“Why did you want to talk to him so early in the morning?”
For just an instant, that smooth mask shifted. No one had ever asked her that question.
Annie knew then, just as surely as if she’d seen it happen, that Emma Clyde came up behind her non-swimmer husband on the early morning of Sunday, October 16, and pushed him over the low railing to drown.
“I wanted to talk to him about some investments.”
On Sunday morning?
Her immediate assumption that Annie had blackmail in mind seemed to indicate she was accustomed to blackmail. But Elliot must have had more than suspicion if he were blackmailing Emma: Blackmail had to be based on more than speculation. There had to be a threat, something concrete Elliot had learned that could cause the investigation to be reopened, perhaps lead to a murder charge against Emma.
“The steward must not have been aboard that night.”
“That’s right.”
“Did he normally have Saturday evenings off? What about the rest of the crew?”
“Only the steward and the cook remain aboard when we are anchored. I’d given them the evening off because Ricky and I had plans on shore.”
“But the steward didn’t go ashore, did he?” Here was Elliot’s source, the steward or the cook. Someone heard cries or saw Ricky and Emma on deck together. Elliot had found a witness to the murder of Enrique Morales.
Emma didn’t change expression, but there was a sudden relaxation of tension. Annie’s question must have revealed that she didn’t possess the critical piece of information.
“It’s always heartbreaking when such a dreadful accident occurs. Isn’t it, dear?”
Those shrewd blue eyes dissected Annie now, probing, weighing.
The silence between them was ugly, freighted with unspoken meanings.
“I’m sure you know exactly how I feel. And how upsetting it is to be the subject of vicious gossip. You, of all people, should understand that.”
It couldn’t have been plainer if she’d shouted it. Emma saw a special kinship between them. Emma believed that she had pushed Ambrose Bailey to his death.
Annie clenched her hands. “Does everybody think I killed my uncle?”
“Hell, no. That’s just her guilty conscience in action.”
“She meant that everyone was talking about me.” Annie felt as if something slimy had touched her. She had been so happy on Broward’s Rock, confident of her place in her own version of St. Mary Mead. Instead, smiling faces hid ugly suspicions. The reality was a Ruth Rendell world.
As the Porsche ran beneath the interlocking branches of the yellow pines, Max reached over and squeezed her hands. “Don’t let an old battle-axe upset you.”
“I thought I had a lot of friends on Broward’s Rock.”
“You do. Lots.”
Annie recalled the sensation seekers at the shop yesterday, and Chief Saulter. “Who?”
Max scrambled. “Ingrid Jones. And Ben Parotti. And Capt. Mac. Me. Look at it. Your very own four musketeers.”
She knew who pictured himself as D’Artagnan. She managed a bleak smile.
“That’s a girl. Don’t let the bastards get you down. Come on, you’re one up, not Emma Clyde. You got a lot out of her, and what you got is damn interesting.”
She twisted in the seat. “Max, this changes everything. Elliot must have been a blackmailer.”
The Porsche slowed for a stop sign, and Max turned back onto the main road. He glanced at his map and drove past the harbor shops off to the right, then followed the curve of the island to a sign pointing to beach houses. He turned right on Blue Magnolia. As he braked, he said abruptly, “No, that can’t be right.”
“Why not? I’d bet my first edition of The Murder of Roger Ackroyd that Emma’s been blackmailed.”
“What’s the point of blackmail?”
“You pay to keep someone quiet.”
“Right. But Elliot was going to stand up and reveal all to the world—or at least to the Regulars.”
Annie got out of the car slowly. Then she poked her head back inside. “Maybe this was Elliot’s fancy way of putting on the pressure for a bigger payoff.”
She mulled that over as she walked up the oyster-shell path, then she brought herself in hand. She’d better play this next interview better than the last.
A battered station wagon stood in the drive. The zinnias in the front bed were choked with weeds and the weeping willow beside the porch desperately needed a trim. Yesterday’s newspaper rested unopened next to an empty bait bucket, which still smelled like chopped squid.
