April Fool Dead

by Carolyn Hart

  It wasn’t exactly a bum’s rush, but Annie knew her time was up. She stood, but she didn’t move toward the door. “You’ll talk to Meredith?”

  “I definitely will.” He strode to the door, held it for her. “It’s good of you to take the time to help a student.”

  Annie paused in the doorway. “Have you ever talked with Meredith before? Do you know if she has any problems?”

  He gave a firm head shake. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Darling. Our contact with students is strictly confidential. But”—he hesitated, shrugged—“I think I can fairly say that Meredith is a well-adjusted student, a successful student, and that you need have no long-term concern about her. Either Mrs. Heaston or I will speak to her today.”

  As the door closed behind her, Annie frowned. Dammit, did the man get it? Did he have any inkling of the girl’s deep distress? Would he do something? Okay, okay, if he didn’t, she would.

  Max drove slowly past the Littlefield house, one of the island’s earliest homes, frame on a brick foundation. Wide porches extended along the front and sides of the house both on the first and second floors. Old live oaks, wisteria, crape myrtles and azaleas pressed close. Max craned to see. No cars were visible. No red Jeep. He reached a dead end, backed, turned, retraced his route.

  The dusty road curved. It was just about here where Bob Tower died, thrown a half-dozen feet to lie bleeding and broken in the ditch. Longleaf pines threw deep shadows. The morning sun had yet to pierce the gloom of the narrow lane. Diane Littlefield drove this way to reach the main road.

  If a car came around the curve too fast early in the morning, it might be hard for the driver to see a jogger.

  Max was thoughtful as the road straightened out. There was the Tower house, a shabby gray wooden house on pilings. No cars there either. The next house was a low-slung ranch style built flush to the ground. Max pulled in the drive behind a sleek green Jaguar. Obviously, there was money here. He wondered if the owners had come to the island from a landlocked state. Didn’t they realize Broward’s Rock could be under four feet of water from a storm surge if a category-3 hurricane struck? For that matter, who had built this and similar houses on the island? A contractor from Montana? Mars, maybe.

  A woman in a sleeveless denim dress knelt beside a bed of impatiens, a trowel in one hand. An oversized floppy yellow straw hat shaded her face. She looked around as he slammed the car door shut.

  Max walked swiftly across the yard, noting the nameplate that dangled from an iron stanchion next to the front porch: MARK AND IRENE HUDDLESTON.

  She rose to face him. Tendrils of auburn hair poked from beneath the hat. A tiny woman, she had bright dark eyes, sharp features and the restless impatience of a hummingbird. She jiggled the trowel in a gloved hand.

  Max assumed his most genial expression. “Hello, I’m Max Darling and I’m looking at houses in this neighborhood. If you’d give me a minute I’d really appreciate it. Realtors always suggest checking with the neighbors.”

  “What’s for sale?” She poked up the wide brim of her hat with the tip of the trowel.

  “We’re interested in the Littlefield house.” That was true enough. “Perhaps you know the family?”

  “In passing.” A whisper of laughter. “They aren’t home much. He’s off on business and the mother’s an antique hound. The girl’s there during the school year. I know I wouldn’t have gone off and left my children at home alone when they were in high school. I doubt the house would have been standing when I got back. Of course, we have three boys. Our youngest just turned thirty. I think maybe we’re home safe. But Diane’s a quiet one. Except when she drives. Roarrrrr—there she goes in that Jeep. Must think she’s at Daytona.” She waggled the trowel. “I know who you are, of course. Known your mother in my garden club for some years. Not that she grows anything. But she’s a joiner, isn’t she? You want to know about that Jeep, don’t you? I saw those flyers, heard your wife was really upset about them. That’s clever of you, saying you’re interested in the house, letting me think you want to buy it. I know it’s not for sale. Lou Anne Littlefield would sell Diane before she’d sell that house. ‘The house’”—her tone clearly mimicked Lou Anne as she quoted—“‘is a shining example of the classic Adam style, with lavishly designed decorations that recur throughout.’” Irene Huddleston sniffed. “But about those flyers, once I thought about it”—she cocked her head to one side like an attentive sparrow—“it makes perfect sense. Diane probably ran right over Bob, not meaning to, you know, but she drives too fast and that time of morning it’s hard to see on that road. Is that what you wanted to know?”

