April Fool Dead (8 page)

Beaming, Laurel saluted herself in the windowpane and moved gracefully up the boardwalk, sunlight glinting on the forked dowsing rod that trailed skull-and-crossbones flags from each tip. Nordic blue eyes staring straight ahead, chiseled features aglow with eagerness, she held out the dowsing rod, calling out, “Billy Bones, where is your treasure?”

Out of the corner of her eye, she noted that she had an audience. She passed several stores, including Death on Demand and the fairly new gift shop, Smuggler's Rest. Laurel lifted her voice, repeating the chant in a husky singsong. What fun!

 

Henny Brawley hefted the grocery sack onto her hip as she climbed the steep steps to her high porch. Her weathered gray house sat on stilts at the end of a dusty gray road overlooking a magnificent marsh. She had no near neighbors and treasured her splendid solitude. She quietly observed and enjoyed her surroundings, feeling at one with a magical, beautiful and fragile world where a keen ear could hear the crackle of fiddler crabs racing to avoid the incoming tide and a keen eye could spot a marsh hawk plunging down to capture an unwary rabbit.

At the top of the steps, she paused to catch her breath and look over the greening cordgrass sprouting from the dead winter hay. She took a deep breath of the brackish, briny, sulfur-laden air and smiled. As soon as she put up the groceries, she'd fix a glass of iced tea and come out to her porch and emulate Maigret. Although she usually preferred the approach of vigorous detectives—red-haired private eye Desmond Shannon or ever-energetic Perry Mason came to mind—this surely was a good time for reflection.

Her eyes glinted with wry humor. To tell the truth, she didn't at the moment have a plan that called for action of any sort. Annie was talking to those accused in the flyers. Emma was no doubt employing her little gray cells to advantage. But she, Henny, might ace
them all. She was rather taken with her idea of emulating Maigret….

Inside the house, the phone rang.

Henny set the sack beside the door and fumbled with her keys. She opened the door and hurried the length of the window-bright room, admiring the sweep of the marsh, the gurgle of the tide as it rolled in. But the phone was silent when she reached the desk. She glanced at the caller ID. Kay Nevis.

Henny put up the groceries, giving Kay time to leave a message if she chose. If not, Henny would give her a ring. Henny fixed the tea, pouring it into a tall tumbler full of ice. She carried the glass with her when she dialed her voice-mail number. There were two messages:

Smiling, Henny wrote down the number. Maggie Maguire. A redheaded wisp of a girl in 1943, just barely tall enough to qualify for flight training. Still flying, after all these years. Of course Henny would go into Savannah for dinner. Oh dear, tonight was her bridge night. She lifted her shoulders, let them fall. She'd have to call and cancel. They'd simply have to understand and, hopefully, forgive her.

Henny raised a quizzical brow. Vintage Kay. Brusque. Unapologetic. Oh, well, it cleared the way for Henny to see her old friend. She glanced at her watch. She'd catch the four o'clock ferry, call Maggie on her cell phone.

Henny carried her iced tea onto the porch, settled in a chair, sat very still when she spotted a four-foot-tall wood ibis, its snowy-white plumage made even brighter by its black vulturelike head. The events of the day rippled in her mind—the flyers with their accusations, Annie's efforts to absolve Death on Demand of responsibility, Edith Cummings and her description of an unauthorized intrusion into the library. To use a computer secretly? Edith thought so and she was probably right. It seemed too great a coincidence for the library to be entered and
The Island Gazette
called up on Edith's computer just before the spurious flyers made their appearance. Henny was always suspicious of coincidence. Yes, Edith was quite likely right and her judgment that the intruder was computer-literate made sense.

Computer-literate? So who wasn't these days? Almost everyone Henny knew had a computer, used it to a greater or lesser extent, checking out flight schedules, buying books, doing research. But that information led precisely nowhere.

Henny shook her head. No, what they had to do was focus on the reason for the flyers. Why were they created? When they knew that, they would know everything.

