Laughed 'Til He Died

by Carolyn Hart

  Annie understood. Several years ago, Rachel had been a suspect in her mother’s murder. Rachel had known sadness and mourning, loneliness and despair. That dark experience had made her sensitive to misery in other lives.

  Annie wanted to wrap her arms around Rachel, tell her that everything was going to be all right. That’s what she wanted to do. She couldn’t make that promise now. Everything might very well be as wrong as it could be for Tim Talbot.

  Rachel shivered despite the heavy heat. “I followed him Monday morning. I’d just got to the Haven on my bike. I saw Meredith hurrying ahead of him to the gate. Tim parked his bike next to hers, then he looked around, like he was making sure nobody was paying any attention to him. He didn’t see me. I was over by a big hedge. When Meredith was out of sight, he got back on his bike and pedaled as fast as he could toward the woods, the path you and I took. I thought—” Rachel paused to draw a quick breath “—he didn’t look right. I thought something was wrong. After a minute, I went after him.”

  Annie reached out to take Rachel’s hand. Dear Rachel, with her generous heart, always ready to be kind.

  “I know what life’s like when everything’s bad.” Rachel’s dark eyes were huge with remembered pain. “I didn’t know if I could do anything, but I couldn’t pretend I didn’t know something was wrong. That’s why I came after him, but when I got here,” she pointed at the saw palmetto where she and Annie stood and watched Tim claw at the bale of hay, “I was afraid he’d be mad that I’d followed him so I didn’t say anything. I almost turned and went away, then I stayed to watch. He put the bale on top of that big log. He drew faces on some paper cups and put them against the hay. He pulled out a package. When he unwrapped it, I saw a rifle. He was over there on a tree branch.” She gestured about twenty feet from the log. “He shot at the cups. He hit each one. I was scared, like maybe it would be better if he didn’t know I was there, so I slipped away.”

  Once before Rachel had followed a boy because she sensed despair, and put herself in deadly danger. Annie felt the emptiness that comes with knowledge of what could have happened.

  Tim and his targets and a man shot dead. “Where was the gun hidden?”

  Rachel hurried to the shrub and brushed away a covering of leaves.

  “Careful.” Annie joined her. “If you find anything, don’t touch it. Maybe we’d better leave everything as it is.”

  Rachel rocked back on her heels. “There are the plastic bags. He kept the gun wrapped in them.”

  Rumpled black plastic lay limp on the ground, several pieces of duct tape visible. “What kind of gun?” Annie knew her voice was slightly higher than usual.

  Rachel turned up her hands. “I don’t know. It looked like those guns at the fair when you shoot at the little metal ducks.”

  There had been a gun. The gun was no longer there.

  AS THE FRONT door to the Haven shut behind Billy and Mavis, Jean Hughes looked bewildered. “What’s such a big deal about a roll of tape? What difference does some stupid tape make? I don’t think much of him as a policeman. He’d be better off trying to find out who was mad enough to kill Booth. A lot of people hated him.” There was a vindictive hardness to her voice.

  Max stared at her. Didn’t she understand the significance of Mavis’s discovery or was she pretending ignorance? “Phosphorescent tape.” He emphasized the adjective.

  “I don’t care what kind of tape it is. Anyway, I’ve got to hurry.” She glanced at her watch. “I always go home for lunch at a quarter to twelve. Rosalind will see to locking everything up. The Haven closes at noon on Saturdays.” She turned to leave.

  Marian was a bloodhound cornering her quarry. “X marked the spot.”

  Jean paused, blinked at the reporter. “What spot?”

  “Booth’s big brawny back, baby. You know, where he got shot.” Marian’s voice quivered with excitement. “That has to be how the killer nailed him when the lights went out, a bright patch of phosphorescent tape on his shirt. So far, Billy’s kept that information quiet, but that’s the only reason he could care about the tape in your office. Oh wow, I can see the lead now: ‘Stage tape made murder victim a marked man.’”

