by Carolyn Hart
“That’s a boost for my ego.” Abruptly his face was somber. “Not that I think it’s funny that somebody shot Adam. But the idea I’m out roaming around with a gun makes me sound damn vigorous.” He turned his chair, wheeled across the room. “I keep my gun in the bedside table.”
Billy was right behind Bob as they entered a small, Spartan bedroom with a single twin bed next to windows that overlooked the woods. Billy glanced at the closed door to the right, likely a larger master bedroom with a view of the marsh. In the small bedroom, a bedside table, a plain maple dresser, and a leather easy chair were the only other furnishings. A man’s room.
Bob saw Billy’s glance. “I don’t sleep very well these days.” Bob’s tone was determinedly upbeat. “I have my own burrow so I don’t keep Katherine up.” He rolled to the bedside table, reached down, pulled open the lower drawer. He pulled out a wooden case, lifted the lid. His shoulders stiffened.
Billy was just behind him. He gazed down. The case was empty.
Bob slowly lowered the lid, returned the case to the drawer. He glanced up at Billy. “I thought that’s where we kept it. Katherine must have moved it.”
“Let’s ask her.” Billy was still pleasant. He stepped closer, picked up the receiver from the phone on the bedside table. “I imagine you have an extension for the studio.”
“Sure. I can call her.” He held out his hand.
“I can do it.”
There was an instant of silence. Finally, Bob said roughly. “Five five.”
Billy tapped the numbers.
Katherine answered immediately. “Bob?” Was there a breathless quality to her voice? She might well have seen Billy’s car parked behind Bob’s.
“Hi, Katherine. Billy Cameron here. Bob and I were visiting and I wondered if you could spare a minute and join us.”
• • •
“Has anyone ever told Emma she’s an overbearing old bat?” Max measured coffee into the coffeemaker. His jaw jutted.
“Not to her face.” She understood his irritation. As he’d pointed out, Billy Cameron might not be pleased to know the people he intended to interview would have a heads-up on the likelihood the deaths of Fred and Adam and Ves’s disappearance were connected. At least, Annie assumed Emma’s hope was that Max would not only warn them of danger but urge each to immediately contact the police if they had any sense of who might have killed Fred Butler and Adam Nash.
“Maybe it’s time someone told Emma.” He poured in water, closed the lid, pushed Start. “All right, fresh coffee coming up. I gather we don’t intend to offer liquor or wine?”
“It won’t”—she felt a slight shiver—“be a bright gathering.”
The doorbell rang.
• • •
Annie sat in a wicker chair to the right of the fireplace. Max stood to her left. She knew he wasn’t comfortable with his role but that wasn’t apparent. He looked relaxed, serious, welcoming. To her, he was always Joe Hardy all grown up, blond, handsome, the man you’d like to have at the tiller in a storm.
“I’m sure some of you were surprised when Emma Clyde asked you to be here tonight. Emma is concerned that some of you might not be aware of the background to Ves Roundtree’s disappearance. Although the police did not officially declare Fred Butler’s drowning the result of suicide, that was the implication. However, now there is good reason to believe he did not commit suicide.”
As he spoke, Annie surveyed his listeners.
Gretchen Roundtree’s bony face was blank and unsmiling. The gold medallion pattern of her paisley blouse emphasized the blond sheen of her hair. One hand clutched at the black scarf at her throat.
Curt’s relaxed demeanor was in sharp contrast to his mother’s. Freckled face skeptical, he lounged on a leather sofa in a preppy plaid cotton shirt, chinos, and tasseled leather loafers.
Jane Wilson’s apricot cabled V-neck sweater was perfection above cream wool trousers and cream leather heels with apricot banding, but Jane’s sweet face looked troubled.
Tim Holt sat with big strong hands planted squarely on the knees of his jeans. He looked fit and muscular in a wool shirt with the sleeves rolled up almost to his elbows. His strong-boned face creased in a frown.
Bob and Katherine Farley sat side by side on a wooden bench. Her sleek black hair fell forward on one side, shading her face. Bob’s hands were clamped on the head of an oak cane. Katherine would have been her usual stylish self in a plaid jacket with three-quarter-length sleeves except for the rigidity of her posture. Every so often she slid a sideways glance at her husband. He stared straight ahead, lips pressed together.