Henny ticked off possible reasons on her fingers:

1. To seek justice.
   
2. To cause trouble for those suspected of crimes of one sort or another.
   
3. To embarrass Annie.
   

“Justice.” She spoke the word aloud in a musing tone. What kind of person would seek this means of reopening inquiry into past events?

A very private person. Someone convinced of the righteousness of that course. A person undeterred by the possible ramifications of a scattershot approach.

Henny finished her tea. She shivered, uncertain whether her sudden chill came from the icy drink or from the sun slipping behind a cloud or from a sense of grim purpose not yet achieved.

 

Annie stepped inside Parotti's and realized she was starving. She glanced at her watch. Almost two. She'd forgotten all about lunch. There were only a few customers. She walked into the main area, eyes squinting in the dimness.

Ben strode from behind the bar, red face glistening. “You missed him, Annie.”

“Captain Joe?” Annie frowned. She'd called
Leisure Moment
and there was no answer and no voice mail. But Barb could always be depended upon. It hadn't taken her more than a quarter hour—Annie had waited with her cell phone on the pier, welcoming the brisk onshore breeze and watching silvery-brown pelicans skim the choppy water—to discover that Captain Joe
Wilkins played cards every afternoon at Parotti's Bar and Grill.

“Joe? He's back that way.” Ben pointed at an enclave near the bait coolers. “I meant Max. He was here for lunch.” At Annie's quick frown, Ben added, “You hungry? I'll bring you a double-decker fried-oyster sandwich.”

As he turned away, Annie called after him. “Pack it to go, please, Ben. And lemonade.” Some people might take time for luncheon interludes, but others hewed to the course. Clutching her poster, she skirted tourists watching in wide-eyed quiet (verging on horror) as a sunburned fisherman eased a live eel into a bucket. As she passed them, Annie pointed at the departing bucket of eel. “Sharks love 'em.” That would give the visitors something to chew on.

The card players were hunched in solemn silence at the farthest table. Annie scanned three intent faces: one long and angular with a droopy silvered mustache; the second wind-and sun-reddened with plump cheeks and a big chin; the third scholarly and severe with watery-blue eyes and a small mouth. Annie noted the white cap at the second place and walked briskly to his side. “Captain Wilkins, I'm—”

A massive hand rose, palm up. He turned over a card. “Blackjack.” His florid face exuding satisfaction, he flicked an easy glance at his companions.

“Damn,” said Droopy Mustache. He scratched his nose, sighed heavily. “All right. You win. Again.” He scrambled to his feet with a frown.

“Regrettable,” observed Small Mouth as he picked up a box from the floor.

Captain Wilkins plucked an empty pipe from his pocket, sucked on it contentedly as he gathered up his winnings. Small Mouth clicked the cards into a pile with a practiced hand. Droopy Mustache lowered his head and stalked away.

Annie smiled and held out a poster. “Captain Wilkins—”

Again that broad hand was raised.

Annie gritted her teeth, but tried to maintain her smile.

“Thirty-six bucks. Not bad.” He heaved his six-foot-five, two-hundred-and-fifty-pound frame out of the chair. Pale green eyes reminiscent of pond algae focused on her. “What can I do for you, little lady?”

Small Mouth licked a spot of salt from his one-third-full margarita glass and settled back to watch.

“Did you call Mrs. Fleming ‘little lady'?” Annie snapped.

His thick lips moved in a cold smile. “She owned the boat. You don't own a damn thing that matters to me.” Wilkins took the poster. “As for those flyers, I'll tell you what I told all the people who came to the marina this morning. I don't talk about my employer. Past or present. If you have any questions, check with Mr. Fleming.”

Annie stepped close. “But you're the captain of the boat. Mrs. Fleming's safety was your responsibility.”

Something moved in those murky green eyes. A glint of anger? “Mrs. Fleming”—his voice grated––“had an accident.” He spoke loudly. To convince himself?

Annie asked quietly, “Are you sure?”

He tossed the poster on the table and swung away.

