April Fool Dead

by Carolyn Hart

  The jukebox belted out Little Richard, the doors from the kitchen clattered as waitresses hurried out with laden trays, the old-fashioned cash register pinged, and the roar of conversation kept every conversation private.

  Max was halfway across the sawdust-strewn floor when a familiar voice called out, “Max, hey, Max!” Tall, lanky redheaded Vince Ellis, owner and editor of The Island Gazette, pushed up from a nearby table, still clutching an oyster knife. “I’ve been calling you and Annie.”

  Max wasn’t surprised. Vince was a hardworking editor who never missed any excitement on the island.

  Vince reached Max in two strides. “What’s all this about Annie’s flyers?” He looked sharply at the posters under Max’s arm.

  Max slipped one free, handed it to the editor. “Annie’s gone on the offensive.”

  Vince scanned the poster. “Good idea. I figured Annie had been set up. Can I have this? We’ll run a picture of it. I got some quotes from Ingrid. We’ll have a story in tomorrow’s paper about Annie’s Whodunit contest. We quote Ingrid saying there are some spurious flyers out there that have nothing to do with the store. Ingrid said Annie’s investigating. You got a handle on who’s behind the fake contest?”

  “Not yet. Do you have any ideas?” Little happened on the island that escaped either Vince or the columns of his newspaper.

  “Nope. I’ve got Marian working on it.” Frazzled, fast-talking, frenetic Marian Kenyan charged every story like Mike Hammer ogling a blonde. “She’s set up a phone brigade. If anybody saw the person who put out those flyers, Marian’ll come up with it. I’ll let you know.”

  Max wasn’t hopeful, but he asked anyway. “How about the cemetery flyer asking people to keep an eye on the personals in The Island Gazette?”

  Vince raised a sandy eyebrow. “That has to be phony, Max. No ad goes in the paper unless submitted with a verifiable name and address. We do carry personals that don’t have a name listed, but we know who placed the ad.”

  “But if anything comes in—”

  Vince clapped him on the arm. “You’ll be the first to know.” He started to turn away, then said quickly, “Keep us informed, Max.” Vince rubbed a freckled cheek. “The other stuff—it’s pretty damned nasty. I’d keep a close eye on Annie.”

  Max stood very still. “On Annie?”

  “It could be that somebody doesn’t like her very much.” Vince shrugged. “Or it may be that her contest gave somebody a way to poke at tigers from a safe distance. Be in touch.”

  Max watched the energetic editor stride away, taking with him Max’s sense of well-being. Keep a close eye on Annie…. Damn, it would be easier to herd cats. But surely Annie was all right….

  “Yo, Max.”

  Max felt a tug on his arm and looked down. Today Ben’s sport coat was Masters-golf-green and his slacks a pale yellow, but his inquisitive, combative, and eager face was as raffish as ever.

  “The missus with you?” Ben craned to peer toward the ladies’ room.

  “Not today, Ben.” Max held up the posters for Ben to see. “Can I put these up? And I’ve got some flyers to put out on the bar.”

  Ben grabbed a poster, peered at it. “Oh yeah, this is what Annie was talking about this morning. I wish she’d waited a while before she got on her high horse. Hell, I was selling catfish and hush puppies faster than a cotton rat hustling greens.” His snort of laughter drowned the music. “’Course, I ain’t got quite the hurry of a cotton rat.” He looked philosophical. “Has to eat all the time, and when it ain’t eatin’, it’s making babies. Busy all the time. Anyway, no hard feelings. If the missus was here, I’d fix her an extra-thick fried-oyster sandwich. Sure, you can put up the posters and I’ll put the flyers around.” He took the stack from Max.

  “Listen, Ben, I need to talk to you—”

  Ben pointed toward the big mahogany bar at the far end of the big room. “Gotta get back to work, Max.”

  “I’m going to have lunch, Ben. I just have a couple of things I need to find out.” Scuffing sawdust, Max followed Ben. Max slipped onto one of the tall red leatherette stools.

  Ben darted behind the bar. “The usual?”

  Max nodded.

  Ben checked on a half-dozen customers as he scooted up and down behind the bar and brought Max a Bud Light.

  Over the croon of the Ink Spots, Max said quickly, “Ben, I need to know who took the late ferry back to the island on Monday night or the first ferry back on Tuesday morning.”

  Ben tufted his grizzled eyebrows. “Late ferry Monday night, first ferry Tuesday morning,” he muttered. He turned to the window into the kitchen, barked out an order. When he brought a steaming bowl of okra, crab and shrimp gumbo, he rubbed his nose and looked speculatively at Max. “I ain’t no priest and I suppose I don’t owe my riders no immunity. But I never made it a practice to talk about who goes on or off island and when.”

  Max shook some pepper on his gumbo and added an extra dash of Tabasco. “You don’t like sneaks, do you, Ben?”

  Ben folded his arms and leaned against the bar, waiting.

  Max put down his spoon. “Somebody’s sneaking around causing a lot of trouble and that’s why I’m asking about the ferry.”

  Ben’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah, those flyers are causing a mess of trouble. I heard Bud Harris punched his wife. They live on Least Tern Lane but not a half mile from Sand Dollar. She’s gone to stay with her folks in Greenville. Bud’s always been a jealous man, though my missus says it’s all in his head, that Rhonda is a good woman.”

  Max stirred the gumbo. “All because somebody snuck around and put out those fake flyers, Ben. And we know that whoever did it had to get to Beaufort either Monday night or Tuesday morning to leave money at a skywriting—”

  Ben held up his hand, swung away to get another order from the window, plunked it three places down and scooted back to Max. “You mean Annie didn’t order that WHODUNIT in the sky? I thought for sure that was Annie.”

  “Not Annie. There was no name left with the order, so we’re pretty sure it was made by the same person who put out the bogus flyers. If you could tell me who was on the ferry, it would be a big help.”

  Ben folded his arms across his chest, shook his head.

  Max was shocked. “But, Ben, why not?”

  “Max, I guess you forgot where you live.” Ben’s look was a mixture of pity and embarrassment. “Now, if you was going to sneak about and do somethin’ wrong, would you prance right onto the ferry? Where me and God and everybody would see you? Why, Max, how many people are there on this island who can’t handle a sailboat or a motorboat? You can bet whoever took that money to Beaufort popped a bike in the back of a boat and slipped across the Sound quieter than a Carolina cougar coming up behind a deer.” Ben picked up a rag, polished the shiny wood. “So it don’t matter who was on the ferry and I don’t s’pose it’s harmin’ anybody for me to speak out. Monday night there was Bridget Jones, who’d been into Savannah to shop, and Matt Hosey, who runs the Buccaneer Inn. Only had three passengers Tuesday morning and none was island people—two vacation families and a salesman who lives in Columbia, nice fellow named Jefferson.” Ben punched Max on the shoulder. “No, sir, you be lookin’ for somebody with a boat.”

  As Annie slowed to make the turn into Least Tern Lane, a sleek yellow convertible spurted around her, horn blaring. Her mother-in-law, golden hair attractively (of course) tousled by the wind, gestured energetically, always graceful fingers fluttering.

  Annie hesitated, clicked off her right-turn signal, and followed the convertible and the swooping hand that continued to make encouraging waves. Obviously Laurel wanted to see her. Annie knew from long experience that had she ignored the summons, Laurel would simply have turned her car and pursued Annie to the end of the island. And beyond, if necessary.

  The convertible’s signal blinker came on and Laurel swerved into the Forest Preserve. Annie swerved, too, and stopped behind the convertible in the clearing by the paths that snaked into th
e preserve.

  Before Annie could open her door, Laurel was moving quickly toward her. As always, Laurel was expensively and beautifully dressed, although Annie thought the crimson blouse and black slacks and short black boots a trifle odd on such a springlike day. But it was the two lengths of polished copper, one in each hand, that truly puzzled her.

  Laurel flung her arms wide, the copper flashing in the sunlight. “Annie, your window!”

  Annie dismissed the shards of glass sticking from the well. “It got broken. Uh, hey, Laurel, what are those things?”

  “Darling, I’ve been looking for you everywhere.” A husky laugh. “Of course, had I employed these”—her glance at the copper rods verged on adoring—“I should no doubt have found you sooner. However, at times I forget the possibilities and I was focused solely on aiding you in your efforts. And so I made inquiries of that dear man, Daniel Parker.”

  Laurel had the capacity to enchant males of every age, from toddlers to septuagenarians. Annie had no doubt Daniel was quite eager to be of service to Laurel. “He didn’t point the shotgun at you?”

  “Shotgun? Oh, my dear. Actually, I was delayed there for a while because he was simply fascinated with my divining rods and I had to help him find an appropriate tree so that he might make his own in the old-fashioned way from a nice forked piece of wood. Hazel, apple, beech and alder are quite traditional but not here on the island. I suggested oak or perhaps hickory. What do you think?” She stared into Annie’s eyes as if the forthcoming words might just be the most important ever uttered on the subject.

  Annie had that old familiar sense of bewilderment overlaid by irritation, with just a soupçon of suspicion, feelings often engendered by contact with Laurel. And, dammit, she didn’t have time for a Looney Tunes exercise. She had to find the jerk who was trying to ruin both her reputation and the cleverest book promotion in the history of Death on Demand. And she needed to check on Rachel, see how she was feeling. Was she truly sick, or was something wrong at school? And she had to get ready for the Sunday-afternoon signing. Her stomach lurched. Was Ingrid still checking on the order? Would Emma’s books arrive on the ferry in time?

  Annie forced a smile. “Laurel, I’m sure whatever wood you and Daniel pick will be just fine. And now, if you’ll excuse me—”

  Laurel eased the two copper rods over the broken points of glass, jiggling them a little impatiently until Annie took them. The rods were L-shaped, the short length obviously intended to be gripped and, in fact, still warm from Laurel’s hands.

  Laurel’s exquisitely lovely face, the patrician features smooth and ageless, managed to exude commiseration without engendering a single wrinkle. “I know, Dear Child. I understand. You Have a Mission. I didn’t realize the problem until you spoke out at the cemetery. It was simply serendipity—or do I mean synchronicity? Do you know, I always confuse the two…”

  Annie felt that confusion was the least of Laurel’s difficulties.

  “…because I was there solely as a result of the map. Although truly”—a deprecating smile—“I will admit I didn’t use my pendulum over the map.”

  Pendulum? Annie briefly closed her eyes, but when she opened them Laurel was still speaking.

  “I found reference to a map in an old history of the sea islands. Of course, it wasn’t a treasure map or I should certainly have opted for the pendulum. I—”

  “Laurel.” Annie paused, made an effort to leach the desperation from her tone. “Please, what are we talking about?”

  “Dear Child.” Laurel’s fjord-blue eyes widened in concern. “Truly You Are in Need. Now, it will ease your efforts to find the culprit”—she paused, nodded firmly—“oh yes, I know all about the flyers, yours and the others. I admire your determination to root out the person responsible for what is truly an outrage against our community. That’s why I was looking for you, although I do try to commit myself to a schedule, two hours in the morning, two in the afternoon and, of course, those marvelous witching hours near midnight”—the enormity of her dedication lifted her voice—“but I felt that your search, as it were, for a modern-day miscreant as opposed to my quite thrilling but less socially necessary attempt to find the fruits of long-ago crimes—”

  “Laurel.”

  Her mother-in-law clapped her hands together. “Yes, of course, let us cut to the chase. Isn’t it wonderful how the world of film has added to our language?” Her trill of laughter was gentle. “Although Morgan—you never knew him, dear. He was my husband who loved oil—always insisted the phrase had nothing to do with skipping the preliminaries before the concluding chase scene in a movie. Morgan said it was a term used by those who drill for oil in the great Southwest and their attempts to reach the Chase formation.” Her coiffed head nodded, presumably in the direction of the great Southwest or perhaps the Chase formation. “Now I always thought it had to do with foxhunting, but no matter, it speaks to us. Yes. Dowsing, Annie.”

  Annie looked from the copper rods to Laurel. Dowsing.

  A decided nod. “Take the rods, hold them like pistols—wasn’t dueling a great though dangerous tradition—”

  Annie opened her mouth.

  Laurel broke off, continued rapidly: “Hold them straight out waist-high like pistols and”—she leaned forward, blue eyes mesmerizing—“determine with great precision your question. That is at the heart of success or failure. It won’t do simply to muddle about and think, Well, why did someone put out the posters?, or to wonder whether the clues have merit. No, you must be precise. March up to the suspect in question, hold up the rods and think”—a worried shake of that smooth golden head—“I know that can be a challenge, Annie, but you must simply do your best. March up to the suspect, point the rods and think, Who put you on that list? And voilà, if the rods cross or perhaps even dip or simply wiggle, you will be close to ending your search.”

  The copper rods, next to the clumps of glass and the brick, rattled on the floor of the passenger side as Annie’s Volvo jolted onto Least Tern Lane. Gray dust roiled as the wheels churned in the deep ruts of the narrow road. Annie added another black mark against the vandal who’d smashed her window. She tried to concentrate on her objective, but she kept glancing at the shiny metal rods. Cut to the chase…. Okay, it was spooky that Laurel had in her own bizarre way suggested a new method of attack. Oh, not the dowsing rods. And what did Laurel mean by saying that she was seeking the fruits of past crimes? Oh, well, wandering about the island with dowsing rods certainly seemed to be a harmless pursuit. But Laurel had, unwittingly, given Annie a good lead. The fake flyers listed five possible crimes. The clues led to suspects in those crimes. The question to pose to each person implicated was simple indeed: Who put you on that list?

  Henny Brawley loved mysteries and enjoyed emulating the great detectives, everyone from the insouciant Saint, derring-do hero of the Leslie Charteris adventures, to tart-tongued Julia Tyler, Louisa Revell’s indomitable Southern gentlewoman. As Henny parked in the lengthening shade of the pines behind the library, she wondered how to approach the present problem. She had a title in mind: The Case of the Counterfeit Flyers. She, of course, planned to star as chief investigator. No way would Emma solve this first, not if Henny could help it. Just because Emma wrote mysteries she fancied herself as best equipped to uncover the truth. Pfui! as Nero Wolfe might exclaim. After all, the mystery author knows whodunit before it even happens, so where was the skill in that? No, Henny was determined to demonstrate deductive powers far beyond those possessed by Emma.

  Grabbing a stack of flyers and several posters, Henny slammed the car door shut. She didn’t bother to lock it, one of the advantages of living on an island and driving an old black Dodge everyone recognized. As she hurried up the back steps, she considered possibilities. Should she hope for the insightfulness of Georges Simenon’s Inspector Maigret? Or perhaps this was the moment for Miss Marple’s clever parallels. Or maybe she should opt for a tougher modern-day investigator such as B. J. Oliphant’s Shirley McClintock.r />
  Henny paused in the narrow corridor. The names of the detectives all began with M. Was this an omen? She grinned. She’d never thought of life in terms of omens, karma or presentiments until she met Max’s mother. Perhaps Annie was right. Perhaps time spent around Laurel was dangerous to mental health. Anyway, the answer seemed clear. Maigret all the way. Too bad she didn’t have a handy raincoat or a pipe. But the externals didn’t matter. Maigret was a man who made himself one with the milieu. When he understood the people, he understood the crime. That would be her task. The people—who mattered most, the author of the flyers or the victims of the flyers?

  Henny paused in the back corridor, eyes narrowed. It was essential to understand the psychology, as Poirot always pointed out. What kind of person would create the flyers? Clearly that depended upon the reason for their existence. Emma was in her lair, presumably thinking. Annie was doggedly seeking out the victims. Perhaps they were missing the forest for the trees. Why not take the flyers at face value? After all, they had certainly set in motion a scramble for facts about the alleged crimes. Police Chief Pete Garrett had to be engaged in digging up every fact available about the incidents because he would have had a series of messages from worried members of the city council, Henny was sure of that. Pete would be busy looking for evidence. Except, of course, for the charge of adultery.

  Adultery—Henny would have clapped her hands together if she hadn’t been carrying posters and Annie’s flyers. Wait a minute. Who would consider adultery a crime to be publicly announced, shades of The Scarlet Letter? Talk about psychology! All right, she needed to think, figure out who on the island combined the sensibilities of a vigilante with a rigid code of morality and more than a dash of self-righteousness.

  With a clear sense of mission, Henny hurried up the corridor. She reached the main foyer, the heart-pine floors glowing from sunlight streaming through tall, clear-paned windows. The library was housed in a three-story Greek Revival mansion bequeathed to the city by an ardent library lover and it had a thick scent of mold as well as the acrid undertone of electronic equipment and the familiar beloved scent of books, books, books. Henny took a deep satisfying breath and waved a poster at the librarian behind the information desk. “Edith, can I put these posters up? There’s been—”