“Annie discovered Fred was happy and excited. His excitement was based on his expectation of soon finding buried treasure—”
Curt broke in, his tone sneering. “Don’t tell us there’s a hidden cache of gold and somebody bumped him off to get a map with a huge X that marks the spot.”
Max was unruffled. “I’ll lay out what we know. Each of you can make your own conclusion. In regard to treasure, it doesn’t matter whether it exists or not. What matters is that Fred was searching for a treasure reputedly buried in Ves’s backyard by Black Jack MacDougal, and further”—Max’s voice was measured—“Fred was searching late on Thursday afternoons. On Monday night Ves concluded that Fred was in her yard when someone arrived there the Thursday she fell. Fred likely hurried away because he had no business being there. He didn’t know about her fall until last week’s gathering at her house. Ves realized Fred knew who greased the step.”
Each person stared at Max. There wasn’t a breath of sound.
“That knowledge led to his murder later Wednesday night on Fish Haul Pier.”
Jane Wilson held up both hands as if to ward off the words, the knowledge. “It sounded like he committed suicide in the paper.”
“He had no reason to jump into the water.” Annie was forceful. “I talked to people who knew him. Everything was fine in his life. Ves called me Monday night, said she was sure Fred had been murdered. She said Fred knew who set the trap on her stairs. He could have spoken up that night at her house, but that would mean he had to admit he’d been there. Maybe he was afraid he’d be accused. Maybe he was afraid he would lose his job because he lied to his manager and said he had dental appointments on Thursday afternoons. Ves said she wanted to concentrate, remember everything that happened in her living room, picture where Fred sat and where he looked. She told me she’d meet me at the police station Tuesday morning. She never came. Instead her back door was open, the lights on, some blood smeared on the doorframe, a chair overturned.”
Katherine’s voice was strained. “You’re saying someone killed her Monday night to keep her from going to the police.”
Gretchen came to her feet, glared at Annie. “You’re saying one of us killed Fred and Ves.”
Max’s tone was equable. “We aren’t accusing anyone. We’re telling you that when Fred Butler left Ves’s house last Wednesday he had no reason to jump into the ocean. I saw him that night. He looked afraid. It’s obvious he had good reason to be afraid. Then Ves figured out what happened to him. Did she talk to the person Fred saw?” He looked from face to face.
Tim Holt stood also, looked belligerent with the same stance as a bull ready to charge. His face was hard. “Wait a minute. This gets ugly. Now that rich guy’s dead.” Annie realized he was talking about Adam Nash.
“They say somebody shot him sometime Tuesday. Look, people, he stood to get big bucks when the Roundtree woman dies. What happens to his share of that estate? Same with Fred Butler. And maybe Roundtree’s dead.” His stare at Max was demanding. “You were in Ves Roundtree’s pocket, standing there that night like she needed a bodyguard. You seem to know all about everything. We’re told to come to your house tonight. So let’s get down to business. When one of them dies, do the ones who are left”—he gestured at Jane, Curt, Bob, and Kathe
rine—“get their share?”
Max spoke carefully. “As I understand the provisions of the trust, upon Ves Roundtree’s death, the estate will be divided among the living contingent remaindermen beneficiaries.”
Tim’s voice was harsh. “You mean them?” A big hand waved toward Jane, Bob, Curt, Katherine.
Max nodded.
Tim looked like a man grappling with a realization that death could strike at any time. “That’s a hell of a bad deal. Who’s going to keep them safe?”
• • •
Max put a bowl of fresh-cut papaya in front of Annie, another at his place. “Your favorite.”
She smiled her thanks. She’d loved papaya ever since a visit to Mexico City and breakfast at Sanborns near the Zócalo.
Max sat across from her, his sexy morning self with thick blond hair slightly tangled, bristly cheeks, muscular in a T-shirt and plaid boxer shorts. This morning he was exuberant. “Today is going to be fine. No more Sturm und Drang.” He was grave for a moment. “It’s tough to wonder what happened to Ves but we can’t do anything more for her. Or for Fred or Adam. It’s time for us to get back to normal, have an ordinary Thursday. How about we take the boat out for some red snapper?”