Annie stepped in the big man's path. “All right, I'll talk to Mr. Fleming. I'll tell him you aren't interested in finding out who put out the flyers saying Mrs. Fleming was murdered.”

He massaged his florid jaw. “You know who's behind those flyers?”

“Not yet. But I intend to find out. And you can help. And so can Mr. Fleming. Why was
Leisure Moment
listed? Why did somebody think you might know something?”

Wilkins folded his big arms across his chest. “I'll tell you straight, little lady, same thing I told the Coast Guard. Mrs. Fleming liked the bottle a little too much. Sherry.” His nose wrinkled. “And no, there wasn't any hard feelings between her and her husband, not that I knew about. That night was like any night.” Those murky eyes narrowed. “Pretty heavy swells. A storm was passing by to the east of us. She must have lost her balance. If she cried out, nobody heard her. Mr. Fleming had a group of guests on board. They were dancing in the saloon. He'd said good night to Mrs. Fleming about ten. We didn't know she was gone until he got to their cabin about midnight and she wasn't there. He looked all over for her, and when he didn't find her he came and got me.” He lifted his big heavy shoulders, let them fall. “That's all we know. All anyone will ever know.” He tilted his head, stared at the poster, reached down and picked it up. “I'll put this by the gangplank. When Mr. Fleming gets back, I'll tell him you tried to help out.”

“Gets back?” Annie fell into step with him.

Wilkins was a moment in answering. His murky
green eyes were unreadable. “In Bali. He and the new Mrs. Fleming.”

Ben came through the swinging door from the kitchen with a carry-out sack.

Annie looked up at the captain's expressionless red face. “The new Mrs. Fleming—was she on
Leisure Moment
the night Laura Fleming fell overboard?”

Wilkins rubbed one cheek. “I believe she was.” He stared down at the floor for a moment, then strode away, his heavy steps loud on the wooden floor.

Annie stared after him. He pushed through the front door, taking with him knowledge that he would never share, leaving behind tantalizing questions about the night Laura Fleming died.

Ben passed the jukebox, gave it a whack and “Slow Boat to China” played again. “Here you go, Annie.” He handed her the sack.

Annie could feel the warmth of the sandwich through the brown paper. “Thanks, Ben. Put it on our charge.” She walked slowly toward the door with food for thought as well as sustenance.

 

Max leaned against a rough gray piling, cell phone to his ear. The onshore breeze was whipping the Sound into a series of whitecaps. The sun was hidden behind scudding gray clouds. There was a 30 percent chance of afternoon showers in the forecast. Max took a deep breath. He didn't need a forecast to know rain was coming. He could smell it. He listened to message number 36. Annie would be pleased to know the tenor of the calls had changed since morning. Word had spread across the island that the accusatory flyers had
no connection to Annie's Whodunit contest. She would especially like one caller's pronouncement: “Listen, Annie, if I find out who put this tripe all over the island, you'll be the first to know. My cousin's uncle's shrimp boat took on water Monday night and barely made it back to the harbor and he saw somebody on a bike tossing stuff around but couldn't see well enough to make out the rider. Somebody in a dark outfit, that was all.” Max punched “save.” Annie might want to talk to this guy. Now for message 37: “Max, it's me. I've got my cell phone on. Call me when you get this. I'm parked in front of Frank's house.”

T
HE
V
OLVO WAS
parked behind a pine tree, out of sight of the small weathered gray house tucked between the grove of pines and a small lagoon. Annie reached to open the car door, let her hand fall. She stared at the cell phone in her lap, willed it to ring. When it did, she was so startled, it took a moment to grab the phone. “Hello.”

“Annie.” Max's voice had that special tone that was for her alone, a richness of timbre deeper than music, warmer than sunlight.

She felt such a surge of comfort that all the worry and uneasiness and, yes, looking at the sharp slivers of glass poking up from the car window, tendrils of fear were banished, rolled up in an awkward and ugly ball and thrown into a dark recess of her mind, a mind now flooded by light and peace.

“Oh, Max.”

