April Fool Dead

by Carolyn Hart

  Annie clattered down the back steps of Confidential Commissions. All of the shops on the harbor had rear entrances to a dusty, quiet alley, frequented primarily by delivery trucks. Her red Volvo was parked in the slot behind Death on Demand. Annie felt almost jaunty as she hurried toward the car. It always helped to take action. Her loud announcement at the cemetery was the first step in battling an unseen enemy. Now Max and Henny and Barb and Pamela were spreading out over the island to put up posters in heavily frequented areas and, along the way, ask if anyone had spotted the elusive distributor of the fake flyer. And she, despite Max’s concerns, was going to deliver posters to the places she felt they were most needed.

  Clutching her stack of posters, she darted around the front of her car, then stopped and stared at the window. Somebody had tossed a brick through the driver’s window of her Volvo. A bright green sheet of paper was wrapped around the brick. She didn’t have to unfold the flyer to recognize another of the fakes. Fragments of thought raced through her mind: The nearest glass shop was in Bluffton, a ferry ride away. Who was mad at her? One of those accused in the fake flyers who hadn’t heard—or didn’t believe—that Annie had nothing to do with the scurrilous attacks? Or a disappointed contestant, furious that the thousand-dollar prize wasn’t to be had? Or was this the work of the scheming, cruel mind that had created the spurious contest, angry at Annie’s denunciation?

  Annie was surprised at her sense of outrage that mingled with hurt. How ugly, ugly, ugly…But wasn’t that to be expected as a result of whatever was happening on the island? All right, no matter what effort it required, she wasn’t going to give up her search for the person responsible. It was true that she’d hoped to find out the identity of the trickster to save herself from a difficult moment with Emma. Yes, that mattered. Every time she thought about Emma’s Rolls…And it mattered that her store, her wonderful mystery bookstore, was unfairly embroiled in what was sure to become an island-wide scandal. But there was much more at stake here. Annie stared at the broken glass, sparkling in the late-March sunshine, and wondered what other violence would be spawned by the flyers.

  Leaning her stack of posters against the fender, she unlocked the car. She spotted a box of Kleenex on the backseat, grabbed several sheets. Carefully, she picked up the wrapped brick, deposited it gently on the floor of the passenger side. Fingerprints were unlikely. But she would take care not to destroy possible evidence. She yanked out more tissues, used them to wrap the larger pieces of glass. There was a stack of her own WHODUNIT flyers on the passenger seat. She spread out a couple of the flyers on the floor mat and used a handful of tissues to brush the smaller pieces of glass and the hard-to-see splinters onto the floor. As for the jagged remnants in the window, she’d deal with those when she was home and had access to gardening gloves.

  She gave a final sweep to the leather seat, tossed the posters, a roll of tape, and a file folder onto the passenger seat, and settled behind the wheel. But she made no move to turn the key in the ignition. Instead, she stared at the folder. Should she start at this end of the island—Emma’s house had a superb ocean view, thanks to Marigold—or follow the noxious clues in the fake flyer, or opt for Frank Saulter’s familiar face?

  Undecided, Annie picked up the folder, flipped it open. It was amazing how much information Barb had garnered while she and Max were at the cemetery. Barb, in her organized fashion, had divided her report into five parts. Annie reread Barb’s introduction and her notes:

  Background Material

  in re Bogus Flyers

  Flyers (hereinafter designated F1) patterned after the Death on Demand Whodunit contest have been found throughout the island, including the shops on the boardwalk by the harbor, the local schools, the library, Parotti’s Bar and Grill, the hospital, the country club, the largest churches as well as the business district near the ferry dock, including The Island Gazette and the police station.

  Scrawled in the margin in Barb’s flamboyant writing: “Pete Garrett is furious. He took the flyers at the police station as a personal affront.”

  Annie murmured, “You and me, Pete.” She almost skipped past a description of the cemetery gathering, but one sentence caught her eye:

  …the second flyer (hereinafter designated F2) has been found only at the cemetery. F2 flyers were bundled next to the grave of Robert Tower.