  Max folded his arms and lounged against an urn with a mass of gladiolus. He grinned. “My disguise penetrated! Yes, you’re right on all counts. I am trying to find out more about Diane Littlefield. I want to know if Diane was at home the night before last at midnight.”

  “You have a good reason for asking?” The dark eyes peered at him intently.

  Max’s smile eased away. “Yes, ma’am, I do. One of Diane’s teachers—Kay Nevis—was shot that night near midnight.”

  Mrs. Huddleston drew her breath in sharply. “I know Kay. How dreadful.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Max waited. This woman would not be hurried or led.

  She turned away, walked to a wooden bench, sat down. “Why would you think I might know where Diane was at midnight?”

  Max strolled nearer, turned over his hands. “It never hurts to ask.”

  She took off her hat, laid it beside her. “I saw her car coming home at just after eleven. I’d brought Regis out.” She pointed at a fat cocker, face resting on his paws, in the shadow of a crape myrtle. “The Jeep roared by. That’s all I can say.”

  Max looked thoughtfully at the road. So Diane arrived home at just after eleven. But Kay Nevis’s killer came by water and the Littlefields had a motorboat.

  Students hurried past. Through an open window came the raucous ca-ca-ca of a flock of pileated woodpeckers and the drone of a single-engine plane. Jack Quinn’s eyebrows were drawn into a tight dark line, his lips pressed into an equally tight line. He stood outside the open door to his classroom, arms folded, glaring at Annie.

  Annie tried again. “Look, Mr. Quinn, Meredith Muir’s scared to death. I’m trying to find out why.”

  “She’s scared?” His voice was surprised. “But I thought…” He stopped, shook his head. “Look, I don’t know anything about Meredith or her connection to Kay Nevis. I suggest you talk to Meredith.” The bell rang. He stepped toward the door. “I’ve got to get to work.”

  Annie called out, “Why was Meredith angry with you—”

  The door to his classroom closed.

  Max steered the motorboat out of the marina. It was a beautiful day. He wished he were heading out to the Snapper Banks with his trolling rig and plenty of cut bait. He’d get himself a mess of grouper and fix a great dinner. But not today. He reached the Sound, turned north. Shading his eyes, he searched for the entrance to the waterway that led to the Littlefield house.

  Annie pushed in the classroom door. A ginger-haired teacher stood at the blackboard, energetically writing. Annie stepped inside. “Mrs. Whiteside,” Annie spoke softly, “if you don’t mind”—Annie’s eyes scanned the class, white and black and brown faces, clothing of all sorts, one head with pink hair, one head with no hair—“I’m looking for Meredith Muir…” Annie’s voice trailed away. Her gaze sped up and down the rows.

  She knew before Mrs. Whiteside spoke. “Meredith? She’s absent this morning.”

  Sixteen

  DUST PLUMED beneath the wheels. Annie knew she was driving too fast. Worse, she was steering with one hand while she held the cell phone in the other. She was doing everything she most loathed in other drivers. But…

  “Mavis, Annie Darling. Listen, it may be nothing”—oh, if only it would turn out that Meredith was skipping school, if only that would be all—“but please, ask Billy or the chief, ask somebody to go to Meredith Muir’s house. That�
�s the house across the inlet from—”

  “Hold on a minute, Annie. Got a nine-one-one here.” The phone line went on hold.

  Annie reached the fork, wrenched the wheel. Oh, God, there was the Mustang, parked where she’d seen it yesterday afternoon. Annie jolted to a stop near the bright blue car. She slammed out of the Volvo, swung toward the house, then stopped, peering out at the water.

  Max stood at the end of the pier. Their motorboat was moored near the ladder. He held a cell phone, spoke into it with a grim face. As he clicked it off, he saw her. “Annie.”

  When she heard his voice, Annie knew she was too late, knew that no one now could help Meredith Muir. She walked with leaden, reluctant steps toward the pier, stopping once to look past the marsh at the sodden lump that floated not far from the wooden pilings. She still held the silent phone to her cheek. The phone clicked on.

  “Annie…” Mavis’s voice was gentle.

  “Yes. I’m here.” Annie pushed words from a throat that ached with sadness. “Yes, we’ll wait.”

