Something Wicked
Page 10
“I’m confused,” Annie admitted.
“It’s pretty straightforward. Shane could have shot Freddy before he arrived at rehearsal around two-thirty on Sunday but he didn’t bring the body then and he was under surveillance from that point on.”
“Under surveillance,” Annie repeated. “That has a nice ring to it. Henny would be thrilled.”
“So, it looks like Shane’s out of it,” Max concluded. He rubbed his jaw. “The tricky part is, when was Freddy shot? The Hortons didn’t see him after they got home from the rehearsal. Of course, they probably weren’t thinking about the cat at that point. But, in all likelihood, since he didn’t show up for dinner, he was already dead. Let’s say he was killed some time between one forty-five and six P.M. That means someone hid him, then trucked him over to the school after rehearsal let out and before the Petrees’ party started.”
“There wasn’t time for anyone to have shot him before rehearsal,” Annie objected.
“Except us,” he pointed out.
She ignored that and threw up her hands. “Everybody else was at the rehearsal when we arrived, which means they all must have gotten there about two P.M. So nobody in the cast and crew could have shot him!”
Max nodded thoughtfully. “Okay, if none of us could have killed Freddy, then that means someone who wasn’t at the rehearsal shot him.” His eyes glowed. “Harley Jenkins!”
“Harley wasn’t in the theater when the stink bomb went off,” Annie argued.
“Obviously, Harley has a confederate.” He sighed. “But I didn’t find any link to Harley among the cast and crew, except the obvious ones. Burt and Carla lease store space from Halcyon Development. T.K.’s been in some business deals with him.” He snorted. “Harley uses Eugene’s cleaners. Dammit.” He glared at the printout. “Somewhere in there, there has to be a clue. Let’s stop worrying about Freddy and concentrate on the people who we know were in the theater when the bomb went off. Surely we ought to be able to figure out if one of them is slimy enough to have planned the sabotage.”
Annie glanced absently at her bookcase with its glorious collection of paperbacks, augmented by some hardcovers. Ira Levin’s A Kiss Before Dying caught her eye. She shivered. Who could really be sure of what might be found in anyone’s mind? Dreadful images rose.
“It’s the psychology we have to understand. Just like Poirot,” she insisted, scanning the top shelf of her collection. Psychology was everything in The Hollow and Crooked House. “If we understood why, we’d know who,” she explained.
Max gave her an absent nod. It was more polite than Poirot’s disdain for Hastings’s intellectual processes, but not much. So she continued to study her titles, searching for inspiration, while Max pursued the fruits of his afternoon’s research.
The labryinth of the human mind was explored so well in Celia Fremlin’s The Hours Before Dawn. And frighteningly so in Patricia Highsmith’s Strangers on a Train.
Annie sat up straight, feeling as if she were on the verge of a great discovery. A sick and cunning mind but capable, oh, so capable—
“Don’t you think so?” Max demanded.
“Huh?”
“Annie, haven’t you been listening? I laid it all out.”
The faint glimmer in her mind faded. “Sorry. Tell me again.”
He managed not to look long-suffering, but just barely. If he were a cat, his ears would have slanted sharply backward. She almost told him so, then brought her mind to heel and listened respectfully.
“—Burt is actually the most likely person.”
Intense, hardworking Burt with his passionate devotion to community theater, his long hours of effort to keep the players going, good years and bad?
“Max, that’s absurd!”
He held up a printout. “Just listen.
BURTON HOWELL CONROY. Born March three, 1927, in Savannah, Georgia. High school chemistry teacher. Retired five years ago. Widower. Used savings to set up gift shop on harborfront. Two years ago borrowed heavily from local bank against the store. Used money to meet medical expenses of spinster sister in Pine Bluff, Arkansas. Still deeply in debt, even though shop is prospering.”
He looked meaningfully at her. “So, Burt needs money.”
“Of course.” Annie’s head bobbed in agreement. “That’s why he’s working so hard to get the theater back on the waterfront. Performances will draw people in the evening, but it won’t compete with his gift store. So your argument’s a boomerang. Burt would be the last person to torpedo the play.”
“Isn’t he perfect for that bloated rat Jenkins to corrupt?” he demanded. “What if Jenkins offered Burt ten thousand dollars to blow the season?”
Annie stared at him. “Oh, that’s creative. Do you have any proof that Jenkins might have done that?”
