by Carolyn Hart
Billy ignored her, stared at Jean. “When the lights went out, did you move?”
Jean gestured at the light stands. “I thought someone had stumbled over the cord, pulled the plug out of the battery pack. I took a step or two, but there was a cry and the sound of someone falling. I stopped. Someone shouted—”
Almost the instant the lights went out, Frank Saulter had flicked on his key-ring flash and moved fast.
“—That they were coming with a light. I waited.”
Billy moved quickly, stepping over the tape.
Jean’s frightened eyes never left Billy’s face.
Billy pointed at the black cable lying on the sandy ground. The plug was now pulled out of the battery pack. The plug lay in the sunlight, only a few feet from where Jean stood. “You made no effort to get the lights going.” Although his voice was uninflected, the flat statement sounded accusatory.
“I was frightened. I knew something was wrong.”
Marian was taking notes, her bright, dark eyes intent.
Billy looked dour. “You’re in charge.” His tone was tough. “There’s an emergency. Your first instinct should have been to restore light. Why didn’t you move to the plug?” His eyes were steely. “Maybe the answer’s simple. You weren’t standing there.” He pointed at her feet. “Everyone was listening to Wagner. No one noticed what you were doing. You could have moved behind the stage,” he took a few steps and stood over the battery pack, “and pulled out the plug.” He moved fast until he was directly behind the stage. “You stood here with a gun and shot him in the back. You got rid of the gun,” he gestured toward the lake, “and hurried back here.”
“I didn’t.” Her voice trembled. “I swear I didn’t.”
Billy swung away from her, pointed at the metal shed that stood about fifteen feet away. “The shed was broken into Thursday night.” Again it was a statement, not a question.
Jean looked puzzled. “The hasp holding the padlock had been pried loose. One of the boys found the door standing open Friday morning and came and told me.”
“Let’s take a look at it.”
Max and Marian followed as Jean and Billy walked to the shed.
Jean displayed the twisted remnant of the hasp with the now-useless padlock still in place.
Billy gestured at the shed. “I’d like to see inside.”
Jean pulled the door open. “I’ll see about a new hasp next week. With the program, I didn’t have time to take care of it yesterday and nothing seemed to have been bothered.”
When the door stood wide, Billy turned on the light. The shelves were packed with props, light filters, spotlights, paint cans, and assorted odds and ends. “You said there might be a costume missing?”
Jean eased past him, walked past a row of trunks, stopped at the next to last. She knelt and pulled up the lid. She pointed at a sheet of paper pasted to the interior of the lid. “The costumes are listed. See. Number five. But they get out of order. I’ll look through the trunk.”
Jean lifted out, one at a time, Abe Lincoln’s top hat, a Viking breastplate, Daniel Boone’s fringed leather shirt, Robin Hood’s green tunic and shorts, an Eskimo fur, a samurai robe and vest and sash with a soft hat, a Harvey rabbit, a Japanese kimono, and a half-dozen more costumes. Finally, she began to replace them. Then she stood and looked toward Billy. “The Puss-in-Boots cape and feathered hat are gone.”
She joined him in the doorway, shaking her head. “I don’t see why anybody would steal a costume and throw it in the lake. I suppose that’s what happened. Maybe one of the kids wanted to dress up in the hat and cape and then got scared and tossed everything in the water. Anyway, it’s a relief to know there was some reason why the shed was broken into. It doesn’t seem important now.”
Max glanced at Billy and knew they both suspected a very clever use for the cape and cavalier hat. In the darkness behind the lamp stands, a murderer—man or woman—could easily be disguised with the cape and hat. Who would notice one more costumed figure?
“Was anyone scheduled to play Puss-in-Boots last night?”
“No. Or we would have noticed sooner that the costume was missing.”
Billy nodded, his face thoughtful. Then he reached into his pocket. “I am serving you with a search warrant for your office, Ms. Hughes.”
Chapter 8
Annie fumbled in her purse for scratch paper. She found a grocery list, turned it over, and wrote: Not to worry. I’m with Rachel. She wants to show me something in the woods. Annie wasn’t sure what her stepsister hoped or feared. Rachel’s explanation had been disjointed in her impatience to get started.