  Horace Burford knelt by the girl’s body. She lay facedown. The medical examiner gently spread lank wet hair. “See the swelling? Probably unconscious when she went in the water. Drowned.” He pushed up a little unsteadily, wincing as his right knee straightened. “Look for”—his bulldog face creased in thought—“something like a board. Maybe an oar, something like that.” He glanced toward the murky green water. “Fat chance you’ll find it. Anyway, she’s been dead about twelve hours, give or take a few either way.”

  Billy Cameron made a final note, stuffed the small spiral in his pocket. “Okay. Thanks, Doc.”

  Dr. Burford lumbered away, anger in every heavy step.

  Max and Annie stood on the wooden deck near the swimming pool, out of the way of the homicide detail. Max watched Dr. Burford slam into his old black car. “Hates it, doesn’t he? Hates death. Hates wrongful death most of all.”

  “If I hadn’t left here yesterday…” Annie’s voice quivered.

  Max swung toward Annie, gripped her arm. “No. You did what you could. She wouldn’t open the door.”

  Annie shivered. “I should have called her parents. I should have got in touch with the counselors. I should have done something!”

  Max glanced toward the big rambling house. “Her parents aren’t here. I’ve already been up to the house. No answer. Nobody home. You couldn’t have called them. As for the counselors”—his grip tightened—“Annie, look at me.” He waited until her pain-filled eyes met his. “What would have happened if you’d called them?”

  Some of the misery drained from her face. “I guess…I think they’d have said they’d talk to her this morning. Nobody would have imagined anything like this could happen. But, dammit, I should have asked somebody to help. I saw her. She was scared, scared to death.”

  “Annie”—his voice was soft—“you did your best.”

  “None of us did enough, that’s obvious.” Annie jerked away from him, paced to the edge of the deck. “Where’s Pete Garrett? What’s he doing that he’s so damn busy he’s put Billy in charge of this? Billy’s a good guy, but my God, the girl’s dead.”

  Max hurried to join her. “Shh. Billy and the others are doing everything that can be done. There’s not a hell of a lot to do. Look at it”—Max swept his arm toward the water—“I came up in the boat and saw her floating there. She must have been on the pier last night and somebody hit her, knocked her out and she fell into the water.”

  “Out on the pier…” Annie squinted against the sun. “If she was scared, why did she go out on the pier with somebody? Max, I’m sure she was scared.”

  Max hunched his shoulders, stared at the water. “Why?”

  “Why did she go out on the pier?” Annie shrugged. “I don’t know. I doubt we’ll ever know.”

  “No. Why was she scared? And was she scared or upset?” Max’s dark blue eyes were thoughtful. “It makes a difference.”

  Annie took her time answering. Yes, it did make a difference. She tried to remember with precision the feeling that had permeated the narrow corridor in front of the counselor’s office. Was Meredith scared or upset?

  Annie looked across the inlet at the Nevis house. The front blinds were open. A woman bustled up the steps carrying a casserole. There were several cars Annie didn’t recognize. Kay Nevis’s tan Camry was there, but not Henny’s old black Dodge. Henny was probably on her way to the Savannah airport to pick up members of Kay’s family. “I think she was scared.” Annie threw up her hands. “I can’t be certain. She definitely was distraught. There’s no doubt about that.” Once again Annie looked out at the green water, her gaze moving on to the modest house on pilings. “Max, maybe Meredith saw something”—Annie pointed toward the Nevis house—“Wednesday night. But if she saw the murderer come to Kay’s house, why didn’t she tell somebody? Kay’s murder was announced during the lunch hour. Meredith had the whole afternoon at school to go tell somebody—the principal, one of the counselors, somebody.” Annie’s eyes widened. “Maybe that’s why she was waiting for George Wilson. I told you about him. He’s a counselor. I saw him this morning and he promised to talk to Meredith.” Annie took a deep breath. “Max, why didn’t Meredith tell someone?”

  Max jammed his hands in the pockets of his khakis. “Okay, we can be sure she would have told someone if, say, she saw somebody leave the Nevis house carrying a gun. But”—he squinted against the sunlight—“it seems likely that she saw something that puzzled her and she began to wonder and worry.”

