Walking on My Grave

by Carolyn Hart

  Katherine was running across the room. “Bob, oh, Bob.” She wrapped her arms around him. Bob stood stiffly for a moment, then a hand lifted to gently smooth her sleek hair. He bent to rest his face against her head.

  Billy watched them, his face expressionless. He cleared his throat. “If you’ll take your seats now.”

  Katherine lifted a tear-stained face, looked into Bob’s eyes. “I was afraid I’d never have you near again. Bob, please tell them the truth.”

  Bob pulled away. He looked around the room. “I didn’t know we were coming here.” He glared at Billy. “What’s the point? Take me back to that damn cell. I told you I killed them.”

  “Bob.” Katherine’s cry was anguished.

  There was a flash of pity in Billy’s eyes.

  Annie saw that look, quickly gone. She was afraid she knew what was going to happen. Billy brought Bob here, a Bob not in prisoner’s clothes, a Bob without handcuffs, but Billy intended to leave with a murderer. And he felt sorry for Bob.

  Katherine tugged at Bob’s arm. “Bob, come with me. We’ll sit over here.” She pulled and slowly he moved. She held tight, pressed against his shoulder when they were seated. She paid no attention to the others, ignored the sounds from the hallway, her every sense attuned to the man beside her.

  A flurry of steps in the hallway.

  Max nodded a welcome as Emma, Henny, and Laurel crowded into the archway. “Good of you to come.”

  Emma’s bellow was stentorian. “I see everyone is here. All of us are eager to find out what happened to Ves. We appreciate being included since we tried to give her a hand after her fall.”

  Annie noted varying looks of surprise on the faces of the assembled guests, but perhaps there was a lessening of tension. The evening was taking on the aspect of a civic meeting.

  Max said quickly, “We’re a little short of chairs. I’ll get some from the dining room.”

  Emma’s light blue eyes scanned the room. Henny’s expression was bland, an island leader attending a public gathering, ready to contribute if called upon. Laurel’s quite stunningly lovely face was dreamy, as if she might soon follow a Tibetan path to a remote hut.

  Max placed dining room chairs, two on one side of the archway, two on the other. The action seemed unstudied, unplanned, simply a man making provision for more guests than a room could comfortably seat. The fact that the chairs faced the earlier arrivals seemed unremarkable.

  Emma walked majestically, a sturdy block of emerald green, to the far chair on the right of the archway. Henny slipped into the chair next to her, turned her face to speak quietly to Emma. Laurel moved as if she walked on clouds, sank into the far chair on the left and smiled at Annie as she settled beside her. Annie wondered how her mother-in-law could appear so utterly otherworldly, as if at any moment she might consult with a nightingale in flight. Max remained in the archway, Billy a little behind him.

  Annie glanced at her watch. Five after seven.

  “My hope tonight”—Max’s tone was pleasant—“is to represent Ves Roundtree. Monday night Ves realized that Fred Butler was killed because he saw someone he knew at her house the Thursday afternoon she fell. For several Thursdays, Fred left work early, claiming a dental appointment. Instead, he came here to dig for pirate gold. He was here the afternoon the step was waxed on the staircase. Fred melted away into the woods, since he was trespassing. Fred was unaware of Ves’s fall until she called a gathering here. That Wednesday was the night Fred drowned. His death was murder.”

  Billy cleared his throat, stepped forward. “I’d like to take a moment here to clear up some confusion.” He looked at Max. “If I may?”

  “Of course.” Max was agreeable.

  Billy said briskly, “We want to give the circuit solicitor as much information as possible about Fred Butler, and we realized we don’t have an account of his actions as he left this house the night he drowned.” He turned to Max. “Who was the first person to go outside that evening?”

  Annie glanced at her watch. Ten after seven.

  Max shook his head. “The guests went out together. I stayed behind to ask Ves if she wanted me to spend the night, but she said she was fine as long as she had her gun.”

  Billy looked around the room. “Can anyone help us out here?”

  Gretchen’s breathy voice was disdainful. “We escaped like a herd of gazelles running from a leopard. Have you ever had anyone accuse you of trying to kill them? Good luck on who saw Fred. Who cared about Fred?” Gretchen was imperious in a Queen Anne chair near the fireplace. One hand toyed with a sapphire pendant. Her fingers were long and bony, the nails painted a deep raspberry. “It took forever to get out of here. The drive is narrow, so we were parked behind each other. Curt and I arrived first so we had to wait until the other cars left.”