“I’d love to”—her smile was bright—“but I have to work on the chapbooks.” She wondered why Max, usually so perceptive, never detected the insincerity in her voice in regard to all things connected to fishing. It wasn’t, she thought defensively, that she was hyper, but spending hours with a rod and a line waiting for a no doubt sneering fish to be dumb enough to glob onto a tidbit slapped on a hook was not her idea of fun. That didn’t even take into account going out of sight of land in a boat wallowing like a drunken sailor. A native of landlocked Amarillo, Annie took great comfort from seeing land, however distantly.
Max’s eyes had the dreamy look of a fisherman imagining triumphs. “Wish you could come. But you’ll have fun, too.”
• • •
Annie petted Agatha and took an occasional sip of coffee as she learned more about Scottish-born John Buchan, his pleasure in arduous hikes, his recurring stomach ailments, his service as governor general of Canada from 1935 until his death in 1940. Buchan was revered in the mystery world as the creator of Richard Hannay, hero of The Thirty-Nine Steps. Buchan’s rousing tales featured admirable protagonists and gave a sense of a long-vanished world. It would be great to use the original cover—
The front bell sang.
Annie looked up the central aisle.
Jane Wilson moved with the grace of a model, strikingly attractive in a cranberry velveteen jacket with a starburst on the lapel, a floral silk blouse bright with dashes of silver and cranberry, and slender-legged black trousers above cranberry leather heels. All was perfect except for the haunting paleness of an open and rounded face not suited for drama. She reached the coffee bar area, looked at Annie. “I want your advice. I hope you don’t mind. I closed the shop to come. I’m going to owe so many hours.”
“Of course I don’t mind. I’ll get some coffee.” Annie gestured at a table nearer the coffee bar that wasn’t encumbered by the chapbook manuscripts. Jane sat at the table, looked stiff and uncomfortable.
Annie hurried behind the coffee bar, reached up to the display of mugs emblazoned with mystery titles. She chose Something Wrong by Elizabeth Linington for Jane and The Perilous Country by John Creasy for herself, filled them, joined Jane at the table.
Jane gripped the mug. “Last night”—her voice was uneven—“Max seemed to be saying that one of us killed Fred and Ves and Mr. Nash. Do you think that’s true?”
Annie heard a demand for reassurance. She had to answer honestly. “I’m afraid so. I asked around about Fred. He was a happy man until he went to Ves’s house that Wednesday night. When she described how someone tried to kill her, Fred was shocked and frightened. Max saw his reaction. So did Ves. Later she figured out what happened, what must have happened. Fred was in her yard looking for treasure when someone came and waxed the step on her stairs. But Fred didn’t know about her fall until the night he died. He came there and he looked at someone. He must have agreed to meet that person on the pier. Ves told me on the phone Monday night she was going to see if she could remember who Fred looked at. No one’s seen her since. The next night Adam Nash died. Maybe he knew something or maybe he was killed to increase the others’ share, but one way or another, all the deaths have to be connected.”
Jane brushed back a soft tangle of brown curls. “Tim says anybody who might get money could be killed. He’s furious at me.”
Annie was puzzled. If Tim was scared for Jane, she’d understand. Why would he be angry? “Furious at you?”
She lifted her chin. “He wants to get married. Right. Now. Today. Then he can take care of me. Either that or I should let him move into my house. He says I can’t live there by myself, that anybody could get in and . . . kill me.”
“You live alone?”
Jane’s glance skittered away. Her pale cheeks were touched by pink. “Tim and I—well, I’m not in any hurry. I’m nineteen. I want to be able to be myself for a while. Tim is a lot of fun and he’s ambitious and maybe he’s the right one, but I don’t want to decide now. Especially not now. Everything is horrible. That nice Fred is dead and Ves gone and Mr. Nash shot.” She pressed her fingertips against her temples for an instant. “It’s horrible. I don’t want to get married when things are bad.”