Her reception this time was warm if puzzled. Chunky Hal Douglas, unshaven, wearing a soiled t-shirt and torn tennis shorts, offered coffee, beer, or a drink. Unlike Emma’s elegant home, Hal’s was furnished with happenstance furniture, a shabby maple sofa, mismatched easy chairs, and a card table in one corner stacked with old magazines, Geo, Esquire, Playboy, and Omni. He tried frantically to straighten the litter as he led her to the den, sweeping a pile of newspapers onto the floor and grabbing up a damp beach towel, tennis shoes, and a racquet.
He was boyishly friendly, and she hated going into her spiel. What a way to kill a friendship. How do investigative reporters manage? The thrill of power had to outweigh the human need for approbation. A trade-off.
Annie took a deep breath. She’d be as forthright as Dagliesh. “No, Hal, thanks. Nothing for me. Actually, I hate to be here.”
That was true.
His round face compressed into a worried frown. “What’s wrong? Can I help you? Is that cop bothering you?”
“That’s the problem. And the thing is, I’ve got some information that could get him off my back, but I hate to give it to him.”
“Don’t hesitate, Annie. You can’t protect anyone in a murder investigation.”
Every kind word he uttered made her feel more like a louse. Another word and she would turn tail and run, but if she didn’t see it through, she’d find herself in the island jail with the centipedes and roaches.
Annie blurted, “Elliot mailed a copy of his talk to me.”
Hal’s open face abruptly looked a good deal less pleasant.
“I don’t want to tell Saulter the stuff about you. I thought maybe you could explain it away and then I won’t have to.”
For the first time, she realized how big a man he was—tall, powerfully put together, with bearlike shoulders and arms. He was maybe twenty pounds overweight, which gave his face disarming roundness. He might be soft, but he was clearly strong. She slipped a hand into the pocket of her skirt and gripped the oblong, two-inch container of mace.
“I don’t want Kelly to know.” He lifted those massive hands and rubbed his bristly jowls.
“I can understand that,” she murmured.
Hal lifted his head, his eyes intent. “Does anyone else know?”
Careful, Annie.
“Just Max.”
He whirled around, stepped toward the mantel. One hand swept out, knocking off a half dozen books. When he turned back to face her, he was breathing heavily.
She braced herself. If he took one step toward her, she’d pull out the mace. Surreptitiously, she flicked off the safety guard.
“Goddammit.” Hal spoke jerkily. “She left town. That’s all there was to it. Lenora left town.”
“People said you’d been fighting.”
His head wobbled on its thick neck. He no longer looked like everybody’s nice guy. He looked like a fighter who’d taken one punch too many. “Elliot got that wrong, the sorry bastard. There wasn’t anybody to see. We were at the cabin in the mountains. No neighbors for miles, but she’d been into town a lot, picked up guys, like she always did. I went fishing, and, when I came back, she was gone. No note. Nothing. Some bastard came by and got her.”
There was nothing good-humored about that pudgy face now. It was twisted with remembered pain and hatred.
“You say Lenora went away. Surely you’ve heard from her since then?”
Hal s
moothed out his face, evened his breathing. “No reason for her to get in touch. I’d told her, one more man and we were through. One more and that was it.”
“Where was the cabin?”
“Near Tahoe.” He moved restlessly, rubbed his hands against his thighs.
“Have you ever told Kelly any of this?”
“I don’t want Kelly to know.” There was a plea in his eyes. “And it doesn’t matter, not for the two of us. I got a divorce in Tijuana. I’m all finished with Lenora.”
“Where did you meet Lenora, Hal?”
“What the hell difference does it make?” Hearing the edge in his voice, he said, “In St. Louis. At school. But what difference does it make? It’s all over with her.” He forced an ineffective smile. “Annie, this was all no big deal. And it’s been over for ages.”
“Sure, Hal. I just wanted to hear it from you, not the way Elliot had written it.”
Hal’s eyes bored into hers. “What did he say about Lenora?”
“That nobody’s seen her in years.”
It was quiet for a long moment. Annie could hear his breathing, see the pulse pounding in his throat.
