Carolyn G. Hart (27 page)

Annie met that gaze boldly. “How many cops have you ever known to have an accident with a gun, Fritz?”

When he made no answer, she nodded slowly. “Elliot knew. He knew about Jeff and Janis, Emma, and Fritz. And he knew about Kelly and Hal.”

That ideal couple watched her unblinkingly.

“Kelly keeps her sister a prisoner. She claims the girl is mentally ill. I wonder what the truth is? Maybe somebody should talk to her sister. As for Hal, nobody’s ever seen his
wife since she disappeared from their cabin at Lake Tahoe. He didn’t like the way she ran around with other men.”

Hal looked like he’d been jabbed in the throat. His head swung toward Kelly. Her face was as placid as a tidal pond, and she reached out to touch his hand.

Capt. Mac slammed his palm hard against the table where he sat alone. Harriet had been his companion Sunday evening. Coffee slopped out of his mug and ran in a slow trickle across the table. He ignored it. “Goddammit, you’ve gone too far. And I’m not going to sit here like a schoolboy waiting to be scolded.” His face, dark with anger, turned toward the others: “I’m next. What did Elliot have on me? A paternity suit, if any of you give a damn.” He rose and faced Annie. “I’ve tried to be helpful to you. I don’t think you killed Elliot or Harriet. Or Jill Kearney. But I do think you’ve let your so-called mystery expertise go to your head, young woman, and I’ve had enough of it.”

He snatched up his soft cap and started down the central aisle. Other chairs scraped. Everyone was leaving.

Her denouement was collapsing like an overcooked soufflé. Now was the time—if she were Hercule Poirot or Nero Wolfe or Asey Mayo or Miss Marple or Miss Silver—when she would raise her hand and point at the guilty party, and the curtain would ring down.

There was one small problem.

She didn’t know who in the
hell
the murderer was.

Her suspects were moving with stiff alacrity up the central aisle, and nobody was saying what a good time they’d had.

Emma Clyde paused at the head of the pack, looked back, and taunted, “I assure you, Annie, Marigold Rembrandt would have done it better.”

That was the last straw.

Dammit, one of them was a three-time—no—four-time murderer, counting Uncle Ambrose.

“All right,” she called out angrily. “You can all laugh now. But I’ll have the last laugh tomorrow when I give Chief Saulter a photograph of the murderer.”

The exodus stopped.

“Where in the hell did you get a picture of the murderer?” Emma demanded.

“The murderer’s not so damned smart. Did it ever
occur to any of you that Harriet had a clear view of Elliot’s house? And she was up in her widow’s walk Monday afternoon—with her camera.”

M
ax tapped a Scott Joplin intro with his fingers on the glass counter and watched the clock. In another five minutes, he’d know what Harriet had captured in her film. Would it be Annie? And someone else?

That reminded him of his list of questions. Elliot had collected information about the Sunday Night Regulars, and he had intended to blab everything he knew. When Annie pretended she knew about Elliot’s information, Emma immediately suspected her of blackmail. That suggested she’d been blackmailed before. But Carmen insisted her ex-husband wasn’t a blackmailer—Max stood up straight. Blackmail. Why did people blackmail? He thought about it with growing excitement, and he thought about everyone who’d been at Death On Demand Sunday night and the traditional reason for blackmail.

“Your pictures, mister.” The clerk shoved the package across the counter with exquisite boredom.

Max grabbed them. There was Annie, climbing in the kitchen window of Elliot Morgan’s house. And there—by God. It was the face he expected.

“Can I use your phone?” he yelled at the startled clerk.

He made a long distance call, using his Sprint number, but the line at Death On Demand rang busy.

It was very quiet in Death On Demand. So quiet Annie could hear the click of Agatha’s claws as she glided up the
central aisle to see why her mistress stood by the front door.

“Agatha, I may have blown it.”

Curious bright yellow eyes stared at her unblinkingly.