“Love you, too.”

She wanted to cling to this moment, but it was as ephemeral as sea foam, as impossible to grasp and hold. She could only say, and she knew he would understand, “I'm glad you called.”

“I always will.”

Always. Yes, she and Max were for always, whatever the span of time that would be theirs. She knew,
no one knew better than she, how precious love was, how hard to find, how terribly difficult to retain. She thought of her father, who had loved her mother well but not wisely enough for their love to last. Now Pudge was having a great adventure in Tibet, but there was no one for him to call and speak to as Max had spoken to her. She and Max shared a love story that should never have happened—the rich indolent good-humored dilettante and the serious quick-tempered striving young bookseller. They'd met in New York, where Max was dabbling in off-Broadway shows and Annie was discovering that her acting talent was that, simply talent. They'd glimpsed each other across a smoky, crowded room, a tall fellow with crinkly blond hair and laughing blue eyes and a slender tanned eager young woman with steady gray eyes and an energy that was evident even when she stood still. They met and both knew that moment marked an end and a beginning. Certain their lives were too disparate—he was rich, she was poor; he played, she worked; he saw life as a joke, she saw life as a quest—Annie had run away, fled from New York to the lovely sea island of Broward's Rock. Max followed and, as he loved to point out whenever possible, he had arrived just in time to save Annie from the toils of the law. Annie was always quick to retort that it was she, with a well-aimed golf ball, who rescued Max from a killer's gun. Their countering claims always ended with fond smiles. And love. Max's love helped Annie open her heart when the father she'd never known came unexpectedly to the island. Max's love gave her strength and purpose every day. And it was his support at this moment that she needed. “I
want Frank to know I had nothing to do with the flyers.”

The offer was quick. “Want me to come?”

She did want Max with her. But she had to handle her own problems and the ersatz flyers were definitely her problem, one she had almost discharged. She had dealt with everyone accused except Frank. And Emma, of course. “No, it's okay. I'll handle it. Max, will you go home and check on Rachel?” Annie looked at her watch. Almost three. “I've called a half-dozen times and either the line's busy or nobody answers. I've called her cell phone, too.” Annie's hand tightened on her own cell phone. Could Rachel truly be sick? Did she need them?

“Don't worry, Annie. She's probably just ignoring the phone or out on the lagoon. It's still a pretty day, though it looks like rain. Will you come home after you talk to Frank?”

“Yes. I shouldn't be long.” She pushed away the thought of how bleak Frank's face could be.

“I'll go home and see if Rachel wants to help me whip up a pineapple upside-down cake. We'll have fun.” There was utter confidence in his voice. Max believed in fun.

When Annie clicked off the phone and dropped it in her purse, she picked up the poster and slipped out of the car with a happy picture of Max and Rachel in the kitchen, Max with a precise array of ingredients, heated oven, utensils and bowls at the ready, Rachel perched on a kitchen stool, dark eyes eager and adoring. Max was the big brother Rachel had never had,
just as Annie had become the sister Rachel had dreamed about.

Thunder rumbled. A big drop splatted on Annie's nose. She broke into a run on the crushed-oyster-shell walk that led to Frank's back door. She hurried around the side of the house to the front, where a covered porch overlooked the lagoon. She clattered up the steps as rain dropped in a silvery curtain over the live oaks and pines, pocked the surface of the dark water. Annie buzzed the front bell, peered at the windows. The blinds were closed tight. She waited a moment, knocked firmly. Damn. Nobody home. She should have known. Frank was a fishing fool. Where were some of his favorite haunts? An engine rumbled. She turned, saw the twin beams of headlights shining dimly through the rain. The garage was a separate structure about twenty yards from the house, but the pickup—she recognized Frank's battered old Ford—stopped near the edge of the walk to the porch. Despite the rain, the driver's window slid down.

“Frank. Frank!” She shouted to be heard above the motor. She could just glimpse his slicker-clad figure behind the wheel. For a long moment, he remained there, his head slowly turning in every direction.

