April Fool Dead

by Carolyn Hart

  “We’ll keep trying tomorrow.” Annie hoped she didn’t sound as discouraged as she felt. After all, she’d looked today and she hadn’t turned up anything definite. All she had was Maureen Riley’s certainty that Kay’s worry centered on the lunch table and Lois Thompson’s belief that Kay Nevis was concerned about a student. Could Meredith Muir be that student? Maybe Annie could find out tomorrow.

  Annie gave a final swipe with the dishcloth and hung it above the sink to dry. She looked through the window. The lights around the pool glowed. There was no light on the pier that jutted into the lagoon. She could barely see a dark form near the railing.

  Annie turned toward the back door. She reached for the handle, then paused long enough to pick up the phone, punch “redial.” Ring and ring and ring and ring. Click. “You have reached…” Annie shook her head, punched off the phone. If Meredith Muir was home, she still wasn’t answering the phone.

  Annie pushed through the door, welcomed the soft cool March night air. She hurried to the pier. Her steps echoed on the wooden planks.

  Max turned to meet her.

  She slipped her arm through his. “Don’t worry. Laurel’s okay.” Laurel might be flaky and fey, but she always landed on her feet.

  “Annie, she’s out there somewhere.” Max nodded in the direction of the Sound.

  “I know. But look at it, Max, whatever she’s up to, she’s given it a lot of thought. And she’s involved in something that matters. Besides, Kay Nevis was shot last night. Nothing will happen tonight.”

  Laurel smiled at the thick cloud cover. It was a very dark night, nice for her and no problem for her dear little nightscope. She throttled back the motorboat, maneuvered it on the lee side of a substantial hummock. She put down the anchor. Almost midnight. She glanced at the backseat—two knapsacks and, of course, an assortment of dowsing rods. She was especially fond of the bright pink rod studded with fake rhinestones. Actually there had been a distinct pull the other night when she’d held the rod above this very hummock. Could it be…Well, no matter. If Blackbeard’s treasure rested there, it could rest a hundred years more. That kind of discovery always led to trouble for everyone involved. She picked up the maroon knapsack and pulled out the nightscope-equipped video camera, held it steady, looked through the viewfinder. The Crawford dock jutted clear and distinct above the dark water.

  She rested the camera in her lap. All was in readiness. The second knapsack was new. She’d handled it with gloved hands. No fingerprints there. Tonight she’d carefully polished the camera and viewfinder and she was wearing soft and supple dark leather gloves. She wouldn’t leave any prints on anything she touched. As for the note in the new knapsack, she’d written it wearing the gloves. She nodded in approval as she recalled the printed message:

  Cocaine shipment delivered to Eva and Terry Crawford Thursday night. The bricks of cocaine will be picked up Friday night during a party at the Crawford house. There will be a number of guests from the mainland.

  Crisp. Clear. To the point. Wouldn’t Max be proud? And to think she’d never be able to tell him. Not that Max wasn’t discreet. Of course he was, but there must never be a single hint that she had been instrumental in the capture of the Crawfords. That would pose terrible danger for Rosa, the only link between Laurel and the Crawfords. Oh, well, there had been other adventures she’d never been able to share. She smiled.

  A dark shape moved in the Sound. Laurel lifted the camera and the film began to whir.

  Frank Saulter’s fingers lightly rested on the rubber-boot grip of his Smith & Wesson Airweight .38 Special. No moon tonight, so the ivory handle wasn’t visible. If he moved his hand, he could touch the gold-edged initials, “FJS, Francis John Saulter.” He was sure it was Billy who’d gone to the extra trouble to order the initials. They’d given the revolver to him at his retirement party. It was a swell gun. The cylinder held five rounds of .38 lead hollowpoints. Billy had shrugged away Frank’s thanks, saying the initials were just an idea they’d all kicked around, he and the other guys, a little something for Frank to remember them by.

