, it’s been pretty quiet. They should have told me.” It was as near as Annie had ever heard Estelle sound aggrieved. “Fred didn’t say a thing yesterday about not being here. He said he’d see me tomorrow. Meaning today. But”—a shrug—“he’s not here. What can I do for you?”

  Annie shook her head. “I wanted to tell Fred about a book I thought he’d enjoy. I’ll check back another time.”

  • • •

  Max drove the VW with the windows down. He braked by the sidewalk in front of the bank

  Annie, her curls windblown, her soft tee molded to her by the breeze, pulled open the passenger door. “Do you have the address?” She slid onto the seat, turned toward him.

  Max wanted to drive home, fast, and open the windows in their bedroom to welcome in the breeze and turn to Annie—

  “You did get the address?” A pause. A swift smile, a head shake. “Max, be serious.”

  He was serious. Maybe later today . . . Right now Annie was focused on the tuft-haired teller. Okay, they’d go see Fred, then he’d bring her back to her car, suggest they meet at home for lunch. When they were home . . . “I have the address. I’m in the VW, the better to pretend no one sees us. Always glad to drop everything”—his tone implied he’d been hard at work though he suspected Annie knew he was enjoying a cheerful practice session on the indoor golfing green at Confidential Commissions—“and join you in”—a suggestive pause—“the frolic of the moment. But why do you want me to ferry you to Fred’s house?”

  “You were there.”

  Max blinked. “At Fred’s house?” Sometimes Annie lost him.

  She laughed. “At Ves’s last night, so Fred knows you’re helping Ves.”

  The VW turned onto a sun-dappled street with modest one-story homes. “Is my presence supposed to instill panic in his heart? Am I the strong silent sidekick and you’re the inquisitor? That I can do. What are you going to say? Fred, I know you were at Ves’s house and she told everyone about her fall and you lied to me the other day about going to the dentist on Thursday so what’s the deal?”

  “Absolutely.” Annie was combative. “It’s very strange that he didn’t come to work the day after Ves had them to her house.”

  Max’s tone was light. “As in, one action is caused by another? Let me see. It thunders. Dorothy L comes into the room. Dorothy L made it thunder. Ves warns the murderer. Fred doesn’t come to work so he’s the murderer.”

  “Maybe.” She didn’t laugh.

  Max slowed, checking addresses. “Here we are.” He pulled up in front of a one-story frame house painted a cheerful yellow. A white picket fence enclosed the small yard.

  Annie popped out of the car and headed for the gate.

  Max caught up with her. He was firm. “You do the talking. Ask the man why he took the day off. I can’t wait to hear his answer.”

  “I’ll ask him why he lied about going to the dentist.”

  “Now that”—the gate clicked shut behind them—“might elicit a sexy answer.”

  Again, Annie’s glance was chiding. “Do you ever think about anything else?”

  “Occasionally.” He grinned. “Then I get back to what matters.”

  The porch was shady beneath an overhang. Two wicker chairs looked inviting. Annie stepped forward, punched the bell.

  Silence.

  Max gestured at the driveway. “No car. But he may always put it in the garage.” Annie rang again.

  The only answer was the caw of a crow who’d landed on a porch railing to watch them.

  Annie knocked, kept on knocking. Finally her hand dropped.

  Max leaned against a porch pillar. “Either he’s not home or, as they quaintly said in the olden days, he isn’t receiving callers.”

  Annie glanced at the well-kept bed of peonies. “Maybe he’s in the backyard. And he’s mulching or trimming or whatever it is gardeners do in February. Let’s go look.” She plunged off the porch in her customary rush.

  Max followed at a leisurely pace. He came up beside Annie to gaze at the backyard, which offered proof of Fred’s gardening bona fides, clumps of azaleas and a bed with winter-blooming pansies. A wheelbarrow rested beside a small flagstone patio. Cotton gardening gloves rested in the barrow next to clippers. “No Fred.” Max knew it was a statement of the obvious. They were the only inhabitants of the backyard except for small gray squirrels that darted about their duties and a trilling cardinal in a magnolia.

  Annie spread her hand. “Look at the azaleas. They’ll be gorgeous next month. He and Laurel could commune about snails and such. But he isn’t here. I’ll try the bank again tomorrow.”

  As they neared the street, he put his arm around her shoulders, gave her a hug. “How about we go home and . . . ?”

  7

  Henny Brawley enjoyed eating breakfast on her porch that overlooked the marsh. She watched the gold and red of the sun spill across dark water. She chose the porch in all seasons, remaining indoors only when it rained. She was comfortable, despite the fiftyish temperature, in a wool cardigan over a turtleneck, corduroy slacks, thick cotton socks, and ankle-high leather boots. A long twitching grayish nose rose above the glass top of the table. Dark eyes gazed at her hopefully. She sliced a chunk of waffle, offered it. “Good morning to you as well, Cinnamon.” The dog slurped the waffle from her hand, leaving moist warmth behind.

  Henny smiled, poured a little more syrup on the waffle. She liked Fridays, her usual day to grocery shop, exchange books at the library, tend to errands. She was content. Perhaps this afternoon she and Cinnamon would take the north trail at the nature preserve and Cinnamon could sniff the tracks of raccoons and deer.

  A muted trill sounded from the pocket of her cardigan. She felt a flicker of surprise. It was early for a call. She pulled out her cell, recognized the caller, swiped to answer. Her voice was perhap
s a shade higher than usual. “What’s happened?” She never doubted something had happened. Good news rarely came at odd hours.

  “Figured you’d be up.” Marian Kenyon talked fast. “An early-morning fisherman at Fish Haul Pier snagged more than he expected. He was looking for dogfish and skates, that’s about what you find in February, but he caught a floater. Even worse, a guy he knew, Fred Butler, dead, puffed up from immersion. He—the fisherman, not Fred—called the cops. I got it on the scanner. The body’s lying on the pier. Poor guy—the fisherman—was a buddy of Fred’s. Tough. Doc Burford—”

  Henny pictured the big, rumpled island doctor, chief of staff at the hospital as well as the island medical examiner.

  “—is here. He said it looks like a drowning, but he’ll do an autopsy. You took me to breakfast and you asked about a bunch of people. One of them was Fred Butler. You also said you and unnamed others were trying to prevent something bad from happening. What would that be? A drowning?”

  “No.” Henny’s reply was swift. “It was something else—someone else—altogether.”

  There was a doubtful pause. “Are you telling me this is one big coincidence? You want to know about Fred in regard to some unexplained bad scenario and he turns up dead and there’s no connection?”

  Henny frowned. “I don’t know of a connection. There was no threat to Fred Butler.”

  “That leaves coincidence.” Marian’s voice was heavy with doubt. “I suppose it’s possible. And maybe I’ll get a free ticket to the basketball finals because I ate cornflakes this morning. You don’t mind if I mention to Billy Cameron that you and unnamed others had an interest in Fred.”

  Henny was blunt. “Why would he care?”