“Hell, Lenora’s having a ball somewhere. Like she always did.” But his eyes were so empty.
“Sure,” Annie said again. “Sure.”
As she walked down the path toward the Porsche, Annie wondered how hard it had been to dig a grave miles from that lonely cabin.
They took the container of Kentucky Fried Chicken to the beach. Max looked suspiciously at each piece as Annie emptied the barrel onto a paper plate.
“Perhaps we aren’t compatible,” he mourned, setting up camp chairs from the Porsche’s trunk. Trickling sand through her fingers, Annie thought of Mary Roberts Rinehart and a trip she had made in 1925 into the desert near Cairo. At night her party rested in tents decorated with scenes from tombs. Oriental rugs covered the sand in their dining and bedroom tents. Dinner included soup, appetizer, roast with vegetables, salad with quail and dessert. Then fruit, Turkish coffee and candy. Gourmet picnicking. Max would have fit right in.
“I love Quarterpounders, too.”
He winced.
Annie bit into the lushly crusted half-thigh, half-breast while Max turned an oddly shaped piece around uncertainly.
“Was this chicken double-jointed?”
“It provides variety—and surprise,” Annie retorted, mouth full.
With an air of incalculable bravery, Max began to eat.
By meal’s end, they had admitted to irreconcilable culinary tastes.
Max liked sushi.
Annie adored fried pies. Peach, not cherry.
Max admired nouvelle cuisine.
Annie was passionate about Texas chili.
Max detested pretzels.
Annie loathed quiche.
Then they walked, hand in hand, up the beach, stopping to look at sandpipers’ tracks, turning over a shell-encrusted piece of driftwood and skirting the tendrils of a Portuguese man-of-war.
It was great fun, but it couldn’t last.
Already Annie was looking ahead. “Time to get back to the fray,” she said brightly. “Sherlock Annie continues in relentless pursuit of wrongdoers.” Her voice was lighter than her mood. It was a good deal more fun to read about bearding suspects in their lairs than to track them down.
“That’s a girl. And, remember, I’ll be there, if you need me.”
Just like Tommy and Tuppence.
Sort of.
Jeff Farley stood unsmiling on the porch. The two-story, weathered wooden house on pilings overlooked a dune bright with October color, the pale violet of butterfly peas and the shimmering gold of camphorweed. Beyond the dune, the beach stretched two hundred peaceful yards to the ocean. No other dwelling was within view. Annie stood halfway up the wooden steps, clinging to the railing, and the wind off the ocean touched her with the light fresh scent of salt. This was a choice beachfront exposure on a perfect autumn day, yet there was a sense of darkness and isolation here. Did it come from the almost feral gleam in Jeff Farley’s light brown eyes? He didn’t look much like an average cheerleader now, though he wore white duck pants and a white knit V-neck pullover with navy trim. He stood rigidly, his arms tight against his sides.
“I need to talk to you, Jeff.” Annie raised her voice against the rumble of the surf.
“We’re busy.” His voice was flat and hostile. He was turning away to close the door on her.
“Then you want me to give Elliot’s information to Chief Saulter?”
Jeff stiffened, then jerked around to face her. He lunged toward the ladder.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Look, Jeff, I’ve come out here to give you and Janis a chance to explain. If you can’t or won’t, I don’t have any choice but to go to Saulter. You must see that.”
The screen door behind Jeff burst open, and Janis rushed to the railing.
Annie’s eyes widened. The right side of the girl’s face was painfully swollen. A reddish-purple bruise spread from cheekbone to jawline, hideously distinct against her pallid skin.
Jeff glanced distractedly toward his wife. “Get back inside.”
Janis looked at him fearfully, but she took one step, another, then ran to the edge of the stairs. “Oh, Annie, please don’t tell. He can’t help it. He doesn’t mean it, it just happens sometimes. He gets so mad, and that’s what they did to him when he was a little boy. That and worse. They burned him—”
Jeff caught her from behind and whirled her around. The back of his hand hit her face with a stinging slap.
Janis screamed as the blow struck that inflamed skin.