Max had the grace to look uncomfortable. “Well, no. It’s inductive reasoning.”
She raised an eyebrow. “A little careless of Burt’s reputation, isn’t it?”
“I’m not telling anybody but you. But he’s the only one who really doesn’t have an extra dime, except Sam, of course.”
“Actually, I can see Sam taking a payoff long before I can see Burt with his hand out.”
“Oh, no,” Max objected. “Sam’s desperate for good reviews. And those, money can’t buy. Look at his bio.”
Obediently, Annie read:
SAMUEL BRATTON HAZNINE. B. 1953, Brooklyn, N.Y. B.A. in Dramatic Arts, New York University. 1973. First directing experience off-off-Broadway. Received notice for work on TV soaps. Made it to off Broadway in 1979, then meteoric rise, hottest young director in town, with raunchy comedy, Kiss ’Em Off, Buchanan, in 1982. Equally swift decline with two disastrous openings, especially The Trial, which closed on opening night. Reduced to directing dinner theaters and summer community theater, desperate for a comeback. Married and divorced three times. Accompanied to Broward’s Rock by Tonelda Divine, an aspiring actress.
Annie pressed her fingers against her temples. “I feel like a mouse in a fun-house barrel. My head is swimming with intimate details about people I hardly know.”
“Excellent mental discipline.” Max was unsympathetic. “Anyway, Sam needs a success.”
Annie recalled his plaintive pleas on the telephone Sunday afternoon. “I bet Sam needs cash, too,” she said dryly. “And speaking of money, what about T.K.?”
“I thought about him,” Max said agreeably. “Right from the first. He plays golf with Jenkins. But, so far as I can discover, T.K.’s got plenty of money. He’s been a member of the Million Dollar Club for years, so the money keeps rolling in.”
“Million Dollar Club?”
He grinned. “T.K. sells insurance. That means he’s sold more than a million dollars in policies. Every time an insured pays a premium, T.K. gets his cut. The insurance business is one of the money world’s best-kept secrets.”
“The first rule of money—Them that has gets. So you don’t think T.K. could be bribed by Jenkins, but he might help him out just one good old boy to another.”
“Yeah.” He didn’t sound convinced. “But T.K.’s nobody’s fool. Behind that old jock facade is a pretty tough customer. Besides, Freddy was their cat.”
“Maybe T.K.’s mad at Janet,” she suggested.
“Because of Shane?”
“Exactly.”
“So he killed Freddy?” Max looked disgusted.
“We don’t know what the Hortons are like, not really. And people can do nasty things.” And she thought of Seeley’s The Listening House and Slesar’s The Thing at the Door.
Max tossed the printout on the table and leaned back in his chair. “Okay. You’re so keen on a psychological profile. You tell me.”
She picked up the computer sheets and skimmed the Horton bios:
T. K. (THOMAS KINKAID) HORTON b. 1948, Broward’s Rock, South Carolina. Graduate of The Citadel, 1969. All-state football, 1965, 1966. Defensive lineman for The Citadel, 1967-69. Worked for Sampson Life Insurance in Atlanta for
ten years after graduation before returning to Broward’s Rock and establishing his own agency. Active in amateur theatricals in Atlanta, where he met Janet Kessler, a fine arts graduate of Emory. They were married in 1970. Daughter, Cindy, b. 1971. Successful Broward’s Rock businessman, insurance agency owner, owner of The Shrimp Boat restaurant, controlling interest Broward’s Rock Luxury Autos, part owner The Shipshape Launderettes. Past president Chamber of Commerce; active in Bible Study, First Baptist Church; director this year’s United Fund Drive.
T.K. didn’t need favors from Harley Jenkins. If T.K. planned the sabotage, it was purely for personal reasons, not financial. The Broward’s Rock economy was booming, and the fortunes of the Hortons right along with it.
Harley didn’t need money either—and he would never do anything to jeopardize the island’s well-being because it would directly affect his own finances. Diverted, she lowered the printout and blurted, “Nope, Jenkins isn’t behind it.”
Max looked confused. “I thought we were talking about T.K.”
If he were Jerry North, he would have understood, but she did deign to explain. “Because of Freddy.”
“Freddy? What do Freddy and Jenkins have to do with each other?” he asked wildly.