  “This scarcely seems worth talking about.” Katherine’s voice was sharp. “Fred didn’t drown here. I hate talking about that night. What difference does it make when we left this hideous place? If you care, Adam stormed out first and Fred was right behind him. Jane and Tim were in front of us. We went straight to Bob’s car. I think Fred was standing by his car. The shadows were pretty dark. Headlights were on but it was a black night. Once we got outside, you couldn’t make out where anyone was.”

  “Fred’s headlights were on?” Billy asked pleasantly.

  “Everyone had their headlights on.”

  Annie’s watch read thirteen after seven.

  Gretchen bristled. “It took longer than it should have. Fred’s car was the last in the drive. I think he was behind Adam. I almost honked.”

  Curt gave his mother a sly look. “You sure did. I caught your hand, reminded you there was a nutcase with a .45 in the house and to simmer down.”

  “Anyway”—her voice held remembered pique—“it took Fred forever.”

  Billy looked at Katherine. “You thought Fred was standing by his car. Mrs. Roundtree says Fred’s headlights were on. So”—Billy’s tone was casual—“someone else must have been standing at Fred’s window, talking to him. Who—”

  The grandfather clock chimed the quarter hour. Steps sounded in the hallway.

  Billy half turned toward the archway, but Max gazed into the living room to watch Curt Roundtree. Annie stared at Gretchen.

  The steps stopped. Annie felt a presence in the archway, but she kept her gaze fastened on Gretchen.

  Gretchen’s eyes widened. Her lips parted. “Oh my God.” There was shock in the suddenly slack muscles of that perfectly made-up face.

  There was a melee of sound, the tone ranging from incredulity to amazement.

  Ves Roundtree stepped into the living room. She might have been arriving for a chamber of commerce luncheon, a bronze turtleneck sweater, a checked wool skirt with a gather at the waist that created a cascade to one side, her signature high heels. But her face was hard and implacable.

  Annie retained an indelible impression of Gretchen’s initial response, utter and total amazement. Now she scanned the others.

  Curt Roundtree gave a whoop. “I wish I’d known. I’d have taken bets. Is she dead or not?”

  Jane Wilson came to her feet, her face a vision of happiness. “Ves, how wonderful. You’re alive.” Jane began to cry.

  Tim Holt looked stolid, unmoved, broad hands planted on the knees of his jeans. Katherine stood, too, hands clenched, her narrow face eager, eyes burning with light and happiness. “This proves Bob was lying. This proves he’s innocent. Let him go.”

  Bob gripped his cane, his fingers curled on the handle. He looked up at his wife. “I was frightened for you. The gun was gone. I thought . . . I guess I was nuts. I went from thinking you’d done awful things for me to knowing you were innocent. But I was afraid they’d charge you. Because of the gun.”

  “I threw the gun in the water.” She sank down beside him. “Don’t ever leave me.” He drew
her close, his good arm tight around her shoulders.

  Ves moved forward. She stopped a scant foot from the red Victorian sofa, looked down. “You weren’t surprised when I came through the archway. Everyone was shocked. Except you. You watched me without any reaction. You knew I was alive.”

  Laurel was at her elbow. “No reaction at all.” Her blue eyes were stern.

  Ves’s voice was harsh. “You killed Fred and Adam, shot at Jane—”

  A cry came from Jane.

  “—but you knew you didn’t kill me.”

  Tim Holt slowly rose, stood in front of Ves, muscular and powerful. His handsome face was amused. “I said you were nuts. That’s what I told everybody. Nutcase deluxe. I don’t get any of this. Asking everybody over here for what? So you can come in and accuse somebody, I guess. I’m the guy without any connections, so dump on me. I don’t think so. You say I killed some people because I’m not surprised to see you. I don’t give a damn where you are or if you are. You can do whatever whenever. I’ve had enough of this—”

  Billy broke in. “Fred’s cell phone had no calls that evening. His home phone had no calls. Fred took his car to the pier, met someone. How was that meeting arranged? Katherine saw someone at the window of Fred’s car. It was here that he heard about the trap set for Ves. He was in the backyard, saw someone come. The night he died he looked across this room at you—”

  Tim was sardonic. “Sure. Pick me. But it won’t do you any good. He could have looked at anyone. Or maybe he already had a date for the pier before he came here. You can’t hang this on me.”

