Something Wicked

by Carolyn G. Hart

  “How long have you been asleep?”

  “Jesus, you some kind of crazy government survey? What the hell difference does it make to you?” The door began to close.

  Annie grabbed the doorknob. “When did Sam get back this morning from the meeting at the high school?”

  For the first time, interest flickered in those eyes. “You’re in the play, aren’t you?”

  Annie nodded.

  “You got the rich boyfriend.”

  “Yes.”

  “So you’re not after Sam, huh?”

  “No, Tonelda.” Her voice was gentle. “I’m not after Sam. Not that way. I just need to know where he was around lunchtime.”

  Reassured that her meal ticket wasn’t endangered, Tonelda yawned. “I slept late. He was gone when I woke up, and then he was late gettin’ back. I was hungry. He didn’t fix lunch ’til almost one.”

  So Sam hadn’t come directly to the cabin from that session at the high school.

  “And you went back to bed after lunch?”

  Those old eyes stared at her. “What the hell is it to you, lady?” and the door slammed.

  Back in her car, she headed for the entrance to the resort area. The guard waved her through the checkpoint (a yellow-and-black sticker on her windshield identified her as a resort resident). She hesitated at the fork. If she turned right, she would take the quicker route back to her tree house, then sweep by her turnoff and drive on to the condos that overlooked the sound. Max lived there, and so did Carla. If she turned left, she would head for Hugo’s palatial beachfront house.

  Carla obviously didn’t like Shane. But Hugo, like Sam, harbored overweening ambition. Thoughtfully, Annie weighed dislike against ambition and turned left.

  Unlike most island residences found at the end of dusty gray roads bordered by live oaks, Hugo’s home was hidden from view behind a curving stucco wall painted lime green. A white-lacquered louvered gate barred entry. As Annie coasted to a stop, a green button glowed on a communications box atop a stand at car level. She stared at the wire-meshed box. A smooth male voice requested politely, “May I help you?”

  “Yes, please. This is Annie Laurance. I’d like to talk to Mr. Wolf. He’ll know what it’s about.”

  “Just a moment, please.”

  The silvery green tunnel beneath the interlocking live oak limbs pulsed with the musical whir of chiggers, the buzz of green-head flies, the rustle of the glossy live oak leaves. Annie swatted at a mosquito and recalled what she knew of Hugo, a Charleston native, graduate of Stanford and Northwestern, an acclaimed trial attorney in Atlanta, a man who had retired to Broward’s Rock to indulge his passions for yachting and acting. Married three times. And one tough customer.

  A tiny buzz preceded a mellifluous announcement from the communications box. “When the gate opens, Miss Laurance, please drive through, then turn right at the fork. It will take you to the exercise area. Mr. Wolf is at the jai alai court.”

  Before the speech ended, the gate began to swing inward. Annie nosed the Volvo through the entrance. The car cleared, and the gate automatically began to close. Turning at the fork, she glimpsed through a stand of yellow pines a two-story mansard-roofed house. French doors opened out onto tiled terraces decorated with huge blue Chinese porcelain pots containing calla lillies. A lime stucco wall curved to embrace the landscaping of snowy white and pink azaleas, golden Peruvian daffodils, and brilliantly purple bougainvillea. The right fork ended in a circular drive flanked by a four-stall garage and the jai alai court, a long, rectangular two-story stucco building.

  Hugo, wearing gray gym shorts, his body covered with a sheen of sweat, stood waiting there, a white towel slung over one shoulder. His impressive physique didn’t surprise her, but she realized anew what a very magnificent male animal he was. He might be in his fifties, but men half his age would envy his strong legs, flat stomach, and muscular chest with its thick mat of iron-gray hair.

  His craggy face was unsmiling as she hurried up the steps, and his dark eyes watched warily. He looked about as approachable as Dr. Jekyll at nightfall.

  “I appreciate your seeing me, Hugo.”

  Her attempt at civility evoked no response. Instead, he jerked his head toward the door. “Cooler inside.” And he held the door for her.

  He led the way down a corridor that fronted on the court to an elevated bar overlooking a twenty-five-yard pool. He picked up a terry-cloth robe, slipped into it, then stepped behind the bar.

  “What would you like?” He was barely civil.