  He remembered them, all right, Billy and all the fine young men who’d been on his force through the years. Frank moved restlessly on the air mattress. Would Jud come tonight? Frank felt sure Jud was coming. Jud feasted on hatred.

  Anger…Deep in the night, truths pluck at the mind. He felt the hot ugly core of anger pulsing within—raging fury at Jud, icy grief for Colleen. But he’d made certain that Jud didn’t get away with murder. He had put Jud in prison.

  Wasn’t that enough?

  Frank heard the light tinkle of breaking glass, saw the window rising. Rolling to his knees, he lifted his arm, waiting. He was a good shot, an excellent shot. Framed within the open window, a darker form moved against the dark of night. A thin spear of light winked on just long enough to reveal the motionless lump beneath the bedcovers—and the dark glint of a steel revolver pointing at the bed.

  Frank pressed the trigger.

  Darkness cloaked the island at night, making stars vivid and bright when the sky was clear. Laurel drove slowly, glancing occasionally at the rearview mirror to be certain no one followed. The road lay black and silent in front and behind her. She drove past the checkpoint for the residential development. The exit was open. The guard at the entrance would have no reason to note her car. It wasn’t far to the main streets of Broward’s Rock and the police station that overlooked the harbor.

  Laurel smiled serenely, glancing at the new backpack lying on the passenger seat. Now it held the film cassette and her brisk note. She wished she could be present when dear Chief Garrett viewed the film. Wouldn’t he be surprised! Wasn’t it a shame, actually, that one couldn’t just for a few moments take another form? Such as a butterfly! If she could be a butterfly—perhaps a zebra, for zebras loved passion fruit and that surely seemed congenial; or perhaps a swallowtail, for they had quite good taste, cruising round and about magnolias—she would hover near that nice young man and flap her wings in pleasure when he realized what the cassette contained. Oh, the phone wires would zing, calls to the DEA and to the sheriff’s office and perhaps even to the FBI. Did phone wires zing? Wasn’t everything just a pulse through space now? Hmm. Oh, well, whatever. But, sadly, she could not be present when the chief set in motion the actions that would culminate in breaking up a heretofore exceptionally successful smuggling ring. She would simply have to read all about it in The Island Gazette when the Crawfords were arrested along with those picking up the cocaine Friday night. It surely should be exciting. Would it be inappropriate to take the motorboat out that night, just for a ride in the moonlight? Hmm. No. She must be sensible and she’d already arranged for her surreptitious departure from the island tonight. Discretion was surely the better part of valor in this instance.

  Sirens shrieked.

  Laurel’s hands tensed on the wheel. Without a pause, she turned the car into the first cross street. She stopped, turned off the lights and motor, and turned to watch.

  Two police cars and an ambulance streaked past. Red lights whirled. The sirens’ wails rose and fell. Was the Sea Side Inn on fire? No, they’d gone past Bay Street. In any event, the night was once again dark and silent. She drove quickly to the police station. It took only a minute to dash up the walk and leave the knapsack on the front steps. A few minutes later, she nosed her Morris Minor onto the ferry. Ben Parotti gave her a quick salute.

  When the ferry was well away from the island, she left the car and climbed the metal ladder to the wheel-house. “Ben, you are simply wonderful.” Her husky voice radiated admiration. “I appreciate your making this special run for me. And it will be our secret, won’t it?” She smiled, looked deep into his eyes.

  Ben turned a peculiar rust color, cleared his throat. “Sure thing, Mrs. Roethke. Anytime.”

  The phone rang Friday morning at almost the same moment the alarm pealed. Max rolled over, flailed for the phone and the alarm.

  “Max, do something.” Annie pulled a
pillow over her head.

  Max knocked the alarm on the floor, reached over to try and find it, shoved the receiver next to his chin. “H’lo.”

  “Maxwell, my dear. I do believe you sleepyheads are—what is that wailing noise?” Laurel yawned.

  “The damn alarm. Wait a minute.” Max found the alarm, turned it off. “Ma.” He sat bolt upright. “Where are you?”

  Annie pulled the pillow off her head. “Is it Laurel?”

  Max nodded, held a finger to his lips.

  “In Atlanta, of course.” Laurel’s voice was sleepy but cheerful. “Don’t you remember?”

  Max covered the receiver, pointed toward the door. “Go down and check caller ID. Hurry.”

  Annie popped out of bed and ran.

  Max looked appreciatively after the slim legs revealed beneath the shorty nightgown. “Okay, Ma, I want the truth.”

  “The truth.” A reverent pause. “My dear, we all seek truth every day. It is the human—”

  “Ma.”

  A sweet laugh. “Maxwell, I do believe you are grumpy. Poor Annie. Are you always so bearish when awakened?”

  “Ma!” It was short but not sweet.

  “Do have a nice breakfast. Perhaps some oatmeal. That’s always so strengthening, and yes”—she spoke fast—“I am definitely in Atlanta, as I have been most of the week.” The last words were clear and distinct.

  “You damn well better stay there. You didn’t give me a chance to tell you when you called before, but somebody broke into your house on Wednesday night. They left a message. They trashed your room. If you’d been there—”

  “But I wasn’t.” She was serene. “However, I see your point. One would think, however, that the intruder might have relaxed by now. After all, had I been able to identify the person, I would already have transmitted that information to the police.”

  “Killers don’t rest easy, Ma. Stay in Atlanta until we give you the all clear.” This time Max hung up, which cheered his morning considerably.

  Sunlight splashed into the breakfast room. “Oatmeal?” Annie held up the Quaker Oats box.

  “No. Definitely not.” He cleared his throat. “I’m going to fix French toast. Do you want some?”

  Annie nodded happily, returned the oatmeal to the shelf. “Sprinkled with shaved almonds?”

  “Sure.” Max picked eggs from the refrigerator, broke them into a mixing bowl. He chose oatmeal bread.

  Annie poured orange juice into two glasses. “Do you think she’ll stay in Atlanta?”

  “She’d better.” His voice was grim.

  Annie set the table, shot him a worried look. “Do you suppose Pete is getting close to finding the murderer?” But Pete wasn’t checking out anyone at school. Was Pete right? Or Henny?

  “Maybe. But we can’t stop looking.” Max flipped two pieces, watched them turn golden brown. “She won’t stay in Atlanta for long.”

  Annie walked fast. It was too bad she hadn’t arrived a little sooner. The bell had already rung and only a few students still hurried across the school grounds. Annie slowed when she reached the slot where Meredith Muir had parked yesterday. Today there was a beat-up circa 1960 Chevy in that parking space, not the sporty blue Mustang. Annie glanced up and down the row, but she didn’t see Meredith’s car.

  In the main hallway, Annie headed for the office. No one had questioned her credentials yesterday, but she was relieved when she stepped into the main office to see that Dr. Allensworth’s door was closed and that Mrs. Otis wasn’t at her desk.

  Annie reached the counter, spoke to the languid redhead. “Good morning. We’re still settling some details for Mrs. Nevis’s service. I’d appreciate a visitor’s pass. Annie Darling.”

  The redhead pulled the sheet with nameplates nearer, began to print.

  “I’ll start with Mr. Wilson.” Annie nodded toward the corridor branching off the main office. “Oh, could you check for me, see what class Meredith Muir has now?”

  The secretary turned to her computer, punched in a name. “Mrs. Whiteside. Room two hundred.”

  Annie smiled her thanks as she took the pass, clipped it to her blouse. She felt a flash of triumph. One-two-three. This was going to be easy, George Wilson, Jack Quinn and Meredith Muir, here she came, ready or not.

  Putter dangling from one hand, Max wandered back and forth by the putting green. He didn’t try to keep the irritation out of his voice. “I know the chief’s busy, but can’t I talk to somebody, Mavis? How about Billy? Or Lou? Somebody?”

  At the Broward’s Rock Police Station, the dispatcher hesitated. “Max, I’m sorry. Everybody’s busy.”

  Max dropped a ball on the green. “What if I said I knew who killed Mrs. Nevis?”

  There was a pause. “Max, honestly, everybody’s out. We had a big stakeout last night at Frank Saulter’s. They got that guy—you know, Jud Hamilton—the one who killed his wife and Frank got him convicted. Anyway, everybody knew he was gunning for Frank and he broke into Frank’s house last night, and Max, you wouldn’t believe it, but Frank shot the gun out of his hand before Billy could even get inside. Billy’s just worn out. He was there every night this week and then the Nevis murder and—well, things are pretty wild over here.”

  Max dropped the putter and flung himself into his desk chair. “Wait a minute, Mavis. Are you telling me Frank’s house was under surveillance every night this week?”

  “Yes. That’s exactly right.” Another phone rang in the background. “Max, I’m sorry, I got to go.”

  Max pulled his legal pad close. On it were two names:

  Diane Littlefield.

  Frank Saulter.

  Max picked up his pen, crossed out Frank Saulter.

  George Wilson’s broad face, spattered with freckles, was made for smiling, with a generous mouth above a rounded chin. He wasn’t smiling this morning. Annie judged him to be in his forties, but he had a jaunty youthful air. His small office was a mixture of staidness—scholarly books, green metal filing cabinet, framed diplomas—and bold mementos—a multicolored parachute splashed against the wall behind him, a weathered fossil bone, a lump of coal encased in a clear plastic container. Maureen Riley had described him as something of a rapid-fire comedian. He wasn’t making Annie laugh, but he certainly talked a mile a minute.

  “…certainly be glad to be of any help I can. We are all absolutely shocked. I can still scarcely believe that Kay is dead. Really a lovely woman. I didn’t know her all that well.” A swift grin. “She was lots older, a different generation, though the students respected her. We all did. But today you can’t tell what’s going to happen anywhere. If students can be gunned down at school…” He shook his head in disbelief. “Anything can happen. Our students are going to have a tough time dealing with this.”

  Annie leaned forward in her chair. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Who was the student Kay Nevis was worried about? Could it have been Meredith Muir?”

  There was utter surprise on his face. “Kay? Meredith?” He looked at her sharply. “I can’t imagine a problem there.” But for once he spoke slowly, his face creased in a thoughtful frown.

  The idea was obviously a shock to him. Annie hurried to explain. “Yesterday I saw Meredith here.” She nodded toward the corridor outside his door. “She was very upset. I know you and the other counselor had to help Dr. Allensworth, but it’s a shame no one talked to Meredith. I watched her during the assembly, and I could see she was scared. I tried to catch her after school, but Mr. Quinn was talking to her, and whatever he said, it upset her even more and she jumped in her car and drove away. I followed her home—”

  “You followed her home?” Wilson’s tone was shocked, his stare probing.

  Annie realized she was treading on uncertain ground here. Her status as an emissary from the family scarcely included reassuring students. But…“I was worried about her, if you want to know the truth. She wouldn’t come to the door. I kept trying to call her last night but there was no answer.” Annie scooted f
orward in her chair. “Look, Mr. Wilson, I’ll be frank with you. The family knows that Kay Nevis was disturbed by something that happened at school and they don’t know whether it involved a student or another teacher. We want to be able to tell the police all about this. We are hoping that someone who knew her, who spent time around her, someone such as yourself, may have picked up on the problem, whatever it was.”

  He tapped a pencil on the metal desktop, his face furrowed. “This is all a surprise to me. I’m afraid I won’t be able to help. If Kay was upset about something, she didn’t share it with me.” He gave a helpless shrug. “But if I can be of assistance in any other way, do let me know.” He rose, started around the desk.