Annie tucked a note beneath the driver’s windshield wiper of Max’s Jeep. If he came out to the Haven parking lot and saw her car and didn’t find her anywhere, he might be concerned. She tossed her purse in the trunk.
“Annie, hurry. Tim’s probably there by now.” Rachel gestured toward the woods. Thin as a whippet, with a narrow, intense face that hinted at the haunting beauty she would become, today she looked drenched in misery, reluctant yet committed. “Maybe everything’s okay. But he looked so strange. Come on,” she tugged at Annie’s hand, “stay behind me and don’t make any noise.”
When they reached the dim opening in the fern-choked thicket, Rachel stopped, plucked her cell phone from her pocket, turned it off. She looked over her shoulder. “Make sure your cell phone’s off.”
“I left my purse in my trunk.”
Rachel nodded and sped ahead.
Annie hurried to catch up. Rachel was a good ten feet in front of her, stepping softly on pine straw at the edge of the narrow path.
The caw of crows, the baking late-morning heat, a whirr of gnats, the flutter of ferns as they brushed past them, the smell of damp earth, the mixed scents of lavender lobelia and wild hibiscus and honeysuckle, the dreamy Green Mansions dimness of the path hidden from sunlight by overhanging branches, the ever-present fear of snakes were part and parcel of summer in the deep woods. As she followed her stepsister deeper and deeper into the dusky and isolated forest, Annie felt caught up in a strange and unnerving quest.
Abruptly, Rachel stopped, a hand held up in warning. She bent forward, shoulders hunched, listening.
Not far ahead came thrashing sounds.
Annie stiffened. Wild boars still roamed remote woods. With pointed ears, black bristly hair, and sharp tusks, the feral pigs were fast and dangerous. Annie squinted at the path in the dimness, seeking their distinctive muddy tracks. They often rolled in mud to cool off from summer heat.
Rachel made a tiny follow-me gesture and sidled around a curve.
Annie took two quick strides. She saw a welcome shaft of bright sunlight and knew a clearing lay ahead.
Rachel, her body taut, peered from behind a saw palm. Annie slid up next to her.
Tim Talbot, his thin face glistening from effort, sweat patching his T-shirt, worked furiously, pulling apart a bale of hay, pausing every so often to shove a hand into the pocket of his shorts.
“He’s digging out the bullets.” Rachel looked shaken.
The livid scar looked angry on Tim’s sweat-sheened cheek. His fingers scrabbled at the hay. He stopped, sneezed, wiped his face. Dust and sprigs of hay swirled as he gouged and ripped.
Rachel’s soft whisper was anguished. “If it was all right, he wouldn’t, would he?” She gripped Annie’s arm. “I saw him shooting at cups last week. He’d drawn a face—” She looked sick. “—With yellow hair on each cup. He blew them apart.”
Despite sweat sliding down her back and legs, Annie felt chilled. She stared at the small clearing, her eyes searching. She didn’t see a gun or any kind of weapon. She bent close to Rachel, scarcely breathed as she spoke, her words a ghost of sound. “Go back to the Haven. Get Max. I’ll wait here.”
Rachel twisted to answer. A twig snapped underfoot.
Tim’s head jerked up. He looked like a startled fawn, dark hair lank on his face, lips parted. A pulse quivered in his throat. He gazed
around the clearing in a frenzy, seeking the source of the sound. Abruptly, grunting with effort, he pushed at what remained of the bale, shoving the ragged bunch of hay behind a resurrection fern. He dropped to his hands and knees, frantically sweeping the remainder of the bale into the under-growth.
“I can’t stand this.” There was a sob in Rachel’s voice. She pulled away from Annie, bolted into the clearing. “Tim, don’t be scared. It’s just me and my sister. We want to help you.”
Annie pushed past a scratchy frond of a saw palmetto. Alert for any threat, she watched Tim, ready to push Rachel to safety, ready to scream for help though she knew they were deep in an unfrequented wood.
Tim came to his feet, panting. His eyes were wild, his hands clenched. He was disheveled and desperate. “I don’t need any help. Leave me alone.”