  “Oh, club soda, thanks.”

  He clunked ice into a tall glass, poured the soda, handed her a drink, then uncapped a bottle of imported beer.

  She was accustomed to viewing him through a particular lens, as an actor and one not thrilled with his companions. Now, she saw a different facet of his personality. He was always impressive. Here, on his own turf, he was almost overpowering. It made her realize how little she knew of her fellow players. She was aware of segments of their lives and only what they chose to reveal. While she was seeking information to help Max, their lives continued with joys, fears, and pains of which she knew nothing.

  But she knew enough of Hugo to realize she was dealing with a subtle and sophisticated intellect, so she opted for frankness. Of a sort.

  “The police have found a gun hidden in Max’s condo.” She ran a hand through her thick blond hair. “Of course, it will turn out to be the gun that killed Shane—and I don’t suppose I have to tell you it was planted.”

  He listened impassively, using an edge of the towel to pat at his formidable face. “So the cops found a gun.” He tilted his bottle, drank, then asked bluntly, “Why do you want to talk to me?”

  She could be blunt, too. “Where were you between eleven and one-thirty?”

  For an instant, anger burned in those dark eyes, then, slowly, derisively, he began to smile. “Here and there. After our instructive meeting at the school, I went for a jog. Actually, I suppose I must have passed Max’s condo—but—sorry to say—I didn’t see any suspicious characters lurking about. Damn shame I didn’t have on my deerstalker hat. And then, oh, yes, then I came back here and had lunch with my wife.” His eyes challenged her. “My very delectable wife, who will certainly corroborate my recollection. Then I came out here.”

  Her eyes glanced from the pool to the jai alai court.

  He quirked a sardonic eyebrow. “You think it’s a trifle excessive, perhaps? Annie, you do reflect your middle-class upbringing so clearly.” He rubbed the towel against his chest, swiped again at his face. “I believe in enjoying myself, and I don’t let anything deflect me from what I want.”

  “You wanted Shane out of the play,” she said flatly.

  His full lips twisted into a smile. “Oh, yes, I did, didn’t I?” His mocking tone dared her to make something of it.

  Annie gripped her glass tightly, resisting the impulse to fling its contents into that flushed, arrogant face. Was Hugo deliberately baiting her?

  She forced a conciliatory smile. “Hugo, I know that someone of your brilliance couldn’t possibly be crazy enough to commit murder. But I thought, of everyone involved, you have the keenest mind, the best intellect, the most perceptive instincts.” She paused, wondering if she were overdoing it. But he was nodding complacently. “Hugo, I need your help. I don’t know what to do to help Max.”

  “Ah, yes, Max.” His silvery black eyebrows drew down. “Frankly, the premise that Max is a murderer is absurd, but that doesn’t lessen the seriousness of his situation. Unfortunately, a certain kind of mind—such as that possessed by Posey—is quite incapable of understanding or appreciating the absurd.”

  Hugo’s chilling assessment frightened her almost as much as the discovery of the gun in the condo.

  The retired lawyer nodded. “You’re wise to start looking yourself.”

  She leaned forward against the bar. “Hugo, what do you think happened?”

  “I am puzzled,” he said slowly. “Grant
ed, Shane was an unappealing lout. But he’s been that ever since he’s lived here. He was involved with the two silly Horton women. But he’s been involved with them all spring. Why should T.K. suddenly turn murderous? It doesn’t seem tenable to me to cast T.K. as the villain. Yet he’s the only person who has even a reasonably strong motive.”

  “How about Harley Jenkins?”

  “Jenkins?” He drank some of his beer. “I thought he and Sheridan alibied each other.”

  “I have trouble with that,” Annie exclaimed. “And yet, he’s so convincing. I wondered if he and Sheridan could be in it together?”

  “Oh, my dear! To satisfy love’s young dream?” Hugo laughed robustly. “I think not. Harley enjoys flesh, but he’d scarcely put himself in jeopardy—and Sheridan’s flesh isn’t even that attractive.”

  “There’s no accounting for taste.”

  He shrugged. “True. And I’d never attempt to account for Harley’s. Still—”

  “He loves money more than anything.”

  Hugo finished his beer. “Right. That’s his mainspring.”