  Max admired the murderer’s cleverness. Before the program began, someone greeted Booth, clapped him on the back, or, in the crush of the crowd, came up behind him, and pressed the adhesive side of the tape to the shirt. A swath of tape likely would not be noticed against the background of Booth’s bright Hawaiian shirt. Had the tape been spotted, Booth would have lived another night. But no one noticed the green tape against the purple, green, and orange pattern, so Booth Wagner died. Probably the existence of the tape hadn’t been noted until the bloodied shirt was examined at the morgue.

  “Oh.” Jean’s eyes rounded in surprise. “You mean somebody used the tape to find him? Well,” she looked relieved, “then the police have to find out who broke into the shed. I certainly didn’t have to do that. I have keys. It doesn’t mean a thing that the tape was hidden in my office. I keep my door open. Anyone could have put the tape there.”

  Marian eyed her speculatively. “Including you, Ms. Hughes.”

  Max knew Marian was right. “Jean, you’re due in Billy’s office Monday morning. You need to hire Handler Jones. He’s a first-rate criminal lawyer. I’ll call him for you.”

  Her nod was perfunctory. “Maybe you’re right, but I can’t deal with anything right now. Besides, I don’t have money for a lawyer. Anyway, I’m running late. I have to get home to Giselle. With everything that’s happened, she’ll worry if I’m late.” She reached into the pocket of her slacks, frowned. She patted her back pockets, then darted into her office, scrambled through several drawers in her desk. “I thought I left my cell phone in here.” She grabbed the land-line receiver, started to call, put it down. “I don’t want to call anyway. It’s too hard for her to get to the phone. I’ve got to hurry.” She rushed into the hall.

  Max strode after her. “Don’t you understand? Billy Cameron may arrest you Monday morning. You said there are a lot of people who hated Booth.”

  Once again Marian was right beside them, alert, pen poised.

  Jean was at the front door, looking back in irritation. “I’m late.”

  “Jean, I need to know everything you can tell me about Booth. Let’s go to Confidential Commissions.” He wanted a quiet place with no interruptions. The time when he and Jean could talk might soon be past.

  Her face twisted in anger. “I hate thinking about Booth. I hate talking about him.”

  Max shook his head. “You don’t have a choice.”

  “All right.” She was impatient. “Whatever you say. I’ll come to your office after lunch. I have to leave now.” She hurried to the door and pushed through.

  “Hey, wait a minute,” Marian cried.

  By the time Max and Marian stood on the steps, Jean was running.

  He knew she would arrive at the cottage, flushed, heart racing, to be close to her sister, who had so few heartbeats remaining. There was no mistaking Jean’s priorities: Giselle first; anything and everything else, including a suspicion of murder, pushed to the corner of her mind. Yet the time with her sister that mattered to her above all else might soon be taken away.

  Marian’s eyebrows arched. “Lunch is more important than being a murder suspect. What gives?”

  “Jean’s sister isn’t well.” His tone was level, but he saw Marian’s quick glance. He knew the reporter would dig up the whole story. He hesitated, then decided to gamble. Marian as an ally was much to be preferred to Marian in full investigative mode. “Her sister has terminal cancer. Maybe a couple of months. Maybe a few weeks. Jean has little thought for anything else. I know she wants to be helpful to the investigation. I’m going to help her organize what she knows about Wagner for the police.”

  “Just two good little citizens, right?” Marian looked amused.

  “Right.” He’d put out the best spin possible for Marian, but he was worried. Jean needed a lawyer
, and she needed one now. And there was still the mystery of Click, why he had died in the nature preserve and what he had looked forward to on Friday evening.

  Max turned to reenter the building.

  Marian trotted right alongside him. “Where are you going?”

  “I want to talk to Darren Dubois.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “A friend of Click Silvester’s.”

  “You keep bringing up the Silvester kid.” Her glance at him was sharp. “Is there a connection between the kid and Wagner?”

  “I don’t think so. But Click’s death seems wrong to me. He told one boy he had a big part on the program Friday night, but it was a secret. Jean says he wasn’t on the program. I want to see if he told Darren anything about it.” He checked several rooms.

  Marian chattered, “Hey, maybe the kid thought there was going to be a fake hold-up. Maybe he knew someone was going to play pin-the-phosphorescent-tape-on-Wagner. A practical joke.”