Annie frowned. What was Frank looking for? Not that anyone could see any distance in the rain. And still he sat behind the wheel. Suddenly, a flashlight beam, big and thick and bright, danced toward the shadowy porch, played over her, dropped to the shrubs in front of the porch, returned to blaze on her. Abruptly, the light clicked off, the door slammed. Frank strode the
few feet, came up the steps, a canvas creel over one shoulder.

“Annie.” His voice sounded familiar and unfamiliar, the soft drawl she'd come to know so well over the years, but with a cool reserve.

“Frank, I didn't put out those flyers.” She held up a poster, spotted with raindrops. “I'm going around to see everyone who was mentioned…” Her voice trailed off as Frank moved past her to the front door.

He glanced her way. “Over there, Annie.” His tone was brusque, an order, not a request. “By the swing.”

Annie took two uncertain steps, stopped by the old-fashioned wooden swing and watched, eyes wide.

Frank unlocked the front door, kicked it open, moved swiftly inside in a crouch but not before Annie saw the heavy black revolver in his hand.

It wasn't long before he returned. He no longer carried the creel. She glanced at his right hand, saw it was empty. He still wore the slicker. One pocket bulged. His bony face was unreadable. He carried a man's golf umbrella. “I saw your Volvo out by the pines. I'll walk you to it.”

“I want to talk to you, Frank.” She held out the poster. “I want you to know—”

“I got some bait at Parotti's. It's okay, Annie. I never thought you put out those other flyers. So come on”—he squinted at the rain, now more of a fine mist—“it's easing up. I'll walk you to your car.” Once again, his eyes raked the yard, checked the shrubbery and the pines.

“If you're not mad at me”—she rolled up the poster, slipped it under her arm—“why don't you want me to come inside?”

“'Cause I'm not mad at you, honey.” The distant tone was gone. He was Frank, her uncle Ambrose's best friend, her friend and Max's, a fine and good and decent man. “Come on, we'll talk out there.” His voice was low and weary.

He walked a little in front of Annie and she knew he was checking the line of pines. Once he stopped, wheeled, his hand deep in the bulging pocket. A raccoon loped from behind a yaupon holly, stopped, looked quizzically at them, dark eyes curious in his elegant masked face, then turned and plunged into the shrubbery. At the road, Frank looked both ways, then guided Annie to the Volvo. He stared at the broken window. “What's this?”

Annie shrugged, opened the door, resented the glisten of rain on the leather seat. “I've made a lot of people mad today, including the jerk who put out those flyers. Or maybe somebody tossed the brick because I said the other flyers were fakes. Frank”—she reached up and caught his hand—“who put you on that list? Jud Hamilton? A friend of his? Someone in his family?”

Frank's mouth twisted in a tight smile. “I thought about that when I found the flyer in my mailbox. Somebody sure wanted me to see it. And it's a damn funny coincidence.”

She slid behind the wheel. “What is?” She wished the light were better, wished she could see Frank's face in the shadow of the brim of his slicker.

“This game somebody's playing, using your contest to hide behind, riling everybody up, setting them on the trail of…” He rubbed his nose. “But it's damn odd that Jud Hamilton just got out on parole.”

“Frank”—she was eager—“maybe he's the one behind this!” Annie realized abruptly that she wished desperately to know the identity of the shadowy figure who had turned her world askew. It would be a huge relief to focus her anger and, even better, to have everyone on the island know without any doubt that Annie wasn't responsible.

The brief shower ended as quickly as it had begun. Frank furled the umbrella and pushed back the hood of his slicker. “No. Jud wouldn't give a damn about those other people. Jud's only interested in me.”

There was an undertone to his voice that frightened Annie. She looked at his sagging pocket. “Interested?”

The deeply grooved lines in Frank's face hardened. “Let him come.”

She scarcely managed the words. “You know he's coming?”

Frank's eyes made a final survey of the road and the thick tangle of growth beneath the pines. “Yep.”