  “So maybe he and Sheridan planned the murder together. Kill Shane, she gets two million, and they live happily ever after—or at least until one of them needs more money.”

  Hugo pensively rubbed his hawklike nose. “Hmm.” Then he shook his head. “I’ve been in some deals with Harley, and I’ll grant that he’s a class A, numero uno greedy bastard. He’d screw his mother out of her last Social Security check, if he needed the cash. But the trick is, Annie, he doesn’t need cash. I couldn’t begin to estimate the pile he made in the last bull market. He’s got so much money, he could carpet Broward’s Rock with it. Now, I’ll admit, nobody loves money like the rich—but Harley runs more to greenmail, fudged records, and fiscal intimidation. Murder? No. Not for a measly two million.” He moved a shell filled with pepitas her way, then took a handful. As he popped several into his mouth, he chewed and added positively, “No. Besides, it’s Sheridan who needs money. I’ve heard a rumor or two recently about her computer stores. That’s her big investment outside of oil. As for oil, face it, the oil billionaires have shrunk to millionaires, and the millionaires have shrunk to bankruptcy court. But you can scratch Harley as the provider of a fake alibi. He wouldn’t do it for love—or money. So you’ll have to look elsewhere.” He yawned, obviously losing interest. “Too bad the cops are after Max.”

  He picked up his towel, draped it over his shoulders, and stepped out from behind the bar. “Shower time for me.” It was a dismissal. “Hope you have some luck in your researches.”

  Smoothly, he had her by the elbow and was walking her to the door. Annie shot one last question. “Did you see Shane when you were downstairs after his last exit?”

  Hugo’s face hardened. “I made every effort to avoid the sorry bastard. I don’t like second-raters. I don’t like to be associated with second-raters.” Hugo’s mouth closed in a cold, implacable slash.

  At the door, she asked softly, “How much does it mean to you, Hugo, to be a Broadway star?”

  He stared down at her and gradually the taut face relaxed. “On a scale of ten? I suppose it might slide in at a nine.” His eyes gleamed sardonically. “But I don’t have to resort to murder to triumph, Annie. I always have my way.” He leaned back. The thick iron-gray hair fell away from his face as he laughed. “Ask my first two wives about that.”

  As he held open the door, he added wryly, “They both irritated me a good deal more than Shane. And, so far as know, Martha’s still photographing wildflowers in Vail—God, what a boring woman—and Genevieve is sculpting in Florence.”

  The sound of his throaty chuckle followed her down the steps.

  Her next departure from the island-circling blacktop was down a rutted side road and across a low dip that still held a couple of inches from yesterday’s rain. At road’s end waited a house far removed in time and spirit from Hugo’s palatial residence. The Ferramond house had stood on Broward’s Rock since the early 1800s and was once the center of a sprawling Sea Island cotton plantation. Driving through the stone pillars to the land-side entrance, she studied the massive front portico, its upper story graced by curved segmental arches, framed between a corridor of majestic live oaks.

  Eugene’s dark blue Cadillac was parked in the circular drive. Annie pulled up behind it. She was walking up the broad bricked steps when an uneven rat-a-tat brought her to a stop. She thought at first it was an island woodpecker, but the taps were too irregular. She turned back down the steps, knowing where she would find Eugene. She followed an oyster-shell path through a grove of willows to the ruins of what had once been the slave quarters, and climbed whitewashed steps to knock at the open door of a rebuilt overseer’s house. The scent of wood shavings, turpentine, and paint mixed with the sweeter perfume of honeysuckle from the vine that enveloped a nearby trellis.

  Eugene looked up from his worktable, put down his hammer, and hurried forward to open the door. “Come on in, Annie. I’m just finishing up.”

  She’d seen Eugene’s exhibits at the county fair, and several of the island shops carried his woodworking. He specialized in scale replicas of famous South Carolina mansions, including Drayton Hall; Middleton Place, and Mulberry.

  But it wasn’t a Southern home that he was finishing today.

  He beamed at her.

  She managed a smile in return, but she could hardly look away from the authentic—from the redbrick chimneys and green-painted trim to the sharply pitched roofs—rendition of Sagamore Hill which stood on Eugene’s worktable.