  The steps to the deck creaked. Billy bounded toward them, his big face creased in a frown. “Okay, you two. How come you’re here?” Behind him, the ambulance with Meredith’s body backed and turned, drove slowly away.

  Annie took a deep breath and started with Henny’s insistence yesterday that the flyers had been planted on Kay Nevis, that there had to be some other reason for Kay’s murder and that school was Kay’s life. “…I went to school yesterday and talked to Kay’s best friends and both of them said she had been worried about something recently. One thought it had to do with one of the teachers Kay lunched with every day. The other thought Kay’s distress was over a student. I tried to talk to the teachers at Kay’s lunch table. When I went to see George Wilson, the counselor, Meredith Muir was waiting for him. Anybody could see the girl was upset. But she didn’t get in to see Wilson. I saw Meredith later at the assembly. She was talking to Diane Littlefield. Diane’s the girl who drives a red Jeep, probably the one mentioned in the flyers.”

  Billy held up a hand. “Wait a minute. Wait a minute.” He wrote fast. “This Diane Littlefield, tell me about her.”

  Diane Littlefield. Annie pictured the two girls as she’d seen them during the assembly yesterday, Meredith’s blond head bent toward Diane’s bronze curls, the two of them deep in conversation, their faces strained and intent. “Diane was a good friend of Meredith’s. We need to find out what Meredith and Diane were talking about. Rachel told me she’d heard that Diane was at Meredith’s Wednesday night.”

  “Diane Littlefield.” There was an odd tone in Max’s voice. “That’s why I came.” He pointed out at the pier and the motorboat bobbing in the swells. “Because if Pete’s right, if Kay Nevis did those flyers and got killed on account of them, well, Diane Littlefield’s the only person connected to the flyers who has no alibi for the night Kay was killed.”

  Billy blinked eyes red-rimmed from fatigue. “Yeah, and she was probably driving the Jeep that killed Bob Tower. Maybe Kay Nevis knew it. Hey, maybe this girl knew how Tower died.” He jerked his head toward the Muir house.

  “Meredith. Her name’s Meredith.” Annie’s tone was sharp. Dammit, she wasn’t just a girl. She’d been Meredith Muir, beautiful and scared and now dead, with all the long years that should have been discarded like a crumpled paper cup. “Listen, Meredith was mad at one of the teachers, the track coach, Jack Quinn.”

  “Oh, sure, I know Jack.” Billy’s tone was admiring. “Great guy
. Well, I’ll check that out. But you say she and this Diane Littlefield were friends. Maybe Meredith knew about the Jeep, and when the teacher gets killed, she’s afraid her friend did it and she talked to her at this assembly.” Billy flipped his notebook shut. “And if Diane Littlefield was over here Wednesday night, hey, this is beginning to make sense.” He glanced at his watch. “Yeah. I’ll get over to the school.”

  His face darkened by a frown, Max sliced open the box of books.

  “Careful,” Annie cautioned. “If the covers are scratched, the collectors go berserk.”

  “Oh, sorry.” He lifted the flap, peered at the bright orange covers with the crimson letters WHODUNIT cascading from the tip of a smoking gun. “No problem.” He picked up the ten hardcovers, added them to the towering stacks ranged behind a card table next to the coffee bar.

  “That’s the last box. So”—her voice was tired—“everything’s set for the signing Sunday afternoon. If, of course, our prima-donna author can tear herself away from Chapter Seventeen. But”—and there was grudging admiration in Annie’s tone—“Emma had the right idea, asking the police to look for Kay Nevis’s daybooks. Just think, Max”—Annie jammed her hand through her thick blond hair—“if we had Kay’s last daybook, we’d know why she was murdered.”

  Max leaned against the coffee bar. “Yeah.” His voice was thoughtful. “I wonder how the murderer knew she kept a daybook. That’s not the kind of thing a kid would think of. Is it?” It was a challenge.

  “I don’t know. That’s a good point, Max.” Annie stepped behind the coffee bar. She glanced at the rows of mugs reflected against the mirrored wall. Each mug carried the title of a mystery and the author’s name. Without hesitating, Annie selected Who Saw Her Die? by Patricia Moyes and Frame-Up by Andrew Garve. She poured steaming Kona coffee in each mug, handed the second one to Max.