Annie stared into bleak brown eyes. “Jud Hamilton's out of prison and he's coming here? Is that why you have the gun? Frank, you've got to call Pete.” The police chief would protect Frank.

“You get along home, Annie. I'll tend to my business.” He spoke almost casually, but she heard the anger. And the determination.

“I read the story in
The Island Gazette
about the trial.” She tried to hold his gaze. “Jud said he had an alibi when his wife fell down the stairs.”

Frank looked away, looked far beyond the road and the pines. “That's what he said.” Frank's hand tightened on the knob of the umbrella. “He was lying. I
found her at the foot of the stairs. Poor little girl, her face all bruised and bloody. He'd knocked out a couple of teeth. Poor little Colleen.” Poor little Colleen. It was a lament.

There had been a picture of Colleen Hamilton in
The Island Gazette
, probably a yearbook photograph, a smiling face with big eyes and a delicate chin and laughing lips. Annie had a sudden vision of bruises and blood and broken teeth. It was as if she and Frank were no longer alone. “How did you know her?” She didn't ask whether he'd known Colleen. Annie was already certain of that answer.

“Colleen and my Sue. Happy little girls, playing jacks on the porch after school, practicing for the cheerleading squad. Oh, they didn't get elected, but they had fun. One summer they did so many roundoffs I thought they'd forget how to walk. They were best friends all the way through school, working at Parotti's to save money to go into Savannah and shop. One summer they were lifeguards over to Hilton Head and Colleen's mama worried she'd get too much sun. Too much sun.” His voice faded away. His lips folded into a tight line. But it wasn't too much sun that damaged the little girl Frank remembered so well.

“You found her.” Annie tried not to think about that moment.

“Somebody in the next house heard her screaming. Called nine-one-one.” His hand dropped to the bulging pocket. “I knew what had happened the minute I saw her. Well, I got the sorry bastard. Thought he was smart, fixing up an alibi.”

Annie looked into an implacable face. She didn't
bother to ask whether Colleen had accused her husband with her dying breath. She knew the answer as surely as Jud Hamilton, who knew he left a dead woman behind. “How did you break Jud's alibi?”

There might have been a glint of amusement in his cold brown eyes. “Turned out there was some cocaine in Edward Miles's car. But sometimes these things can be worked out.”

A fake charge to bust a fake alibi? “Frank—” But she couldn't ask him, couldn't put it into words.

“Go home, Annie. What happens here has nothing to do with you.” His voice was tired but firm.

“Frank, I'm going to tell Pete.” Surely the police could do something.

“You do what you need to do. I'll do what I need to do.” He turned away, then looked over his shoulder. “She was a sweet girl, Annie. Just like you.”

 

Emma Clyde poured gin into a frosted glass, added ice cubes and tonic. She carried the glass to her study, settled in a comfortable chintz chair. She sniffed the drink, smiled, took a sip. She'd spent a productive afternoon. Trying to trace the elusive creator of the fake flyers was almost as much fun as maneuvering Marigold Rembrandt into the right place at the right time in the current manuscript. Emma took an instant to be pleased with both her progress on the new book and the tentative title:
Case of the Curious Catbird.
The telling clue, of course, was the resemblance of the catbird's cry to the mewing of a feline. There was always a telling clue in an Emma Clyde mystery. It was a point of pride to provide that clue. But the structure
of the books was no accident, reflecting her conviction that events in life overlap and interlock to an astonishing degree. And by God—her eyes glinted—that overlapping was going to lead to the truth behind the flyers. Emma sipped her drink and smiled. It was a grim, satisfied, confident smile. The creator of the flyers felt secure, hidden in anonymity. Emma had called up and scanned every news story about Bob Tower's hit-and-run, the death of Colleen Hamilton and her husband's conviction, Ricky's accident and Laura Neville Fleming's fall from her yacht. Her efforts made it clear to her that the shadowy figure behind the flyers had indeed revealed himself—or herself—by the choice of information used in the clues. Emma had recorded the most important points. She picked up the legal pad from the side table: