Laughed 'Til He Died

by Carolyn Hart

6. Pearl-handled thirty-two-caliber revolver found in lake. Ellen Wagner claimed she had lost a pearl-handled gun.

  7. Chief orders search to continue. Does this mean the murder weapon was a different caliber?

  Annie read No. 2 aloud. “That’s grim.”

  Max shook his head. “Jean would have been an idiot to hide the tape in her own office.”

  Annie didn’t reply. Maybe Jean never envisioned a search of her office.

  Max took a last bite of red snapper. “The tape is incriminating. There’s no doubt about that. Jean for sure has a motive, maybe a bunch of them. But she said she knows plenty of people who hated him. She’ll be here after lunch. We have until Monday to come up with enough evidence to keep Billy from arresting her. If he puts her in jail, the worst part for Jean will be keeping her away from Giselle.”

  Annie was troubled. “I don’t know if I have much to contribute. But,” and she welcomed a reason to smile, “the Intrepid Trio is hard at work. Emma, Henny, and your mom are rounding up information on their list of suspects.”

  Max, too, smiled. “We can count on them to make things interesting.”

  Annie pulled the legal pad to her, but turned it sideways so Max could see additions:

  Intrepid Trio Assumptions

  1. The shot came from the woods behind Booth.

  2. When the lights came on, the murderer may have been observed in the area near the woods and the stage.

  3. The murderer had to be aware that Booth was scheduled to speak.

  4. Among those who knew he would be on stage: his wife Neva, daughter Meredith, stepson Tim Talbot, Jean Hughes. Van Shelton could have learned from Neva that Booth would appear. Meredith could have informed her mother.

  5. Observed in Emma’s Rectangle of Interest (which included the area behind the stage): Jean Hughes, Neva Wagner, Tim Talbot, Meredith Wagner.

  6. Van Shelton, the golf pro, earlier followed Neva into an arbor. He appeared to be angry and upset. Laurel believes Neva and Van were more than casual friends.

  7. Booth’s ex-wife Ellen was present at some point.

  “I don’t want to jump to conclusions. This morning I thought I had everything figured out.” Annie was wry. “Laurel saw Booth’s stepson right after the lights came on, and he was terribly upset. A while ago, Rachel called and wanted me to go into the woods with her, something she wanted to show me about Tim.” Annie described creeping through the woods after Tim and confronting him as he frantically plucked spent bullets from the bale of hay. “He ran away, and I called the police. But it’s a big to-do about nothing. He’d used cups decorated with his stepfather’s face as targets. No wonder he wanted to hide everything, but he was shooting a twenty-two. Officer Benson said the murder weapon was a bigger-caliber gun.”

  Max nodded. “Billy’s keeping quiet about the gun, but if the pearl-handled thirty-two that Frank pulled out of the lake is the murder weapon, Ellen Wagner will be the chief suspect.”

  A CREW MEMBER hosed down the top deck of a gleaming white yacht. A cabin cruiser putted slowly out of the harbor. Pink-cheeked tourists hurried up the gangplank of an excursion boat.

  Leaning on the railing that overlooked the marina, Annie breathed deeply of salt-scented air, welcomed the feel of hot July sunlight. She was turning to walk back to the boardwalk and Death on Demand when Jean Hughes, frowning and abstracted, reached Confidential Commissions. Jean carried with her an aura of sadness, the wrenching awareness of life slipping away. The contrast between Jean’s face and the marina’s summer cheer was a stark reminder that sunny days do not last forever and a reminder as well that even when Annie’s own days were carefree and joyful, there were those burdened by pain and sorrow.

  Annie pulled open the front door of Death on Demand. She took a deep sniff of the lovely mingled scents of books and coffee. She had plenty to do, unpacking backlist by Nancy Atherton, Charles Ardai, Leann Sweeney, and Jasper Fforde.

  Ingrid looked up from the cash desk. Her eyes gleamed behind stylish new large-framed glasses. “Two book clubs from the mainland. We’re sold out of the new Evanovich. What else is new?”

  Annie looked toward the coffee bar. She didn’t know whether to be relieved or pleased to see the coffee area free of Emma, Henny, and Laurel.

  Ingrid needed no hints. “Rest easy. They marched out a few minutes ago, moving with both alacrity and determination. What kind of havoc do you suppose they’ll wreak?”

  HENNY BRAWLEY PARKED her old Chrysler behind a BMW at the end of an expansive circular drive. Cars were lined along both sides of the drive. A florist’s delivery truck, hazard lights blinking, blocked the center of the drive opposite broad, shallow steps leading to the front veranda.

  As Henny walked toward the door carrying a Saran-wrapped disposable bowl filled with fresh-cut fruit, she made two swift judgments: Booth Wagner must have been very rich indeed, for the house was an overlarge, three-story mansion in the current style of combined brick, stone, wood, and glass, and no expense had been spared in the landscaping with a profusion of roses, bougainvillea, japonica, and hibiscus.

  Where would all the money go?

  Henny pushed the doorbell. Often now, more often than she would have wished, she brought food to houses of mourning, but this was the first time she had done so for a reason other than friendship. If she had felt that Neva Wagner was grief-stricken, she would not be standing here. When Neva gazed at her fallen husband Friday night, she had looked pale and shocked, but there had not been the piercing pain of heartbreak in her eyes or on her face. She had exhibited neither the wild abandonment of crushing loss nor the frozen somnambulism of heartbreak scarcely comprehended.

  The door swung in. The maid, perspiring a little, welcomed her inside. She had curly brown hair, a round, open face, and a harried expression. “Everyone’s in the far living room, ma’am.”

  Henny’s smile was swift. “I can see you’re pretty overwhelmed right now. I’m here on behalf of the Haven board of directors. I didn’t know the family that well. Let me be useful and come out to the kitchen to catch up on some of the dishwashing.”

  “Oh, ma’am.” The housekeeper darted a glance down a wide marble hallway with inset niches holding busts and vases. “She might not like it.”

  The personal pronoun was not spoken with affection.

  “Who’s to know? And help is best where it’s needed,” Henny said lightly. “You check the living room, I’ll take care of the rest. I’m Henny Brawley.” She looked inquiring.

  “Beth Sullivan, ma’am.”

  “All right, Beth, we’re a team. Is the kitchen straight ahead?” Henny moved swiftly, her shoes clipping on the marble floor. She had no trouble finding the huge kitchen and stood for only a moment to appraise the stainless steel Bosch appliances. Everything was of the best quality. The counter next to the double sink was piled with dirty dishes. Henny opened cupboards, found a lovely Limoges bowl, and filled it with the fresh-cut fruit. She placed the bowl on an island with other food gifts. Then she moved to the sink, ran water, and began to rinse soiled dishes.

  Beth hurried in and out, bringing more dishes, carrying out freshly filled plates and bowls. She flashed a shy, thankful smile each time at Henny.

  Henny wedged a few more glasses in the dishwasher. She found detergent beneath the sink, filled the dispenser, and punched start.

  Back with another tray, Beth heaved a tired sigh. “Ma’am, you saved my life. If you don’t mind, I won’t tell Mrs. Wagner you helped out in the kitchen. I told her you came for the Haven and brought fruit. Is that all right with you?”

  Henny dried her hands. “That’s fine. Why wouldn’t Mrs. Wagner want anyone to help in the kitchen?”

  “Oh, she’s very fancy. Everything is always la-di-da.” Her dark eyes were disdainful. “You’ve got me caught up now. Would you like some iced tea?”

  They settled at the center island on tall stools. Orange slices and fresh mint garnished the glasses.

  Henny chose her words careful
ly. She spoke in an inviting, confidential tone. “Murder is dreadful, but I understand Booth and Neva didn’t get along very well. I suppose that makes it much easier for her. Or much harder.”

  Beth looked around to be sure she wouldn’t be overheard. “I’d say no love lost. She moved into her own room a few months ago and you know a marriage is on the rocks when that happens. She’s been white as a sheet today, but I don’t think she’s wasting any grief on him. She’s a lot more upset about her son than she is Mr. Wagner being dead. The kid’s been kind of nuts since the murder.”

  “Was her son especially fond of Booth?”

  Beth squeezed the orange, took a huge gulp. “I needed that. She’s run me ragged today. She treats me like I’m a robot, punch a button and watch me go. ‘The stairs down to the lower den aren’t clean.’ ‘I found dust in the laundry room.’ ‘Master Tim doesn’t like cinnamon on his toast.’ As for Master Tim, he’s kind of weird. Master Tim, that’s what I’m supposed to call him, it’s Master Tim and Miss Meredith. I’ve worked for a lot of families, but I never had to call kids ‘master’ and ‘miss’ until here. Anyway, Master Tim’s scared out his mind. He kept screaming out in his sleep last night and she was up and down with him. But he wasn’t the least bit fond of Mr. Wagner. Master Tim could hardly stand to be in the same room with him, anybody could tell that.”

  LAUREL REMINDED HERSELF to keep her thoughts on her goal, though it was difficult with dear Johnny so near. How lovely to be a woman and how enchanting to have such an attractive man pressing close. He was such a help with her follow-through. Such a gorgeous young man…This was not the moment for thoughts such as these, however.

  “…If you turn your left wrist a little more, that will add loft to the ball.” He was lithe and athletic. Dark curls framed a matador-handsome face that reminded Laurel of Spanish grandees.

  Laurel looked up, her lips curving into a smile. She knew she was at her best on a sunny summer afternoon, her hair a shimmering gold, her dark blue eyes softly glowing, her lips inviting.

  Johnny Rodriguez took a deep breath.

  Laurel understood. She gave a tiny shake of her head. “It is hard sometimes to focus on the game.”

  “Your wrist…”

  “Someone told me that poor Van has had the hardest time lately keeping his mind on golf. Someone told me he was furious with Booth Wagner.” She arched golden brows in delicate inquiry.

  Johnny looked appalled. “Who’s talking about Van?”

  “Oh, everybody.” She was charmingly vague. “You know how interested people are in love affairs.”

  “Look, it isn’t how it looks.” He was quick to defend his boss. “I mean, he and Neva were through. It was making him crazy. See, she broke things off because of this prenup agreement. I mean, she and Booth were kaput and had been ever since the kid got hurt. She was feeling pretty grim and Van was really nice to her and he thought they could work something out. I mean, he got it in the gut from his ex-wife. She took up with a drummer and walked out on him. But if Neva tried to get a divorce, she wouldn’t get anything and she’d lose health insurance and her kid still needs another couple of operations. So, it doesn’t do any good for Van to be mad. She had to make the choice and she stayed with the money. Seems to me, he’s better off. If a woman wants money more than she wants love, that’s a lousy deal for a guy.”

  Laurel murmured, “Life can be so difficult.” Of course, death sometimes made everything simple. Possibly it had occurred to either Neva or Van that Booth’s death made certain Neva would receive whatever had been due to her under the prenuptial agreement. Likely the agreement provided nothing if she left him for another man. “Now, show me again,” she moved closer to Johnny, “just how do I turn my wrist?”

  EMMA CLYDE WAS pleased that the crime scene tape had been removed, indicating the area had been searched and was now open for its customary use. Her square face creased in a grim smile. Customary use would not have included a further search by a noted mystery author. However, that was her intention and she felt confident that she would make deductions and quite possibly realize information missed by all others. After all, she and Marigold had encountered much knottier challenges in their eighty-six books and counting.

  Emma walked briskly to the stage. The blood had been washed away. Eyes narrowed, she re-created in her mind the moment before the shot rang out. Booth Wagner faced the audience straight-on, big, burly, self-confident, a showman enjoying his domination. Had he turned either to the left or right? She shook her head. The shot had propelled him forward, because he landed facedown. If he had turned, he would not have fallen as he did.

  Emma jumped into Booth’s mind as the lights went out. She often jumped into character’s minds, the prerogative of a writer. Why hadn’t Booth turned to see about the lights? Her smile became even grimmer. Arrogance. An assumption that rectifying stage miscues was the work of underlings. It wasn’t for him to bumble about in the dark. He would wait, calm and in charge, until the momentary blackout ended. But when the lights came on, he was dead. That lack of movement afforded the murderer time to move after pulling out the cord from the battery pack.

  Emma climbed onto the stage. Here was where Booth had stood. She marched forward, came to the back of the stage, stepped off. The four light stands were still in place. Emma walked to the battery pack. She looked at her watch, followed the second hand as she estimated the time between the cessation of light and the sound of the shot. Not more than nine seconds. Much can be accomplished in nine seconds if planned in advance. She reached down as if yanking the cord loose. She hurried to the woods and looked back at the stage. Of necessity, the shooter had to be able to see Booth, so the murderer had gone no farther than here. She moved into that unknown mind. Possibly the murderer had night-vision goggles. Somehow Booth had been visible. She lifted her hand.

  If Jean Hughes committed the crime, she had then returned to her place near the stage. If another hand held the gun, it was essential for the shooter to get away from the area.

  Emma turned toward the trees. A few steps and she was out of sight from the stage. Then light had been needed. A small pencil flash would have sufficed.

  She surveyed the trees. Not that live oak. A rope would have been necessary to reach the fork of the trunk. Her gaze moved. A satisfied smile lifted her lips. With a decided nod, she walked out of the woods and strode toward the Haven building.

  JEAN HUGHES WAS unsparing. “I was too late smart.” Pale and composed, but with haunted eyes, she faced Max. “I should have known that a man like Booth wouldn’t really care for somebody like me, a singer in a second-rate jazz club. Always before, when guys gave me a rush and told me they weren’t married, I asked around. I didn’t ask around about Booth until it was way too late. I was a fool, but everything was so awful with Giselle getting sick that it seemed wonderful to have Booth be so kind and thoughtful. I guess I wanted to believe in happily ever after. He was good-looking and rich and charming. Did you know he could be charming?” Bitterness twisted her face. “He didn’t care about me. He used me to get back at the people on the board who dared disagree with him. So much for having dreams.”

  Max heard the pain. He made an abrupt gesture. “Don’t give up on life, Jean.”

  She managed a tremulous smile. “People like you and Annie prove not everybody lies. And Giselle…Do you know how brave she is? I could never be that brave. She’s dying and she smiles. She thinks of me. She tries to make me feel good. She’s always thought that I was wonderful. I don’t know how she could, but she does.”

  “She knows you.” Max’s voice was gentle. “She knows you are good and kind. That’s why the kids at the Haven love you.”

  “The kids.” There was a depth of sadness in her tired voice. “I didn’t know when I came that I’d care the way I do. There’s Mickey, who isn’t quite right. He’s stiff and can’t look at you. But I got him to painting the sun and now every day when he comes he goes straight to the art room and he fills pag
es with suns and they’re as bright as gold. Sometimes he smiles. He brings me a sun painting every day. There’s Willamae, who loves everybody and everybody loves her. There’s Bud. He’s always angry. I got one of those punching dummies, you know, you blow them up and they have a heavy base and you can knock them around. I asked Bud if he’d like to have some boxing gloves. He thought about it and then one day he came and said, ‘Yes,’ and every day he goes to the dummy and he hits and hits. There are the fun ones and the sad ones. I want things to be good for all of them. Most everybody will probably be back by Monday. I called Mr. Gilbert, told him I may have to take some time off. If I get put in jail. He was real nice, even though I know he didn’t want me back. He said maybe everything will work out. Anyway, I told him Rosalind can take care of things just fine. She’s done a great job this summer. She’s another good person like you and Annie and Giselle. I got to hold on to knowing about good people to keep me from being so upset about Booth. See, when I got to the island, I was working hard to try and learn everything I needed to know. I didn’t even realize at first that I wasn’t seeing much of Booth. And then maybe it was only after a week or two, I found out he and his wife were still together. I didn’t know what to think. I have a friend, a guy I knew at the club. I’d helped him out when his daughter was sick. Anyway, he’s a private detective. I asked him if he’d find out what he could about Booth, but I didn’t have much money. Ben said he’d be glad to and it wouldn’t cost me a cent. I told him I didn’t want to take up his time, but he said he could find out a bunch in no time flat.” She reached into her purse, pulled out a manila envelope. “He found out a lot. You can have his report. I found out more than I ever wanted to know.” She pushed back her chair, stood. “Now, I got to get back to the Haven.”

  EMMA NODDED AT Officer Harrison.

  “Morning, Mrs. Clyde.” Hyla Harrison was crisp in her uniform. As always, her demeanor was that of a careful, thorough, thoughtful cop.