  When Max poked his head in the art room, Rosalind Parker bustled up to him. “Ms. Hughes isn’t here right now. May I help you?”

  “We’re looking for Darren Dubois.”

  Rosalind shook her head. “I think he was watching the police at the lake. Jean told the kids to stay away, but nobody tells Darren anything. He does what he wants to do and then he gives you that charming grin and you can’t stay mad.”

  When they came out into the bright sunshine, Max looked toward the lake. He shook his head. “I saw Darren earlier, but he left.”

  Marian was wry. “Not your morning, Max. Jean blows you off and the kid splits.”

  “I’ll call around.”

  “Good luck. Let me know if you get anything out of him. Maybe we can do a little trading.” She turned to leave, then said quickly, “Hey, something’s up.” Marian’s husky voice brimmed with excitement. “Here comes the chief and he’s moving fast.”

  Max looked across the field. The police chief was indeed moving fast, heading straight for the lake and the police standing on the shore.

  Chapter 9

  Pieces of white Styrofoam lay on the ground near the tree trunk where a bale of hay had served as the backdrop for Tim Talbot’s targets. Metal glinted in the sunlight. Annie picked up a stick, edged aside Styrofoam to reveal a shiny fishing weight. Obviously, Tim had given a good deal of thought to his makeshift firing range. The weight held a cup steady while he lifted a gun to shoot. This evidence of planning made her feel queasy. She poked at the remnants of a cup, saw bright yellow markings. She knelt, edged pieces together with the stick, felt sure she stared at pieces representing an image of Booth Wagner.

  Annie was grateful for the weight of hot sunshine pressing down on her, a wonderful antidote for chilling thoughts. She came to her feet and turned to Rachel. “Please. I need your cell phone.”

  “Who do you want to call?” Rachel’s tone was sharp.

  “The police.” She met her stepsister’s pleading gaze.

  “Do you have to?” Rachel’s face drooped. She held a handful of hay, crumpling the dry grass in her hand.

  Annie nodded. “Tim was shooting at targets that looked like his stepfather.”

  Reluctantly, Rachel placed the phone in Annie’s hand.

  “They were just cups. Oh, I should have come by myself.” Then, with quick contrition, Rachel said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I’m glad you’re here. Anyway, maybe that old gun is around here somewhere. Just because he didn’t wrap it up, it doesn’t mean it’s not here.”

  Annie clicked on the cell and punched the number, wishing she could agree, wishing she thought it even a tiny bit likely that Tim had dropped the rifle somewhere near, but the crumpled garbage sacks with remnants of tape indicated the gun had customarily been carefully wrapped to protect it.

  Rachel grabbed more hay, kneaded the pieces in her hand. “I’ll bet Tim came today to hide everything because he thought it looked bad.”

  As indeed, Annie thought, it did. She pushed away the memory of Tim’s pale face, the scar bright and angry, and the despair in his dark eyes. “This is Annie Darling. I need to talk to Chief Cameron. I have information that may be connected to Booth Wagner’s murder.” She took no pleasure in her words.

  MARIAN KENYON REACHED the lakeshore first, trained her camera on Frank Saulter, who knelt on the bank. He pulled a ballpoint pen from his shirt pocket and slipped the pen inside the trigger guard of a small pistol. As he held the gun aloft, water streamed out of the short barrel. The pearl handle glistened in the sunshine. “A thirty-two.”

  Marian clicked several shots.

  Billy bent near, studied the gun. “Bag and tag it. And keep looking.”

  Marian’s question came quick and sharp. “Is there a possibility that is the Wagner murder weapon?”

  Billy was ponderous. “The weapon was found in proximity to the crime.”

  Marian snapped, tight as a terrier’s teeth on bone, “Was Wagner’s death caused by a thirty-two-caliber slug?”

  “The ballistics report is part of the investigative record.”

  “Is the search for the murder weapon continuing?”

  Billy turned away.

  Marian stood, hands on her hips, and called out loudly enough for Billy to hear, “I’m on my way back to the office. Looks like the story might read: ‘Although police discovered a pearl-handled thirty-two-caliber revolver in the lake near the stage, the search of the lake continues. Chief Billy Cameron declined to reveal whether the caliber of the gun that caused Wagner’s death had been determined.’”