  He mistook her fascination, and bustled around the table to point out the piazza—“Teddy was standing just about there when he received official notification of his nomination for governor of New York in 1898”—and to indicate the Gun Room on the west end of the house on the third floor—“Here’s where he wrote The Rough Riders. The Gun Room’s real interesting. There’s a suit of Philippine armor on the east wall and a cattle-horn chair near TR’s desk….”

  “I guess you’re really excited about playing Teddy?” she asked abruptly.

  He made a tiny adjustment to the miniature green-and-white-striped awning above the ground-floor windows to the right of the piazza, then glanced at her reproachfully. “That’s not the right way to look at it, Annie. Of course, I’m dreadfully sorry that anything should have happened to Shane. But, on the other hand, I feel it’s my duty to do my best for the players.” He bent, blew away a wood shaving. “I’ve been reminding myself that destiny plays a large role in every man’s life. Certainly it did in TR’s. And,” his voice reverberated with quiet pride, “it’s always been my role. One rehearsal and I’ll be set.”

  If there were a cloud on Eugene’s horizon, she couldn’t see it. His satisfied demeanor jarred her. So she made no attempt to cushion her words.

  “The police found a gun hidden in Max’s condo.”

  If she wanted an effect, she got it.

  His blocky face sagged in shock and distress. “Annie, I can’t believe it! What’s happened?”

  As she told Eugene what little she knew and what she surmised, she watched him carefully. He tugged at his bristly orange mustache and kept muttering, “Oh, this is shocking news. Shocking. Most unfortunate.” Then he sighed, patting her on the shoulder clumsily. “Obviously a dreadful mistake.” He peered at her earnestly. “It will turn out to be a mistake, my dear. We all know Max couldn’t be responsible.”

  And, apparently without seeing any significance to her question, he artlessly revealed he’d been in his workshop ever since coming home from the morning session at the school. He shook his head dolefully. “To think while I was immersing myself in pleasure that such horrible things were happening.”

  He reiterated his horror, concern, perplexity, and so on with touching earnestness as he walked Annie back to her car. His last words, before she pulled away, were, “Now, Annie, I’ll do anything I can to help. Call on me at any time.”

  As she pulled away, sh
e glanced in her rearview mirror at his substantial, respectable figure. Eugene was certainly not her picture of a murderer.

  But, she reminded herself, like everyone else on her list, Eugene was also an accomplished actor.

  The Hortons’ rambling wooden house was in one of Annie’s favorite developments. Here along the seaward side of the island, all the streets were named for butterflies—Swallowtail Circle, Monarch Drive, Viceroy Lane, Queen and Zebra streets, Sulphur Road. The Horton house was on Painted Lady Lane. The island is home to more than two hundred species, but these are some of the most abundant. A butterfly fan, Annie knew how to find her favorites because each family likes only certain flowers. Monarchs prefer milkweeds, swallowtails opt for sassafras, bay, and magnolia, viceroys lurk by willows, queens hover over butterfly weed, zebras cannot resist passionflowers, and sulphurs hustle to wild peas. Painted ladies, Annie knew, take their pleasure with thistles. Butterflies have a great deal in common with mystery fans, who are drawn only to their particular favorites, be they cozies, thrillers, romantic suspense, science fiction, hardboileds, softboileds, or historicals. She grinned as she pictured Henny Brawley with monarch wings, hovering over the comedy-caper shelves.

  The Horton home was a typical two-hundred-thousand-dollar Broward’s Rock house, built on several levels with lots of two-story glass panes, projecting porches, and assorted bay windows. The distinction of number six Painted Lady Lane was its landscaping. Ninety-foot yellow pines embraced the house. Artfully distributed patches of wildflowers created a natural garden, bright with redroot, cattails, yellow leopard’s bane, purple bachelor’s button, and blue hydrangea.

  A single car was in the two-lane drive. Annie parked behind, the Lincoln Continental. As she slammed her car door, Janet hurried around the side of the house. She wore a sun hat, dark glasses, dirt-stained shorts, and a terry-cloth top. She carried a trowel. Her outsize gardening gloves made her arms look foreshortened. Despite the shadow cast by the hat and the opaque glasses, her expression of stricken disappointment was unmistakable. Then it was gone, replaced by a stiff and not especially welcoming smile.