“Emma made me mad.” She spoke conversationally. Max had always warned that her temper was going to land her in deep trouble someday. Just because Emma had taunted her with that crack about Marigold Rembrandt was no excuse to have let slip about the film.

Her face furrowed in concentration. But no matter how hard she thought, it didn’t change the truth of the matter. She’d told them about Harriet’s camera—and she’d said she’d turn the film over to the chief tomorrow.

The bookstore was quieter than a graveyard at midnight. She swallowed, lunged across the few feet of space, and shoved home the deadbolt.

She gulped some air, then jumped to one side, her heart racketing in her chest as she stared wildly down to see what had touched her leg.

Agatha lifted a dainty paw and swiped again at her shin, thoroughly enjoying this new and active game.

God. A murderer somewhere outside and a cat with lousy timing inside.

Annie moved precipitously again, dashing to the cash desk and pulling open the drawer. Agatha flowed up to the counter and crouched, purring deeply. Annie scrabbled through the drawer. A letter opener. Wonderful to slice butter. Rubber bands. Band-Aids. Aspirin. Paper clips. A new package of golf balls. She ripped open the package and stuffed the three hard balls into the pocket of her slacks. It wasn’t much, but they hadn’t called her Dead-Eye on the softball team for nothing. She would at the very least go down firing.

Okay. She had some ammunition in case the killer broke in this minute, and now she’d call the chief. He
had
to listen this time.

She reached for the phone and realized her hand was shaking. She’d always felt absolute disdain for the wumpety conduct that landed gothic heroines in a pickle up to the top of their lace nighties. She had always been confident that she would never be guilty of repairing to the second
tombstone at midnight in the company of a man with a mustache. Not she.

And here she was, trying to breathe silently so she could listen for the telltale noises that would signal the murderer’s approach.

Her hand rested on the receiver. A faint frown touched her face.

Why wasn’t the killer poking a rifle through a window and blowing her away? Or unleashing another poisoned dart? Or wielding a handy cosh?

Indeed, why was it as quiet as the proverbial graveyard?

Nobody was trying to break in.

Was someone lying in wait for her outside?

She lifted her hand from the telephone and rubbed her knuckles thoughtfully against her cheek.

Let him—or her—lie. She wouldn’t stir a step until Max came, and nobody could handle the two of them.

She breathed more easily, and checked her watch. Max and Parotti might be boarding the ferry this minute. It wouldn’t be long, and when he got back, they’d take the pictures straight to Saulter.

But if nobody were reacting to her startling revelation about Harriet’s camera—it meant nobody but Annie was pictured in those films. That’s why the doors remained closed. No one knocked. No one called.

“Dammit.”

Agatha stopped purring.

“Not you, sweetheart.” Annie stroked the silky fur, but Agatha twisted away and dropped to the floor.

If she alone were pictured in the films, she and Max were back to Square One.

The whole evening was a fiasco. Perhaps the only solution was to look at everything with a fresh eye. Start at the beginning—with the murder of Uncle Ambrose. She paced down the central aisle, her eyes scanning the bright jackets to her right and left with disappointment. Her books had let her down. She
should
have been able to turn and dramatically unveil the villain, but her denouement had fizzled like day-old champagne. She passed the espionage/thrillers section and noted an Ambler title,
The Light of Day
. She felt just about as competent as Arthur Abdel Simpson.

She tucked her hand in her pocket and gripped the first golf ball. Maybe she should retire as a mystery bookseller and concentrate on her golf.

Reaching the coffee area, she stared up at the five watercolors, without experiencing the usual spurt of pleasure in them.

The old lady with faded blue eyes stared at approaching death without surprise as the heavy car hurtled closer in watercolor number one. The ancient servant strained to see in the second painting. The third pictured an active man’s closet full of trophies and sports equipment. The young man exhibited disgust as he handed the letter to his sister in the fourth picture, and guests watched as their host raised a glass in a toast in the fifth.