Annie yelled, “Stop that! Stop it!” Pulling the mace out of her pocket, she charged up the porch steps.
He was using his fists now, raining blows on Janis’s bent back as she huddled against the wall of the beach house.
A stream of spray from the mace container caught the side of Jeff’s face. He staggered back, his hands clawing at his face. A spasm of coughing and choking convulsed his body.
Janis, blood trickling from her mouth, turned toward Annie, arms flailing, and lunged vengefully at her, screaming incoherent curses as she rained blows on her astonished protectress. Max shot up the steps and caught Janis by the arms, imprisoning her.
“It’s just mace. He’ll be all right. My God, Janis, I had to stop him. He was hurting you!”
“He didn’t mean it. You’ve got to understand. He doesn’t mean to hurt me. He loves me,” she whimpered brokenly. “You can’t know what he’s endured—”
“Did Jeff threaten Elliot when he knew Elliot was going to tell everyone?”
“That wouldn’t matter,” Janis said desperately. “It doesn’t matter what he said—or what he does to me. Jeff wouldn’t kill anyone. That’s crazy. He wouldn’t kill Elliot—or Jill or Harriet. Never.”
“But he beats you,” Annie said wearily.
“He doesn’t mean it.” Janis held out trembling hands. “Please, please don’t tell anyone. If you do—”
“Shut up, Janis. Don’t be a bloody fool.” Jeff’s face was mottled with rage and pain.
“Janis, don’t stay here with him. Come with us. You can stay with me,” Annie offered.
Janis wiped the blood away from her chin. Her eyes filled with tears, but she shook her head. She wouldn’t come with them no matter how they protested.
“You’ll have to get him to a doctor,” Annie said urgently, “or one of these days, he will kill you.”
But Janis wouldn’t leave him.
“We’ll have to tell Saulter,” Max said grimly as they drove back to the main part of the island.
“If it gets in the papers, they’ll be finished.”
“Finished? What do you mean?”
“As writers.”
“What does wife beating have to do with writing?”
“Probably not much—except in their case. They write for children. Do you think a children’s publis
her is going to keep an author who regularly bloodies his wife? Think again, Mr. Darling.”
“Oh. So they have a hell of a motive. Both of them.”
“Not her. She can’t do anything without him.”
“May I remind you that she was ready to tear your eyes out when she thought he was threatened. What do you think she would do to somebody like Elliot who was going to spread all this out for the enlightenment of the Sunday Night Regulars?”
“Punch him. At the least. Still, I can’t believe Janis would have the gumption to figure out such a clever plan. But Jeff could—and she’d never give him away.”
As the Porsche zoomed away from the beach house, Annie said tightly, “You know, I’d almost give Elliot’s murderer a gold star—if it weren’t for Jill and Harriet and Uncle Ambrose.”
They were soon arguing over their next stop, Max plumping for Kelly Rizzoli, Annie preferring Capt. Mac, when a siren shrilled behind them.
Max pulled over. “Thirty miles an hour. I swear, I was going thirty miles an hour.”
But Broward’s Rock’s only motorcycle cop was having a Mannix day. He wasn’t thinking speed limits.
He dismounted and leaned down to look past Max.
“Chief Saulter wants to see you, Miss.”
Chief Saulter didn’t want Max there, but Max wouldn’t budge.
“You can talk to my client only if I am present, Chief.” Max folded his hands across his chest and looked immovable.
“I can put your client in jail, Counselor.”
“What charge?”
“How about first-degree murder?”
“I’ll have her out on bail in two hours. You don’t have a scrap of evidence.”
The police chief clenched his jaws and built a teepee with his fingers. With a wrenching effort, he tried conciliation.
“Ms. Laurance, I just want some cooperation out of you. If you didn’t kill the vet and Morgan and Edelman and your uncle, you should want to help the authorities.”
“Four people. You honestly think I killed four people!”
“Somebody did, and you profit, young lady. You profit.”
“Actually, Chief, Ms. Laurance doesn’t have a financial motive.” Miraculously, Max sounded casual and good-humored.
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