“I know Jenkins is a rat. He’s the kind of louse who probably likes to take potshots at cats, but not publicly. He wouldn’t do anything that could possibly cut the tourist flow. When the story gets out about Freddy, it will make headlines from coast to coast. It’s the kind of headline news editors can’t resist. CAT KILLER PROWLS THEATER. FELINE DEAD ON DELIVERY. FELLED FELIX—”
“Down, girl. Maybe we can get you a job on The Island Gazette.”
“I thought the phrasing felicitous.”
“You have a point,” he admitted grudgingly.
“So the sabotage isn’t the product of a conspiracy headed by Jenkins,” she concluded.
But Max wasn’t ready to relinquish his theory quite yet. “He’s such a clod, it probably wouldn’t occur to him what a stink a cat-killing would raise.”
“Clod, yes,” she agreed. “Stupid, no.”
Max looked mulish. “If it isn’t Jenkins, who or what is it?”
It was up to her to uphold the tradition of thoughtful, insightful detection. Ah, the shades of psychiatrist-detectives Dr. Emmanuel Cellini, Dr. Sarah Chayse, Dr. Paul Prye, Dame Beatrice Bradley, and Dr. John Smith.
But, unfortunately, she wasn’t teeming with insights at this particular moment. She frowned at the printout again.
Hmm. T.K. palled around with Jenkins, all right, but he was pretty much a home-by-eight fellow. “T.K. doesn’t play the ponies—or chase shady ladies?”
“Not according to Vince Ellis, who covers this island like a fog. He says T.K.’s the original family man. As Vince put it, part of a vanishing species.”
JANET KESSLER HORTON. Annie raised an eyebrow. Vince had dug up the dope, or unloaded it, on these two, if that was where Max had obtained his information. In addition to particulars (Janet, B. 1948, graduated Emory 1969), it described her as a sentimental sap, always looking for her Rhett Butler. Until this year, her flirtatious forays had always been discreet and presumably chaste. Then she had fallen for Shane Petree with a headlong abandon rivaled only by her own daughter’s avid interest in the has-been actor.
Annie wondered briefly if the sweaty stallion had got a bit more than he had bargained for.
And she wondered, too, if Janet knew that Cindy had been spending some hot and heavy afternoons with Shane out in the bay aboard Sweet Lady.
If either Janet or Cindy was feeling slighted by Shane or angry with the other, they could be just feline and clever enough to plan the campaign. Or it could be T.K. acting out a jealous fury.
“But all of the sabotage hasn’t been directed at Shane,” Annie observed.
Once again, she could see Max scrambling mentally for the connection. Then he nodded. “Oh, sure. If it’s T.K. If it’s one of the Hortons, it reveals some depths to their psyches that I’d sure as hell rather not plumb.”
“The person behind this is not going to be too lovable. But smart and calculating.”
“That should clear Shane.”
She understood his disdain, but didn’t quite agree. “Actually, Shane’s not dumb. He’s just lazy and absolutely egocentric.”
She scanned the information on him. Nothing much she didn’t know. A beauty boy in a series of surfer movies. A skilled bodysurfer, excellent sailor, passable at golf and tennis. Quite the lothario around the marina. Spent a lot of time pampering his body. Insatiable so far as women were concerned. Always on the prowl. But his marriage to Sheridan seemed stable. Annie wondered who had what that the other wanted. A love match, she felt sure, it wasn’t. The only surprise was his age. Forty-two. She had to hand it to the hunk; he didn’t look it.
Shane’s history primarily revealed total self-absorption. Would he plan and carry out the acts of sabotage? The annoying incidents might appeal to his warped sense of humor, but it all seemed like too much effort for him to bother.
“Okay. Not Shane,” she agreed, although their reasons differed.
That left Carla, Hugo, Arthur, and Eugene.
“Whoever is behind this is taking a chance,” she emphasized. “It takes a cool head, the ability to plan, steady nerves, and a compelling reason. And whoever did it has a nasty streak.” She looked steadily at Max. “How about Carla?”
“Why Carla?”
“She sure isn’t friends with anybody. Maybe she’s more than unfriendly. Maybe she’s damn hostile.”
“That might be,” Max said slowly. “You know, we’ve both tried to be friendly, and she just ignores us. I have a feeling she’s been hurt a lot, and she isn’t willing to open up at all. And something tells me that what she sees between us bothers her.”