  Billy continued, his voice heavy. “—and you understood that somehow Fred knew you’d been here. You didn’t know Fred was looking for treasure in Ves’s backyard on Thursdays. But you made up your mind to kill Fred.” Billy turned to Jane, his voice deep, demanding. “Who stood by Fred’s car window?”

  Jane pressed her fingertips against her cheeks. Her face was tallow colored. Her blue eyes held horror and despair and sickening understanding. Shots in the night and Tim pressuring her to marry him immediately. Ves’s money at the end of a dark rainbow.

  Tim turned toward her. “I was with you. I didn’t go up to the old geezer’s car. Why would I?”

  Jane slowly backed away from him, blue eyes huge in her young stricken face. Steps sounded from the hall, and Lou Pirelli was beside her, one strong arm around her shoulders. She turned, clung to Lou.

  Ves’s voice carried, clear, accusing, definite. “Ecce signum.”

  Annie glanced at Max and he mouthed, “Behold the proof.”

  Annie saw Jane’s shoulders shaking. Jane knew. Jane was in Tim’s truck. Jane saw him at the window of Fred’s car. Tim may have been reassuring. Hey, Fred, you and I need to talk. I didn’t wax anybody’s step. I went up to the door and knocked. No answer. I left. But you and I are kind of on the spot. Let’s meet on the pier. Say half an hour. We can work out our times and go to the cops. We may be able to help them. It wouldn’t have taken long to say, then return to the truck, climb up into the cab.

  Jane’s voice was choked. “Tim said the old geezer, he meant Fred, dropped something and he’d hurry and pick it up and take it to him. When he came back, Tim told me people were sure funny. Fred dropped a rabbit’s foot and was real glad to get it back. Said it was a good luck piece.”

  Tim’s face turned an ugly red. “Jane, they’ve planned this. It’s a setup.” He started to walk toward the archway. “I’m out of here. I’m not going to be anybody’s fall guy.”

  Billy, big, burly, immovable, blocked him. Billy shot a quick glance at Lou, who gave an emphatic nod. There was a satisfied look on Billy’s face. He spoke in a measured tone. “Timothy Holt, I am arresting you on suspicion of murder.” He gave the Miranda warning, gripped Tim’s arm.

  Tim turned a venomous glare on Ves. “They don’t have anything on me. I’ll sue you. You can’t get away with this.”

  The confident look on Billy’s face assured Annie that Billy was sure he had a case, could build a case, that Tim Holt was a murderer who would face trial and Ves was safe. Billy spoke to Ves. “You did the right thing to come out of hiding.”

  Ves spoke slowly. “I was frightened. Annie said you’d listen, but I didn’t think you would believe me when I claimed someone killed Fred. That’s why I left that night. I worked it all out. I have loads of frozen food. I packed up everything I needed and took it to Rufus’s house. The electricity stays on year-round because we have occasional winter renters. Next I went to the shop. I was almost well from the fall, well enough to ride an electric scooter. I got a scooter at the shop, came home, and”—a flush stained her cheeks—“I made it look like something had happened to me, the chair knocked over and blood on the doorframe.” Her lips twisted. “It’s easy to bleed when you’re afraid you’re going to die. I jabbed an earlobe. I left the door open, the lights on. I used a flashlight and took a bike path on the scooter to Rufus’s house. I never turned on any lights. I used my flashlight at night. I watched on the TV in the den. After Adam was shot, I felt paralyzed by fear. Then I started to wonder. Why shoot Adam? Everyone thought it was to increase the survivors’ share of Rufus’s estate. But I wasn’t dead. I wondered if somehow Adam knew who Fred met on the pier. And I was right. Adam was in the car in front of Fred. He looked in his rearview mirror, saw Tim talk to Fred.”

  Tim folded his arms, his face defiant, his posture cocky. “Prove it.”

  Billy clicked handcuffs on Tim’s wrists. “We know more than you think.”

  Ves had the last word. “I came back because I had to choose. Aut vincere aut mori.”

  Max murmured to Annie, “Either to conquer or to die.”

  15

  The place settings of hand-painted china made the dining room table elegant. Fresh gardenias in the centerpiece provided a sweet scent. Ves stood at one end of the table. “Thank you for being my friends when I needed friends.”

  Annie felt a glow. Ves’s ivory silk dress emphasized the brightness of her red curls. Everyone looked festive, Laurel a vision of loveliness in a pale blue dress, Emma sturdy and commanding in an orange caftan reminiscent of a South Seas sunrise, and Henny regal in a high-necked velvet dress the same shade as the iris on the hand-painted china.

  “I also wanted you to know that I spoke with the trustee. I can do what I wish with the corpus of the estate so long as it is distributed to some or more of the heirs who are alive during my lifetime. I thought about Rufus and those he wanted to share in his wealth. For that reason, I have provided a substantial sum to Bob and Katherine, Jane, and my nephew, Curt. All of us suffered because of Tim’s greed. Money can’t solve everything, but sometimes it smooths a path. And I used some of the income to reimburse the town for the search for me. And now, I’ll serve—”

  Emma cleared her throat. “Along that line, I wanted to say”—and her blue eyes were icy—“I don’t like blackmailers.” Emma’s strong square face was as tough as any cowboy’s boot. “Sometimes I have a soft spot for the reckless. Raffles was a good sort.”

  Annie pictured E. W. Hornung’s famed safecracker A. J. Raffles, who smoked expensive cigarettes and wrote poetry when he wasn’t stealing from the rich.

  “I was thinking about Raffles the other day and happened to drop by the Perfumerie—”

  Annie had difficulty imagining Emma in that haven of scent and unguents.

  “—and it turned out Gretchen was most interested when I told her about my idea for a book about a blackmailer. The victim calls the blackmailer and engages in a back-and-forth about money and what will happen if a payment isn’t made. The victim is recording the call. When it is concluded, the victim prints out the conversation. There is a neat technology that can do that. The victim calls again, points out possession of a recording of the incriminating call, and suggests they both walk away—unless the blackmailer is willing to go to prison.” A satisfied smile. />
  “Reprehensible,” Laurel chided, but she smiled.

  Henny nodded. “I hope the recipient of your wisdom forgoes future thefts.”

  Ves laughed out loud. “Emma, if I ever take to a life of crime, I will consult with you first.”

  • • •

  Helium balloons, red, yellow, and blue, bobbed on a line tethered to the coffee bar to celebrate the publication of three distinctive chapbooks. In Annie’s private estimation, the three literary efforts could also be described as amazing and she would say so with a very straight face, especially in her mother-in-law’s presence.

  “Beer Barrel Polka” blared from the sound system in deference to Emma’s new title, set at a Czech festival. Death on Demand was jammed, blue-haired ladies from book clubs, bright-eyed retired professors, male and female, island gentry, island shopkeepers, some of the regulars from Parotti’s, the Friends of the Library in full force. Of course, Emma’s birthday cake, a triple decker chocolate cake with raspberry icing, had its own table.

  Ingrid Webb, aided by husband Duane, manned the front cash desk. Annie and Max worked behind the coffee bar. Lines stretched from three tables set up beneath the watercolors. As Annie finished an orange slush, added a cherry to the top, she was grateful for small favors. She had seated the three authors honored tonight in alphabetical order, Henny Brawley, Emma Clyde, and Laurel Roethke. Emma always expected to be queen of the hill and took the center table as in the natural order of things. Henny was unpretentious and undemanding. Laurel was . . . Laurel.

  Dark blue eyes perhaps spacier than usual, Laurel charmed customers, often taking a moment to gaze deeply into a buyer’s eyes then speaking as if they shared a secret rapport. Annie overheard, “You remind me of a stag at sunset.” The male recipient of this observation straightened his shoulders, pulled in his paunch, and swaggered away from the table with a half dozen chapbooks. To a sour-faced forty-year-old, she trilled, “I see you as a little girl. Serious but with such an impish sense of fun. Now, that is a great gift.” And a miracle occurred and the sour look was replaced by a shy smile.