  Only at the cemetery. Annie frowned. She rustled through the folder, found flyers F1 and F2, held them side by side. Odd. It was Clue 1 in F1 that led the curious to the cemetery. There were, however, four more clues in F1. Shouldn’t the F2 flyers have been available at all those places as well?

  She shook her head impatiently. Dammit, she kept treating the exercise as if it were truly a contest. But the fact that the F2 flyer was found only at the cemetery was surely the clincher that the entire contest was a sham. The point of the fake flyers wasn’t to lead people to the secrets or possibly even to crimes hidden in the lives of those targeted. The point was…What was the point? Malicious mischief? Or a passion for justice, no matter the cost?

  Justice.

  Annie turned the key, drove slowly toward the end of the alley. Through the broken window, she heard the crunch of the tires on the oyster-shell road. Okay, maybe somebody believed there were guilty persons who needed to be caught. Maybe the point of the flyers wasn’t simply to torment innocent victims. Maybe somebody believed crimes had been committed and the flyers might reopen old cases, bring new ones.

  Adultery? That was a crime against the heart, a crime against the innocent third in the ages-old triangle, a crime against God, but it certainly was not a crime to be judged in a court of law. But murder, false imprisonment and hit-and-run resulting in death were crimes indeed.

  Annie reached the end of the alley, and again she hesitated. Where to start? She glanced down at the open folder. Barb hadn’t minced words:

  Crime 1

  Hit-and-run. Unsolved. Tower was hit by a car while jogging two years ago, April 14. Found unconscious in the ditch on a lonely stretch of Blue Heron Lane shortly after eight-thirty that morning. Died en route to the hospital without regaining consciousness. Survived by his wife, Jessie, and two children, Amy and Cliff. Jessie is now running the Tower Insurance Agency; Amy is a senior in high school, Cliff a sophomore. Fragments of red paint were found on Tower’s T-shirt. Island police put out a call for damaged red cars. None were reported.

  In the margin, Barb had scrawled: “Probably the car was taken off island for repair before the search began.”

  Annie remembered the cryptic clue in the second flyer: What happened to the Littlefields’ red Jeep? That was as specific as the clue pointing one-half mile east on Least Tern Lane.

  Annie returned to the text:

  Tower had no known enemies. His wife was driving the children to school. Her car was (and is) a blue Maxima. F2 asks: What happened to the Littlefields’ red Jeep? Either a good question or a matter of geography. Curtis and Lou Anne Littlefield live on Blue Heron Lane a half mile from the site of the hit-and-run. Curtis is a venture capitalist with offices in New York and Los Angeles. Avid golfer. Reputed to improve his lie when nobody’s looking. Lou Anne’s antique store—My Attic—is second only to Parotti’s as the main attraction downtown. They have one daughter, Diane, a so-so student who works part-time at her mother’s store after school.

  Crime 2

  Adultery. Paul Marlow, one sexy dude, lives one-half mile east on Least Tern Lane. He runs The Grass Is Green lawn and garden service. I’m still working on it but so far I’ve got a list of twenty weekly customers. Don’t have a clue who the lady might be, always assuming he likes ladies, but I don’t think that’s in question. A favorite with the single gals at the Low Places Lounge near the ferry stop on the mainland. He’s a bachelor. Scubas down near Cozumel a couple of times a year, has a big black Lab named Hoss.

  Crime 3

  Here’s the lead story from The Island Gazette, September 13, 1990:

  “A jury convicted islan
der Jud Hamilton of second-degree murder yesterday in the death of his wife, Colleen, despite Hamilton’s claim that he had an alibi at the time of her death.

  “According to police testimony, Colleen Hamilton was found critically injured at the foot of the stairs in their two-story home. A neighbor, Joan Leavitt, testified that Mrs. Hamilton seemed to be afraid of her husband.

  “On the witness stand, Edward Miles testified that he had lied when he said he and Hamilton were out fishing on the afternoon in question. Miles testified that he had told the police he was with Hamilton at Hamilton’s request. This surprise testimony shocked Hamilton and his attorney, who requested a mistrial. The request was overruled by Judge Larrabee Logan.

  “Police Chief Frank Saulter testified that he observed scratches on Hamilton’s arms when he interviewed the husband the day after Mrs. Hamilton’s death. Chief Saulter also testified that Mrs. Hamilton was conscious when he reached the scene and that when he asked her what happened, she said, ‘Jud pushed me.’