“Maybe,” Annie agreed. “But she’s obviously hungry for companionship or she wouldn’t be active in the players.”
“Right. So we make a full circle.” Max shrugged. “She needs the players, wants to be a part of it, so why the hell would she destroy it?”
It didn’t seem likely. Annie’s eyes dropped to the printout.
CARLA MORRIS FONTAINE. B. 1951, Atlanta, Georgia. B A, Vassar, 1972. Taught Latin September 1972 to March 1976 at St. Agnes Secondary School in Atlanta. Opened art gallery, Broward’s Rock, April 10, 1976. Lives alone. Active in Broward’s Rock Players. Apparently no close friends of either sex. Pleasant, but aloof. Not a mixer.
Annie sighed and flipped the page. Ah, Hugo, handsome Hugo. Unlike Shane, he married his women. Presently living with his third wife, Cory Lee, in one of the showcase homes of the island. Hugo’s record was as exemplary as Shane’s was mediocre: A Charleston native, Phi Beta Kappa at Stanford, Order of the Coif at Northwestern, a distinguished career as a plaintiff’s attorney in Atlanta, long acclaimed as one of the South’s most gifted actors, recently retired to Broward’s Rock. An accomplished actor, race-winning yachtsman, celebrated hunter, scratch golfer.
As for Arthur Killeen, who was such a marvelous Dr. Einstein, nothing in his bio caught the eye.
B. 1929, Winnetka, III. B.A., Northwestern, 1950, two-year tour in Korea as a lieutenant, Purple Heart (leg wound). Honorable discharge. M. Beatrice Simpson, 1952; two children. Pharmaceutical salesman, traveling Midwest, 1952-1982. Ret. to Broward’s Rock, fall 1983, bought Cole Drugstore. The Killeens are active members of the First Baptist Church. He teaches a Bible study class. Members of Saturday High-steppers Square Dancing Club. He is chairman of the County Republicans.
Finally, Eugene. Myopic blue eyes and an inexhaustible supply of TR anecdotes.
EUGENE FERRAMOND: B. 1934, in Broward’s Rock. [Max had pencilled in: A native, rara avis.] Owner Shiny Brite Laundry and Cleaners. B.A. in history, Clemson, 1955 Two-year tour as a second lieutenant in Germany. Returned to Broward’s Rock in 1957 to work in family business. Became laundry owner on death of father in 1979. Never married. Active in South Carolina Historical S
ociety. An acknowledged expert on history of Broward’s Rock, the Battle of New Orleans, and Theodore Roosevelt
Annie flung the printout onto the table. “You know what I think?”
“What?”
She reached out, touched his cheek. “I think there are more fun ways to spend a Monday night.”
9
Cord grass, caressed by the early evening off-shore breeze, rippled away from her like a sea of silk. Annie welcomed the distinctive tangy scent of the marsh, a combination of salt water, chlorophyll exuded from the spartina grass, the decay of fallen plants and animals, and sulfur from marsh mud. She braced her hands against the wooden railing and savored the brilliant red splash of the setting sun.
Was there any lovelier place in the world? She swatted at a no-see-um and waved away a green-head fly which had taken a deeply personal interest in the sweet aroma of her hair spray, holding firm her early 1940s pageboy. (Opening night, of course, was still a week away, but it was never too soon to start work on her hair, which had a tendency to wave upward unless sternly disciplined.) She applauded the mating antics of a male fiddler crab, busily swinging his one large claw to entice a lady crab into his burrow. A variation on autres temps, autres mœures. He had plenty of fellows this lovely evening. From her perch above the marsh, she could see hundreds of the crabs and hear the crackle of their feet on the mud flat. Hidden in the five-foot cord grass, a hyena cackle emitted its distinctive call. The breeze rustled the spartina grass, and for a moment she was reminded sharply of prairie wheat in Texas, where she grew up.
Then she heard the swift tattoo of a horn and the roar of Max’s Porsche. She hurried around the porch to the steps, waved, and started down. She couldn’t suppress an ear-to-ear grin. Max was obviously already into his role, slouching cockily against the red leather upholstery. He was such a marvelous Mortimer. She ran toward the car. It might not be sophisticated, but she was alight with excitement and anticipation. In only a little while, the first complete run-through of the play would be underway—and despite everything, she just couldn’t wait!