Weddings should be the happiest of occasions on the happiest of days. Annie remembered Laurel’s vision for her and Max’s wedding. A red wedding gown. Annie didn’t care if that was the custom in China, however nicely Laurel intended her suggestion. Annie wore a soft cream dress of her own choosing. Perhaps the dress had the faintest rose tint. Happiness suffused their day, glorious weather, good friends, a traditional ceremony. “Do you take this man . . . ?” Of course Jane wanted to marry in joy, not fear.
Jane hurried ahead. “I want a June wedding. That’s what Mom and I talked about. Toward the end”—tears glistened in her eyes—“Mom seemed to like to look ahead and she said, ‘You’ll marry the nicest boy, I know you will.’ Mom and I figured out what kind of dress, ivory with some lace at the throat, and the flowers. She loved chrysanthemums. I told her—I promised her—when I married it would be just the way we planned.” Her gaze met Annie’s directly. “A lot of people live together now before they get married but I promised Mom I wouldn’t do that. Tim doesn’t live with me. He has an apartment on the other side of the woods by the harbor pavilion.”
Annie knew the harbor park well and the apartment house separated from the pavilion by thick woods. A path led through the trees to the apartment parking lot.
“He’s going crazy. He says we have to get married today or he should come and stay at my house. I told him no. He says he’s scared someone will get me. But I told him I promised my mom.” She pushed away the mug, her coffee untasted, scooted back the chair, stood. “Thanks for listening. I better get back to the shop. I guess you’re right. Fred Butler knew something and Ves figured out who killed him and Mr. Nash was involved somehow. I don’t know anything about anyone so I should be safe. I’ll be extra careful. I’ll lock up real well. And somebody would have to be crazy to keep killing people in Mr. Roundtree’s trust.”
• • •
A sharp nip on one ankle got an immediate response. Annie sped behind the coffee bar and shook dry pellets into a clean bowl. She refreshed Agatha’s water bowl, placed it on the newspaper spread out on the floor. She was smiling as she returned to the round table with three separate stacks of manuscript sheets. She was close to completing her copyedit. Next week Max could work his online wonders and soon the chapbooks would be done.
The next author in Henny’s list of classics was one of Annie’s favorites. John P. Marquand was better known as a literary author but he also wrote thrillers starring Mr. Moto, an elegant Japanese spy who often ch
allenged American adventurers. In the first Mr. Moto, Ming Yellow, a sardonic newspaper reporter and a wealthy American heiress faced a ruthless marauding mercenary who killed as thoughtlessly as a housewife swats a fly.
Annie felt a chill. That’s what someone was doing. Killing without compunction. There were six guests at their house last night. One of them had killed three times. Who? Which one was a threat?
Annie picked up a pen. What did they know about the murderer? The murderer was calm and cool, remaining at Ves’s house after she drove off, entering the house to remove evidence the step had been waxed. That indicated steadiness under pressure. The murderer made quick decisions. When Fred looked across Ves’s living room, the murderer decided Fred had to die. Fred died within hours. Ves wanted time to remember the moment when Fred looked at . . . someone. If she remembered and spoke to the murderer, she was somehow convinced she was mistaken. The murderer must have been glib, projected an image of innocence, then followed her in the dark to make sure she never told anyone of her suspicions. The murderer, like the Chinese brigand in Ming Yellow, was focused on more money, always more money, and so Adam Nash died.
Which of the six had these qualities?
Jane Wilson. Her visit to Death on Demand might have been a clever pretense, emphasizing that she could be a victim so of course she couldn’t be guilty of the crimes. Jane was young. She loved pretty things. Did she want to be able to buy designer clothes, not pick them up secondhand? She seemed sweet. Did she resist Tim moving in to her house because she wanted to be free to go and come as she wished?
Tim Holt. He was smart, ambitious, had big ideas about what he could accomplish but he needed backing. Big money. He pushed Jane to ask Ves for money. Ves said no. Was Tim willing to do whatever was necessary to achieve his goals? He was strong, could move fast. Did he have a gun? So many islanders owned guns, whether legal or not. They were easy to come by.