  RACHEL SCUFFED THE sandy dirt with the toe of her tennis shoe and watched the police officer pull out the remnants of the hay bale.

  Annie remembered Coley Benson from the high school choir. He had a magnificent tenor voice. He was the newest member of the Broward’s Rock police department. He’d majored in criminal justice at Armstrong State. Billy Cameron had been delighted to welcome him home.

  It seemed odd to see Coley in a police uniform instead of a choir robe. Now his strong brown hand delicately plucked at the straw. He held up a tiny piece of metal that glinted in the sunlight. He gave a slight shake of his head and stood. “I’ll take this along.”

  Annie was startled. “I thought you’d bring the crime van, pick all of this up,” she pointed at the straggle of straw and crumpled garbage sacks, “for crime scene evidence.”

  Coley looked surprised. “It’s maybe a misdemeanor to set up a target in public woods. The chief might talk to him, but right now he’s too busy with Mr. Wagner’s murder.”

  “You picked out a piece of a bullet.” Annie was puzzled. “Can’t it be checked against the bullet that killed Booth Wagner?”

  Coley waved a hand in dismissal. “This,” and it was his turn to point at the remnants of the bale, “was used for practice with a twenty-two. The bullet that killed Mr. Wagner was a lot bigger than that.”

  ANNIE WATCHED RACHEL pump away on her bike, dust spewing from beneath the wheels. Rachel’s dark hair streamed behind her and Annie thought of a bird in flight, soaring and serene. The relief both she and Rachel felt upon Coley’s calm pronouncement was tinged by a feeling of foolishness.

  Even though Annie usually opted for genteel mysteries, she knew a fair amount about guns. It would require enormous skill and a huge amount of luck for a twenty-two slug to kill at a distance of twenty to thirty feet. She’d had the clue when Rachel described the gun as the kind used at the fair in the yellow-duck shooting gallery. But embarrassment was a small price in exchange for Tim’s dismissal as a suspect. Max would tease her.

  She was disappointed not to find Max’s car in the Haven lot. Annie fished her purse from the trunk. She smiled as she slid behind the wheel of her new flaming-red Thunderbird, a Valentine gift. She had lots to tell him, the unleashing of the Intrepid Trio of Emma, Henny, and Laurel as well as the ignominious outcome of her detecting foray with Rachel.

  She put the key in the ignition, and her cell phone rang.


  “Hey, Max.” She was ready to regale him with the sweaty and fruitless trek to Tim Talbot’s dismantled shooting range. Before she could speak, he said quickly, “Please bring lunch to Confidential Commissions. Jean’s got big-time problems. I want—oh, here’s a call from Handler Jones. I’ve been trying to find him. I’ll explain when you get here.”

  ANNIE NUDGED OPEN Max’s office door with her knee, balancing a cardboard drink holder with two iced teas, a nicely hot sack with lunch from Parotti’s, and her purse.

  “…Thanks, Handler. I knew I could count on you.” Max put down the phone and popped up to help. He pointed at his office table. “Our places are set.” The office kitchen ran to blue and yellow pottery and woven red place mats. Max insisted on eating in style even for an office lunch.

  Annie dished up Veracruz-style red snapper for Max and two green chili chicken enchiladas for herself. Ben Parotti had recently expanded the menu for the island’s many Latino families.

  Max disdained iced tea in paper cups. He brought chilled glasses from the refrigerator in the office’s tiny kitchen.

  As Max described his morning, Annie pushed her plate away and began to take notes on one of Max’s legal pads. When he finished, she looked at her list:

  Pertinent Facts Re: Murder Booth Wagner

  1. Puss-in-Boots costume stolen from Haven storage shed, thrown into lake.

  2. Phosphorescent tape found hidden in Jean’s office.

  3. Clear assumption tape had been placed on Booth’s back by the murderer to make him a visible target in the dark.

  4. Click Silvester told Freddy Baker he had a big role Friday night, but Jean said he wasn’t on the program.

  5. Jean to be questioned Monday morning at nine A.M.