April Fool Dead (6 page)

Barb's scrawl in the margin was deeply indented: “Jud's a scary, scary man. Colleen was terrified of him. She was a teacher at the high school, one of the best my
son ever had. A sweet woman. Jud got twenty years, but a story last week said he's been paroled. Have you ever noticed how wives convicted of their husbands' deaths stay in jail forever? And how a guy can get busted for robbery and get a big sentence but rape will net a couple of years? But don't get me started.”

Annie looked at the clue list in F2: Where did the evidence come from? It was like taking a step on a familiar stair and suddenly finding yourself falling. The evidence, the evidence that very likely convicted Jud Hamilton, came from then Police Chief Frank Saulter, a man Annie knew well. The first flyer claimed there was a case of false imprisonment. Frank? Annie pictured his worn, bony face and serious brown eyes—okay, she'd thought him totally humorless when they first met—but he was simply an intense man who cared about his island and the people who lived on it. He wasn't impressed by the rich folks who lived in condos and the gated community, and he'd put Annie at the top of his suspect list when a writer was murdered at Death on Demand shortly after she took over running her late uncle's bookstore. Frank was dogged and tireless, and he always got his man. Or woman. Annie thought about Frank's brown eyes, determined, intelligent and sometimes bleak.

Annie felt cold despite the soft warmth of the April sun. She would talk to Frank, that was for sure. She glanced at the next heading in Barb's report:

Barb had scrawled in the margin: “Ask Emma? I don't think so!”

Annie didn't need to ask Emma. She knew more about the island's most famous writer than was contained in the many voluminous biographical essays by mystery critics. Annie and Emma went way back. Oh, not as far back as Emma and her second husband, but Emma had been a member of the mystery writers' group that met at Death on Demand when Annie inherited the bookstore from her uncle Ambrose. Annie was quite sure that Emma had then been paying blackmail to another member of that select circle and the payoff money was to hide information about Ricky Morales's death. The investigation had been officially closed all these years, but there is, of course, no statute of limitations on murder. However, nothing came of the suspicion of murder at that time and nothing would come of it now. No one but Emma would ever know the truth of that night. All Emma had to do was keep quiet, and Annie had no doubt that Emma would do precisely that. It didn't matter now whether or when Ricky Morales had had a girlfriend. That would suggest a motive, but it gave no evidence about what happened on Ricky's final night aboard
Marigold's Pleasure.

“Nope.” Annie said it aloud. There might always be a suspicion in the mind of some about the drowning,
but putting Emma on the list of possible crimes was puzzling. No matter who looked or how hard they looked, no one was going to come up with evidence to change the ruling of accidental death. So why include Emma?

Annie concentrated. There was something here, something important…. But she wasn't sure what. She shook her head, read the final heading:

Annie rubbed her nose. Two drownings? Was this a coincidence, or was this simply an easy way to expand the list of possible crimes for the flyers? Annie sat very still because that glimmer in her mind was brighter. Expand the list…Somebody could always be pushed from a boat. Oh, wait a minute, wait a minute. Was this the truth she needed to ferret out? What if the flyers
really were meant to expose one particular crime and the others were included to keep the spotlight away from those who would care, and care passionately, about one particular event? That would explain Emma's name on the list. She was camouflage, a smoke screen….

Annie reached for her cell phone, punched a private number that she knew by heart. When the answering machine message sounded, Annie came on strong. “Come on, Emma. I know you're there. I'll keep calling. Automatic, every fifteen seconds. You went home to think. Listen, I've got to talk to—”

“Annie.” The cool gravelly voice was remote.

“Emma, you went away muttering about a smoke screen, a smoking gun. What did you mean?” Annie glanced at Barb's report. Five crimes. Was there only one that mattered?

There was a whisper of what might have been laughter if it hadn't been a snort of disdain. “Even Detective Inspector Hector Houlihan would have tumbled before now.”

Annie wanted to snap that Emma better be damn glad at this particular moment she wasn't standing at the stern of
Marigold's Pleasure
with Annie behind her or there might be another drowning. Annie blurted, “Of course you can probably swim,” and knew she was in trouble. When, oh when, would she ever learn to control her quick temper? She could hear Max's oft-repeated suggestion: Breathe deeply, Annie. That's right. One breath, two…

But Emma was never predictable. Following a thoughtful silence, there was an unmistakable deep
chuckle. “I swim quite well, my dear. Is that why you called?”

Annie refused to be diverted. “Smoke screen, Emma. Come on, what did you mean?”

“As Marigold often reminds Houlihan, ‘Gnats distract. Get the big picture.'” With a sharp click, the connection ended.

“Emma…” But there was no one to hear Annie's outraged bleat. Gnats distract…Oh, damn. Did Emma think she was Charlie Chan? As far as pithy statements went, Emma's had far to go. And Annie wasn't getting anywhere. But she still had the glimmer, a deep rich glow in her mind. What if the whole point of the fake flyers was to stir up investigation into one particular crime and the others were mentioned simply to keep anyone from wondering who might care enough to set these events in motion?

Annie turned out of the alley. The Volvo picked up speed. As Charlie Chan might have said, had it occurred to him: To start, you must begin. And she, by damn, was going to begin.

F
IVE POSTERS TUCKED
beneath one arm, Max pushed in the heavy wooden front door of Parotti's Bar and Grill. He stepped inside and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dimness. Although it wasn't quite noon yet, the foyer was full of people waiting for a table, a tribute to the excellence of the food. The menu included smothered pork chops, chicken wings, steamed oysters, gumbo, she-crab soup, catfish stew, fried okra, barbecued pigs' feet and, Annie's favorite, the fried-oyster sandwich.

Max sniffed the smells beloved to islanders, though newcomers sometimes found the combination of hot cooking oil, barbecue sauce, beer, sawdust and fishy aromas from the bait coolers a touch too tangy. Saying hello to friends, he worked his way through the crowd, heading for a spot at the bar against the far wall.

Parotti's was a much more genteel establishment from when Max first came to the island. Ben's marriage to the cook, a well-traveled lady from Tallahassee with tea-shop tastes, had transformed Ben from a scruffy leprechaun in an armless union suit and baggy coveralls to a natty leprechaun who often sported a
gold-buttoned blue blazer and Tom Wolfe white trousers. Ben had agreed to the addition of quiche and fruit teas to the menu and wildflower bouquets in slender vases on the initial-scarred wooden tables, but he drew a line in the sawdust. Sawdust there had always been, sawdust there would always be, even if purchasers of bait no longer carried out their wiggly, smelly shrimp or minnows and the occasional eel in leaky cartons. Mrs. Ben insisted on plastic-covered buckets but gracefully yielded to Ben about the sawdust.

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 the 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—”