April Fool Dead

by Carolyn Hart

  “No.” The orange spikes quivered.

  “No?” Annie repeated.

  Max bent forward. “We can’t give up, Emma.”

  Emma’s eyes were hidden behind the sunglasses, but the jut of her chin was formidable. “Give up?” She gave a dry laugh. “Never. But the clues don’t matter. Oh, I agree that we need to find out who the suspects are.” Her lips twisted in a wry smile. “Actually, I have to hand it to the perp, whoever he or she may be. This is a clever way to embroil the island in gossip and intrigue and possibly it may even flush out some criminals. But that”—her voice dropped almost to a whisper—“can’t be the point. After all, an anonymous letter to the police chief—if there are any real facts to be found—would make a good deal more sense. No, there’s something behind this…smoke…a smoke screen?…smoking gun…”

  Annie wished she had a tape recorder. Emma’s readers would be thrilled beyond measure to hear the stream of consciousness as the plot mistress pondered.

  Abruptly, Emma jammed the flyer in a capacious pocket and turned away.

  “Emma, wait a minute. Where are you going? What are you going to do?” Annie had a strong sense of déjà vu. Was she doomed to follow the purple-and-pink swirling caftan, imploring Emma to keep to the course?

  Emma moved fast for a woman of her size, girth and age. She flung herself into her Rolls. The motor roared.

  Annie didn’t quite dare to jump in front of the big car. Emma wouldn’t run Annie down, of course she wouldn’t. But there was no sense in tempting fate. Or Emma. Annie shouted, “Emma, where are you going?”

  Emma poked her head out as she backed up. “Nero Wolfe was a wise man, Annie.” With that, the big car bolted forward and dust engulfed them.

  Annie coughed. “What did she mean by that?”

  Max was a special fan of the Rex Stout mysteries. He considered Archie Goodwin a soul mate, especially Archie’s consuming interest in the fair sex. “Nero Wolfe didn’t careen around chasing clues. He sat in his study and thought.”

  “So?” But Annie understood. Emma intended to think. That was all well and good, but the clues on the flyers had to be figured out and Emma didn’t have Archie to run errands for her. Hot on that thought came the cold realization that Emma had a cell phone and Annie’s numbers. “Well. Okay. Let her think. Come on, Max, we’ve got to find Pamela.” She looked at Daniel. “Can we get to the cemetery from here?”

  The old man rubbed his nose, shrugged. “Why not? Everybody else on the island’s there. Come on, I got some words for those police. Emma will see to it that somebody pays the piper, but that don’t clean up the cemetery for me.”

  Despite his age, he moved fast, striding around the smaller shed and ducking onto a trail. Spiny saw palmettos made a dense thicket beneath towering pines. The soft, forlorn cry of mourning doves sounded eerie in the murky half-light beneath the forest canopy. The dusty gray dirt was rutted by tractor tires. The path curved around a shadowy lagoon. Long black plumes cresting a white head, a great blue heron stood immobile near the bank. The smell of pine resin and dank still water mingled with the perfume of magnolia blossoms.

  “Watch out for old Charley there.” Daniel tilted his head to the left.

  An alligator lay half-submerged, his snout resting on the bank, not a half foot from the path.

  Annie edged past, trying to remember whether it was alligators or dogs you weren’t supposed to look at. “Trust me, Charley,” she murmured. “I’m not looking.”

  The pines thinned. The path led into the oldest part of the cemetery, with graves dating back to the mid-1700s, including some British seamen whose ship sank offshore during the Revolutionary War. More than twenty Confederate dead were buried there. Most of the stones, some broken and tilted, were mossy and the inscriptions difficult to read.

  Past a second grove of pines, a hillock overlooked the newer graves. Annie stopped and stared. Normally, the heavily wooded cemetery was a quiet retreat. Today it looked like a combination of movie mob scene and Fourth of July oyster roast. “Max, we’ll never find Pamela.”

  The dull roar had expanded. Women’s high chatter was punctuated by deep masculine shouts. An amplified voice echoed tinnily, “Move along now, please move along. The cemetery is closed to the public. Please…”

  Daniel Parker charged down the path, arms flailing, shouting, “Get out. I ain’t gonna have it. Get out of here.”