  “Hamilton took the stand in his own defense and vigorously denied harming his wife and claimed they were happily married. The prosecution then called to the stand a series of witnesses who confirmed that Mrs. Hamilton was often observed to be suffering from injuries such as bruises on her face and arms and twice was treated at the hospital emergency room for a broken arm.

  “Hamilton was employed as a trust officer at the Seminole Bank and Trust. Judge Logan said the sentence will be pronounced next week.”

  Barb’s scrawl in the margin was deeply indented: “Jud’s a scary, scary man. Colleen was terrified of him. She was a teacher at the high school, one of the best my son ever had. A sweet woman. Jud got twenty years, but a story last week said he’s been paroled. Have you ever noticed how wives convicted of their husbands’ deaths stay in jail forever? And how a guy can get busted for robbery and get a big sentence but rape will net a couple of years? But don’t get me started.”

  Annie looked at the clue list in F2: Where did the evidence come from? It was like taking a step on a familiar stair and suddenly finding yourself falling. The evidence, the evidence that very likely convicted Jud Hamilton, came from then Police Chief Frank Saulter, a man Annie knew well. The first flyer claimed there was a case of false imprisonment. Frank? Annie pictured his worn, bony face and serious brown eyes—okay, she’d thought him totally humorless when they first met—but he was simply an intense man who cared about his island and the people who lived on it. He wasn’t impressed by the rich folks who lived in condos and the gated community, and he’d put Annie at the top of his suspect list when a writer was murdered at Death on Demand shortly after she took over running her late uncle’s bookstore. Frank was dogged and tireless, and he always got his man. Or woman. Annie thought about Frank’s brown eyes, determined, intelligent and sometimes bleak.

  Annie felt cold despite the soft warmth of the April sun. She would talk to Frank, that was for sure. She glanced at the next heading in Barb’s report:

  Crime 4

  Ricky Morales, Emma’s second husband, fell off Marigold’s Pleasure fifteen months after Emma and Ricky moved to Broward’s Rock. According to the Coast Guard report, Morales’s fall was adjudged an accident. He was a non-swimmer. The body was found the next day. Emma’s bio attached.

  Barb had scrawled in the margin: “Ask Emma? I don’t think so!”

  Annie didn’t need to ask Emma. She knew more about the island’s most famous writer than was contained in the many voluminous biographical essays by mystery critics. Annie and Emma went way back. Oh, not as far back as Emma and her second husband, but Emma had been a member of the mystery writers’ group that met at Death on Demand when Annie inherited the bookstore from her uncle Ambrose. Annie was quite sure that Emma had then been paying blackmail to another member of that select circle and the payoff money was to hide information about Ricky Morales’s death. The investigation had been officially closed all these years, but there is, of course, no statute of limitations on murder. However, nothing came of the suspicion of murder at that time and nothing would come of it now. No one but Emma would ever know the truth of that night. All Emma had to do was keep quiet, and Annie had no doubt that Emma would do precisely that. It didn’t matter now whether or when Ricky Morales had had a girlfriend. That would suggest a motive, but it gave no evidence about what happened on Ricky’s final night aboard Marigold’s Pleasure.

  “Nope.” Annie said it aloud. There might always be a suspicion in the mind of some about the drowning, but putting Emma on the list of possible crimes was puzzling. No matter who looked or how hard they looked, no one was going to come up with evidence to change the ruling of accidental death. So why include Emma?

  Annie concentrated. There was something here, something important…. But she wasn’t sure what. She shook her head, read the final heading:

  Crime 5

  Poor little rich girl, that was sure true about Laura Neville Fleming. Inherited millions, but she was plain as a bowl of oatmeal and had about as much zip. Oh, she wore designer clothes and did everything expected of her, all the charity dos, that kind of thing. Husband quite handsome. Keith Fleming was a poor boy who had worked his way up in Papa Neville’s fancy furniture store in Atlanta—all the best from High Point—and married the boss’s daughter. Happy ending? Not really. No kids. Lots of social events. The only passion in her life was the family yacht, Leisure Moment. They say she sometimes drank a bit too much and that’s what happened the night she fell off the yacht and drowned.

  Annie rubbed her nose. Two drownings? Was this a coincidence, or was this simply an easy way to expand the list of possible crimes for the flyers? Annie sat very still because that glimmer in her mind was brighter. Expand the list…Somebody could always be pushed from a boat. Oh, wait a minute, wait a minute. Was this the truth she needed to ferret out? What if the flyers really were meant to expose one particular crime and the others were included to keep the spotlight away from those who would care, and care passionately, about one particular event? That would explain Emma’s name on the list. She was camouflage, a smoke screen….

  Annie reached for her cell phone, punched a private number that she knew by heart. When the answering machine message sounded, Annie came on strong. “Come on, Emma. I know you’re there. I’ll keep calling. Automatic, every fifteen seconds. You went home to think. Listen, I’ve got to talk to—”

  “Annie.” The cool gravelly voice was remote.

  “Emma, you went away muttering about a smoke screen, a smoking gun. What did you mean?” Annie glanced at Barb’s report. Five crimes. Was there only one that mattered?

  There was a whisper of what might have been laughter if it hadn’t been a snort of disdain. “Even Detective Inspector Hector Houlihan would have tumbled before now.”

  Annie wanted to snap that Emma better be damn glad at this particular moment she wasn’t standing at the stern of Marigold’s Pleasure with Annie behind her or there might be another drowning. Annie blurted, “Of course you can probably swim,” and knew she was in trouble. When, oh when, would she ever learn to control her quick temper? She could hear Max’s oft-repeated suggestion: Breathe deeply, Annie. That’s right. One breath, two…

  But Emma was never predictable. Following a thoughtful silence, there was an unmistakable deep chuckle. “I swim quite well, my dear. Is that why you called?”

  Annie refused to be diverted. “Smoke screen, Emma. Come on, what did you mean?”

  “As Marigold often reminds Houlihan, ‘Gnats distract. Get the big picture.’” With a sharp click, the connection ended.

  “Emma…” But there was no one to hear Annie’s outraged bleat. Gnats distract…Oh, damn. Did Emma think she was Charlie Chan? As far as pithy statements went, Emma’s had far to go. And Annie wasn’t getting anywhere. But she still had the glimmer, a deep rich glow in her mind. What if the whole point of the fake flyers was to stir up investigation into one particular crime and the others were mentioned simply to keep anyo
ne from wondering who might care enough to set these events in motion?

  Annie turned out of the alley. The Volvo picked up speed. As Charlie Chan might have said, had it occurred to him: To start, you must begin. And she, by damn, was going to begin.

  Six

  FIVE POSTERS TUCKED beneath one arm, Max pushed in the heavy wooden front door of Parotti’s Bar and Grill. He stepped inside and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dimness. Although it wasn’t quite noon yet, the foyer was full of people waiting for a table, a tribute to the excellence of the food. The menu included smothered pork chops, chicken wings, steamed oysters, gumbo, she-crab soup, catfish stew, fried okra, barbecued pigs’ feet and, Annie’s favorite, the fried-oyster sandwich.

  Max sniffed the smells beloved to islanders, though newcomers sometimes found the combination of hot cooking oil, barbecue sauce, beer, sawdust and fishy aromas from the bait coolers a touch too tangy. Saying hello to friends, he worked his way through the crowd, heading for a spot at the bar against the far wall.

  Parotti’s was a much more genteel establishment from when Max first came to the island. Ben’s marriage to the cook, a well-traveled lady from Tallahassee with tea-shop tastes, had transformed Ben from a scruffy leprechaun in an armless union suit and baggy coveralls to a natty leprechaun who often sported a gold-buttoned blue blazer and Tom Wolfe white trousers. Ben had agreed to the addition of quiche and fruit teas to the menu and wildflower bouquets in slender vases on the initial-scarred wooden tables, but he drew a line in the sawdust. Sawdust there had always been, sawdust there would always be, even if purchasers of bait no longer carried out their wiggly, smelly shrimp or minnows and the occasional eel in leaky cartons. Mrs. Ben insisted on plastic-covered buckets but gracefully yielded to Ben about the sawdust.