What good did it do to know all about murder and murderers and be caught wanting when it mattered?

She knew these stories backward and forward. The sporting man who opened his library window on a snowy evening to someone he trusted—

Someone he trusted.

Annie stood very still and stared up at the third painting.

Trust.

Uncle Ambrose’s murder.

Uncle Ambrose himself.

She stared at the painting and could see her uncle, his thoughtful, intelligent face. He had been smart, savvy, tough, perhaps a little cynical from his years as a prosecuting attorney in Fort Worth. He knew just how bad people could be. He knew that murderers were dangerous predators.

He was researching
murders
. He would never have turned his back on someone he suspected of being a killer.

Uncle Ambrose was nobody’s fool.

So he had been killed by someone he trusted, just as was the man whose closet was pictured.

It was exactly as Hercule Poirot always insisted: the character of the victim revealed the identity of the murderer. Staring up at that painting of a jumbled closet, remembering her uncle, knowing the Sunday Night Regulars, she knew who had committed the four murders on Broward’s Rock.

Swinging around, she ran up the central aisle, and grabbed up the telephone receiver. Agatha flashed into the
darkness, seeking sanctuary beneath her favorite fern. Annie held the receiver to her ear, then stiffened.

The line was dead.

Max leaned sleepily back against the car seat and enjoyed the breeze lifting off the water as the ferry chugged peacefully across the sound. He felt a great sense of satisfaction. He’d tell Annie how he’d figured it out even before he got the pictures. All it required was an orderly mind, the ability to shuck away the extraneous and focus on the important. Poor Annie and her flee-all-is-discovered ploy. He shook his head and smiled, then smothered a yawn. Almost there. Well, he’d be tactful with her.

The lights went out in Death On Demand. Annie moved away from the switches and ran swiftly down the central corridor, a golf ball clutched in her right hand. She slid like a wraith into the storeroom and felt her way across the floor to the back door.

This was the tricky part.

The murderer must be waiting for her outside. That dead phone line was no accident. It was intended to prevent her from calling the chief, which meant, in turn, that the films did contain the murderer’s picture. She had no intention of remaining in Death On Demand like one of the Ten Little Indians.

She edged open the back door and peered out into the alley. It was darker than the dirt heaped beside an open grave. As quietly as a water moccasin slipping through a marsh pond, she eased out of the screen door and crept up the alley, every nerve end alert for a betraying rustle. Reaching the end of the alley, she surveyed the broad expanse of lawn, dotted with sea pines, that lay between the shops and the parking area. Her blue Volvo sat in solitary splendor near a clump of wisteria. God, what she would have given at that moment for a little urban clutter and excitement. The shops and their parking lot, closed at night, were separated from the houses by the golf course. The nearest habitations were the marina condos, several
hundred yards to her left. Lights shone cheerfully from several of the condos.

Could she scream loudly enough to get help?

Not in time. The Broward’s Rock murderer liked to bash his victims. It behooved her to avoid all contact. If she could just reach her car—

Darting from palmetto palm to azalea thicket to palmetto palm, Annie plunged into the shadows nearest her Volvo and fell headlong over a body.

She didn’t have to see to know it was a body. She could
feel
it. Her first, panicked, instinctive fear was for Max. But he couldn’t be back yet. Frantically, she felt the still form, found the slowly beating pulse in the throat. A man’s throat. A familiar smell. Cologne. My God, it must be
Bud
. Maybe Saulter had listened and sent Bud to keep an eye on her, but obviously the murderer had spotted him. She patted his pockets. Keys. A lighter. Shielding it with her hand, she flicked it on. Yes, it was Bud, with a smear of blood at the side of his head.

And no gun in his holster.

Annie crouched by the unconscious policeman, then hurtled toward her car, yanked open the door, jumped in, slammed and locked the door. She poked the key in the ignition, turned it, and nothing happened.