  Annie started after Parker, then stopped so quickly, Max bumped into her. Annie stared across the mass of people at an ethereal golden-haired figure moving dreamily on the opposite ridge, seemingly oblivious to the turmoil below.

  “Max”—she grabbed his arm—“look! What in the world is Laurel doing?” Annie was rarely surprised by her elegant, fey mother-in-law, whose past enthusiasms had ranged from wedding customs to quoting saints. After observing Laurel in many situations, Annie had, in fact, reached the point where she’d recently told Ingrid, “Nothing Laurel would do could shock me now.” Had that pronouncement tempted fate?

  Max shaded his eyes, then vigorously waved. “Hi, Ma,” he shouted.

  Laurel lifted—Annie blinked. Whatever Laurel lifted, Annie didn’t recognize it. A pronged walking stick? Annie squinted. Laurel held in both hands something that resembled a crimson broomstick with long silvery fronds poking out on either side of the far end.

  “Do you suppose she’s here for the clue sheet?” Even as she spoke, Annie shook her head. “But she’s nowhere near the crowd and she isn’t holding a flyer.” Dammit, what was Laurel holding?

  “She didn’t hear me.” Max’s grin was good-humored. “We’ll ask her later. Come on, Annie, it’s getting interesting down there.”

  The island police force, consisting of Chief Pete Garrett and three officers, was deployed along the main road. Garrett shouted into a bullhorn. “The cemetery is closed to the public. Move along now.” The crowd moved slowly toward the front gates but people were jammed shoulder to shoulder on a patch of graves to their left.

  Max pointed. “That’s where Bob’s buried. Come on, Annie, we’ll find Pamela there.”

  Annie shot one more look toward the ridge, but obviously Laurel, whatever she was doing in the cemetery, was not there in search of WHODUNIT flyers. And that was what mattered. Annie started down the slope. Did Pamela still have a flyer? Whether she did or didn’t, Max was right. Pamela had come to the cemetery to follow the clues. She would be at the seventeenth grave south of the Portwood Mausoleum come frost, high winds or poltergeists.

  As Annie plunged into the crowd, trusting that Max was behind her, she heard calls:

  A fellow choir member: “Annie, will you present the thousand dollars to the winner at Emma’s signing?”

  The peroxided checker at the grocery: “Annie, do you have any idea how many Range Rovers there are on the island?”

  A hulking beach bum, tattoos twining on both arms: “Hey, are you the one who put these out?” A sweaty hand grabbed her arm and she shook free. “You should have listed the Carstairs case. Do you remember…”

  A red-faced matron: “I live on Least Tern Lane and I certainly see this as a basis for a class-action lawsuit. My lawyer will be in touch.”

  Squeals of recognition followed her. Annie remembered her role in a college production of South Pacific. When she made her entrance, her sarong fell to the stage. She might have had a more attentive audience then, but not by much. The shouts and, from deep in the crowd, some boos made it clear that almost everyone here believed that Annie was responsible for this macabre exercise.

  “Annie, oh, Annie, you’re here!” The call came from above.

  Annie looked up. Pamela Potts stood on a thick branch of the magnolia shading the Tower family graves. Pink patches flared in Pamela’s pale cheeks. Despite her precarious perch, she maintained her customary dignity—chin up, gaze steadfast. “Annie,” she shouted to be heard, “I had no choice but to rise above the melee. The crowd pressure has been intense. I saw no other way to remain as I h
ad promised you.” She held up a mint-green flyer. “You would not believe…”

  A butterfly net swooped through the air, gripped tightly by a burly man wearing a ball cap, sleeveless T-shirt and cutoffs.

  Pamela leaned backward, keeping the flyer just out of reach. “…the assaults I have withstood. All the flyers are gone and these people”—her voice was plaintive—“have no decorum, no restraint. No manners.” The last was a desperate shout as she fended off a poking umbrella with a well-placed kick.

  “That’s a girl,” Annie called. “We’re coming.”

  The burly man in the ball cap shouted, “Hey, how come you’re getting the last flyer? You put ’em out, didn’t you? Trying to welsh on the deal? Listen, I been back and forth across this island till I got muscle cramps and I damn sure want that flyer.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the bullhorn blared, “the cemetery is closed. Please disperse. The cemetery…”

  Annie sidestepped Ball Cap and wormed her way to Chief Garrett. He stood atop an overturned trash barrel, his cherubic face glistening with sweat.

  Annie stood on tiptoe. “Pete. Pete!”

  He broke off, looked down, and glared. “Annie—”

  Her name boomed across the cemetery. The crowd surged closer. Annie felt a poke in her back.

  Garrett lowered the bullhorn, dropped down beside her. “Annie, listen, you’ve got to call this off. The whole town’s in an uproar.”

  “It’s a hoax,” she shouted. “I didn’t have anything to do with this. Nothing. Nothing at all.” She reached out, grabbed the bullhorn, and swung away, evading his reaching hands.

  “People,” she shouted. Her voice exploded above the rumble of the crowd. “Listen up. These flyers are bogus. There is no contest with clues to follow. It’s a fake. Somebody’s played a nasty April-fool joke. On you. On me. On the author. There isn’t a thousand-dollar prize. The entire thing is a scam.” She felt inspired. After all, she owed nothing to the dark intelligence that had crafted the vicious exercise. Two could play the game of spurious announcements. The jerk had copied her clever promotion for the bookstore. Well, maybe she had just divined the perfect antidote. “You’ve been had, people, played for saps. Here’s how we know these flyers are fake.” She spaced the words with long pauses for emphasis. “Nobody admits printing them!”

  “Are you sure, lady?” Ball Cap stood so near she could see the disappointed droop of his mouth and the stubble on his chin.

  The word rolled across the crowd: Fake…fake…fake…

  “Absolutely.” Annie felt triumphant. There were enough people here that soon everyone on the island would hear. Talk about cutting the bad guy off at the pass…She stepped to the trash can and clambered up, hoisting the bullhorn. “A rotten trick, right?” Her voice boomed. Hey, she could take to this bullhorn business. “But don’t be unhappy. There is a real contest and you can drop by Death on Demand Mystery Bookstore for the real flyers. You’ll recognize them because they describe nine famous mysteries and all you have to do is name the authors and their books to win a signed copy of Emma Clyde’s latest book, Whodunit”—Annie realized she was losing her audience. Glum and sullen, people were turning away, striding across the cemetery, toward the main gates. Good thing Emma wasn’t here. America’s most popular mystery writer would not be pleased at the lack of interest in her latest book. Annie lifted her voice higher. “And whoever turns in the name of the person who created the fake flyers gets”—was there a momentary pause in the dispersal?—“to drive Emma Clyde’s Rolls-Royce for a week.”

  “Wow…Rolls-Royce…go to Florida and back…dirt track where you can pay fifteen bucks and race…” The crowd turned from sullen to eager. A few began to run, then more and more, and gray dust puffed from the road in shimmery clouds.

  As Annie dropped to the ground and handed the bullhorn to Pete Garrett, she avoided Max’s eyes. So maybe she’d gotten carried away.

  Emma’s Rolls. Annie jammed her fingers through her hair. “Oh, Lord. What have I done?”

  Five

  CARS INCHED UP the dusty road away from the cemetery. “You’d think somebody would let me in.” Max leaned on his horn. “Oh hey, here’s a break.” He gunned his motor.

  A silver Lexus bolted forward, taking up the inviting foot of space.

  Max glowered, blue eyes blazing.

  Annie pressed a hand against one ear, held her mobile phone to the other. “Nineteen messages on our voice mail!” Lips compressed, she listened. “Oh, I don’t have to listen to that.” She punched “3” to delete.

  The rector’s black Taurus, almost unrecognizable with its coating of dust, braked long enough for the Ferrari to edge into the line of traffic. Max waved his thanks.

  Abruptly, Annie clicked off the phone.

  Max glanced at her. “You’ve already heard nineteen messages?”

  “I heard enough.” Her tone was grim. “Not everybody’s got the word yet.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “About the bogus flyers. That it’s all a fake.” She stared straight ahead, her face taut. “Some of the calls…” She didn’t finish.

  Max reached over, patted her hand. “Don’t worry, honey. It will be all right. People understand about April fool. But you’ll fool everybody and Emma will have a great signing Sunday.”

  “Don’t worry!” Annie took a deep breath. “Oh, Max, it isn’t just Emma’s signing I’m concerned about. I have to find out who did this. Otherwise, some people will always think it was me. And worse than that, what about the people those awful clues point to? I’m going to find them and tell them I’m a victim just like they are.”

  “I don’t know if that’s the smart thing to do.” His voice was troubled. The Ferrari picked up speed as he turned onto Sand Dollar Road.

  “No.” She was decisive. “It won’t be pleasant to face them, but I have to make the effort.” Annie shoved her hand through her unruly hair. “At least, I will as soon as I know who they are. It’s pretty clear about the Littlefields and Emma. We’ll have to figure out the rest. And they may be able to help us catch the person behind the thing.”

  “Help?” A blond eyebrow rose. “How? And why should they?”

  Annie clapped her hands together. “Why shouldn’t they? After all, think how we would feel if we were on a list that accused us of a crime. You’d think all of them would be wild to catch the creep that’s embarrassing them all over the island.” She paused, her eyes brightened. “Oh, hey, Max, I’ve got a great idea…”

  Pamela Potts was the last to arrive at Confidential Commissions.

  “Annie, everybody thinks you’re simply wonderful, taking charge so masterfully. Well, of course not masterfully, but with such flair!” Pamela stood in the doorway to Max’s office, not a strand of her blond hair out of place, soulful blue eyes exuding pride, white suit immaculate except for a magnolia twig snagged near the hem of her skirt. “I was listening as people left the cemetery.” Her eyes clouded. “I simply hated to leave with everything in such a mess. I promised Mr. Parker I would round up some volunteers to help with the cleanup. People are so careless. And really, I don’t think it was very appropriate for Ben Parotti to set up a food stand right by the cemetery as if it were a ball game or a parade. I actually”—there was modest pride in her clear voice—“told him so and do you know what Ben said? He said nobody there would give a damn, they were either having the best party in the universe or their thoughts were pretty much otherwise occupied. Oh, hello, Max, Henny, Barb. What are you doing?”

  Annie pointed to the far end of the table. “Pamela, if you could take the last spot in line. See, there are lots of my flyers there and—”

  “An assembly line,” Henny called out briskly. Henny had a new hairdo, her dark hair with its glitter of silver shingling in layers. “Come on over, we’re going to get the news out to everyone that Annie’s flyer has nothing to do with that trash somebody put out. See, we have poster boards.” She held up a poster with the message printe
d in huge bright red letters:

  BEWARE OF FAKES

  Here’s the one-and-only real WHODUNIT contest flyer.

  There was a large white space and another sentence at the bottom of the poster:

  Death on Demand is offering a reward for information about the source of the fake flyers.

  Henny pointed at a poster with her red marker. “You can paste one of Annie’s flyers beneath the message. We’ll go all over the island and put up the posters.”

  Annie was pleased with her brilliant solution. Not only would the posters make it absolutely clear that Death on Demand had no connection to the obnoxious flyers, the posters would also publicize Emma’s signing. Talk about win-win. And it wouldn’t take long to get a bunch of posters done with Henny and Barb and Pamela helping, especially Henny. Annie smiled fondly at her old friend. Nobody on Broward’s Rock could work better or faster than Henny, a retired schoolteacher, two-time Peace Corps volunteer and a veteran of the Women’s Army Air Corps in World War II, who had flown a vintage airplane for many years.

  Annie began to feel relaxed. Everything was going to work out.

  Pamela hurried across the room to take her place at the end of the table. She picked up a flyer and began to paste it painstakingly exactly in the center of the white space, then paused. “But why not say the reward is getting to drive Emma’s Rolls-Royce for a week?”

  Annie carefully began to print on a poster board.

  In the odd silence that followed Pamela’s question, Henny chuckled. “Annie, did you clear that with Emma?”

  Annie’s red marker skidded, messing up the W in WHODUNIT. She tossed that poster aside, picked up a fresh sheet, stared grimly down at it.

  “Oh my. Oh my, oh my.” Henny began to print letters on her poster board. “As Charlie Chan once observed, ‘The deer should not play with the tiger.’”