Annie understood Rachel’s pity. Yet, she remembered Laurel’s words—“Oh, I won’t forget his face”—when the lights came on after his stepfather’s murder. Annie spoke and the words were there without thought or planning. “What have you done with the gun?”
Tim stared at her with glazed, dark eyes. His face was ashen. He glanced toward the not-quite-hidden mound of shredded hay. “I didn’t…I didn’t…” He backed away from Annie, jerked around, and ran toward the path.
Rachel took a step toward the trees. “Tim, please come back.”
The only reply to Rachel’s call was the dwindling sound of his running steps.
“A SEARCH WARRANT?” Jean stared down at the paper in her hand. Her eyes widened in shock. “Why did you get a warrant? I don’t mind if you look in my office. You’re welcome to see everything.”
Billy was looking especially stolid. “The warrant makes the search official.” He turned away and walked toward the main building. Marian Kenyon was right on his heels.
Jean looked at Max. “What does he think he’s going to find?” Her voice was uneven. She brushed back a strand of blond hair with a shaky hand.
Max tried to keep his expression relaxed, but he knew Jean was in trouble. To obtain a search warrant, Billy had convinced the judge that there was probable cause that incriminating evidence would be found. “We’ll find out.”
When they stepped into the main building, Mavis Cameron waited in the hall outside Jean’s office. Mavis, who also worked as a crime scene tech, held an oblong metal box and wore latex gloves.
“Go right in.” Jean pointed at the open door to her office. She looked both scared and angry.
Max thought her anger was a sign of innocence.
Marian glanced in the office, then took two quick steps to confront Jean. “Ms. Hughes, you came to the island as a protégé of the murder victim. How long had you known him?”
“I don’t—”
Max interrupted. “Ms. Hughes is cooperating with the police investigation and will not discuss the matter at this time.”
Marian gave Max a combative glance. She sidestepped him. “Ms. Hughes, can you suggest why Mr. Wagner was killed here at the Haven?”
Jean’s shoulders slumped. “I don’t know. It’s a nightmare. It still seems impossible, the lights going out and a shot.”
Marian’s bony face squeezed in inquiry. “How many people knew that he was scheduled to speak at the program?”
Jean looked in turn perplexed, thoughtful, and stunned. “I suppose a lot of people could have known.”
Marian was unrelenting. “His bio was in the program, but there was no indication he would speak. You were listed as emcee.”
Jean abruptly exploded. “What are you saying? Everybody who knew him would know he’d be on the stage. He always bulled his way into the middle of every event.”
Marian studied Jean for a moment, then turned away to look into the office.
Billy sat behind the desk. He, too, wore latex gloves. He pulled out the center drawer, placed it on the desktop.
Mavis lifted the lid of a cardboard box near the door.
Jean paced back and forth in the hall, arms folded tight across her front.
Max was uneasy. Some fact unknown to Jean and to him must have prompted the search. Max felt sure that Billy was looking for something specific.
Jean looked from Max to Marian. “I didn’t have anything to do with Booth’s murder.” Her voice was shaky, but determined. “There can’t be anything in my office connected to the shooting.”
Marian wrote in her notebook.
Jean gave a sigh of relief. “So, I don’t care what they find.” She seemed to take comfort in her own words. Some of the panic seeped from her eyes.
Max hoped she was right. Was Billy looking for the murder weapon? Killers did odd things, but Jean would have been an incredible fool to have hidden the gun in her office. Max spoke quietly. “While we have a minute, I wanted to ask about Click Silvester. Freddy Baker said Click was really excited about the program. He said Click told him he had a secret part.”
Marian took a step nearer. “That’s the kid who died in the nature preserve.” Her dark eyes were sharp and intent. “What’s his role in the program got to do with the Wagner kill?”
Jean looked perplexed. “Click wasn’t on the program.”
In Jean’s office, Mavis eased files out of a middle drawer in a cabinet, bending to look inside.
Max persisted. “Click told Freddy he had a special part, but it was a secret. Click was really excited and couldn’t wait for Friday night.”
Mavis refilled the middle cabinet, pulled out the bottom drawer.
Jean’s shoulders lifted and fell. “Maybe Freddy was talking about something else.”
Max recalled his conversation with Freddy. According to Freddy, Click was excited about the program. Max jammed his hands in his pockets. That made two odd aspects to Click’s death. The first was his presence in a nature preserve. The second was his excitement about a program in which he was not scheduled to take part.
Maybe both could be explained. Maybe he went to the nature preserve on a dare or somebody had persuaded him it was fun to see the birds in the rookery. Maybe he was excited about the program because somebody was going to include him in a skit even though he wasn’t officially part of the program.
Neither explanation satisfied Max.
Marian’s angular face was creased in a puzzled frown. “Come on, Max. What’s the connection between the kid’s death and Wagner’s murder?”
“Chief!” Mavis’s voice was sharp.
They all turned to see Mavis staring into the bottom drawer.
Billy was beside her in an instant. He bent down, looked, nodded. “Hold on.” He retrieved a rod from the forensic case, poked it toward the back of the cabinet, carefully eased the rod up.
A roll of tape wobbled on the rod. Billy moved the rod until he held both ends. The tape balanced in the center of the metal piece. He rose and came out into the hall.
“What is this, Ms. Hughes?” He was still expressionless, but his eyes were cold and measuring.
Jean blinked in surprise. “Phosphorescent tape. We cut strips to mark spots on the stage when props are moved in the dark. But it shouldn’t be in my filing cabinet. I didn’t put it there.”
Billy’s gaze was steely. “Where should the tape be?”
“Oh.” It was as if she suddenly understood, as if a piece of a puzzle slotted into place. “The phosphorescent tapes are kept in the shed. On the middle shelf toward the back on the left side. Whoever broke into the shed must have taken that roll and put it in my filing cabinet. But that doesn’t make any sense.”
Marian barked, “Chief, was the tape—”
Billy made a sharp gesture. “Later.” He stepped toward Jean. “Ms. Hughes, I am taking you to the police station for questioning.”
She lifted a hand to her throat. “What does that mean?”
“It’s necessary to ask you more particulars about last night. And about your relations with Mr. Wagner.”
Marian bounced on her feet. “Is Ms. Hughes a person of interest?”
&nb
sp; Max stepped forward. “Ms. Hughes has a right to counsel.”
Billy’s jaw tightened. “You are not licensed to practice law in South Carolina. Ms. Hughes is not being charged. Her cooperation is requested in a murder case.”
Max was pleasant. “That’s fine. However, for any formal talks with the police, Ms. Hughes has a right to counsel of her own choosing.” He turned to Jean. “I suggest that we contact Handler Jones on the mainland. It’s unlikely he will be available until Monday morning.” Max looked at Billy. “Since you would like to have Ms. Hughes’s cooperation,” Max emphasized the noun, “I suggest she make herself available at nine A.M. Monday morning at the police station.”
Billy’s expression remained stolid, but irritation flickered in his eyes. He stared at Max.
Max continued to look affable, knowing the outcome hung in the balance. Was Billy ready to formally announce Jean as a person of interest? Or was he suspicious but aware there were many other avenues he had yet to explore?
Finally, Billy gave a short nod. “Nine A.M. Monday morning.”
ANNIE PUT OUT a restraining hand. “It won’t do any good for us to go after him. He won’t listen to us.” She felt Rachel’s arm tremble.
The last sounds of running steps, the rustling of broken twigs, the crackling underbrush faded away, leaving them in hot, green silence.
Annie looked at the evidence of Tim’s frantic efforts to destroy an intractable bale of hay. There was a sense of darkness in the bright clearing, of passionate feelings and inimical acts.
Rachel’s eyes glistened with tears. “He’s scared.”
“I know.” Tim’s fear had been as real as the straw that littered the ground. Annie pointed at an edge of the hay bale that wasn’t quite hidden in the underbrush. “You have to tell me, Rachel.”
Rachel pulled away, stood with her thin shoulders hunched. “I’d kind of made friends with him. He was like a dog somebody had kicked. I could tell by the way he acted rude that he hated the way he had to walk and the scar on his face. Kids looked at him with their eyes real big. They didn’t ask what happened, but anybody could see something bad had happened to him. When he came to the Haven, he kept to himself, played computer games and never looked up. A couple of times, I showed him some silly pictures I’d drawn and we got to talking. I knew he was unhappy.”
