Carolyn G. Hart (47 page)

Jessica started up the steps. Despite her somber face, she was lovely in an ankle-length, leg-of-mutton-sleeved dress of pale yellow organdy.

Suspects
. How about the distraught painter and libidinous Sybil? Or the perhaps more than merely eccentric Miss Dora? Or Gail and her unsuitable suitor? And Edith sure as hell—Annie’s wandering thoughts quivered, then crystallized. That letter she’d received with the Mrs. Moneypot’s mystery plot; it had been full of innuendos about people who hated Corinne!

“Annie.”

Jessica’s urgent whisper jerked her back to the platform.

“May I present Lady Alicia.”

Jessica, her sleek black hair upswept in a chignon, addressed the crowd languidly. “After tea, I rested in my room. I’d quite a headache from our afternoon in the sun, playing croquet.” She shaded her dark eyes. “I saw no one. When I was dressing for dinner, I opened my jewel case and found that my famous ruby necklace had disappeared, so I immediately raised the
alarm. As for Miss Snooperton, I hadn’t seen her since teatime. She was a dear girl.”

Brava. An unexpectedly talented amateur actress.

“Lord Algernon,” Annie announced.

Max shot her a brief, warning glance as he strode on stage. As always, he carried himself with élan, even in a borrowed tuxedo. He looked every inch a young English lord, tall, blond, and crisply handsome.

“Took a stroll down to the river after tea, but I didn’t see anyone.” Then he paused, timing it just perfectly to raise doubts among his listeners. “But there might have been somebody over by the arbor. Dashed hard to see in the mist. Damn shame about Matilda. Must’ve been the work of a tramp.”

Leighton asserted that a robber must have murdered Corinne. Nature imitating art? Or had that fragment simply stuck in his mind from his suspect sheet?

Max stepped back beside Jessica, and Roscoe soberly moved forward. As always, he looked reliable, imposing, and excruciatingly boring. He waited stolidly for Annie’s introduction.

“Mr. Nigel Davies, the betrothed of our victim, Matilda Snooperton.”

Roscoe clipped his speech neatly, reading from his sheet and ignoring the enthralled crowd. “Appalled. Absolutely appalled. Not the sort of thing that happens in our set. Hadn’t seen much of dear Matilda since we motored down. Tennis, then croquet. After tea, took a stroll toward the village. Didn’t see a soul.”

John Sanford stepped forward, quite natty in a light blue cotton suit and a boater hat.

“Mr. Reginald Hoxton, a friend of Lady Alicia’s from London.”

Unexpectedly, he threw himself into the part, speaking in an ingratiating, oily manner. “Only too glad to
help in the investigation. Miss Snooperton a charming gal. First met her this weekend. Left my room after tea. Ran down to my car to get my shoe kit from the boot. Didn’t meet up with anybody.” He closed with a toothy smile.

Edith was up to any challenge to protect her beloved Society. Though her deep-set green eyes were clouded, she threw herself with utmost seriousness into her role as the love-struck girl, Susannah Greatheart. Her abundant hair covered by a gay pink scarf, she stood with her eyes downcast, nervously twisting a white cambric handkerchief. “Such a shock. I did see Miss Snooperton after tea. I happened to walk down to the arbor, but she was quite all right, oh quite all right, when I left her.” She paused, gnawing her lip. “Actually, she was laughing.” She held the handkerchief to her face and stepped away.

Edith’s rendition of counterfeit distress was outstanding. But the distress emanating from the final player was only too real, though ironically, it was critical to the success of her role. “Agnes, Lady Alicia’s devoted maid,” Annie announced.

Lucy had changed clothes, but obviously made no attempt this time to dress for a formal dinner at an English manor house. She wore a navy blue skirt and gray silk blouse, and her face scarcely resembled that of the cheerful woman who had been so friendly to Annie. Her eyes looked haunted, and her cheeks sagged. Annie knew her thoughts were far from this platform and felt immediate sympathy. Lucy clutched her suspect sheet in a white-gloved hand that trembled and read in a monotone.

“Happened to overhear Mr. Nigel having words with Miss Snooperton. That I did, early this morning. And later, after tea, I saw Mr. Hoxton with a tire tool,
and he looked very disagreeable. And Miss Susannah was crying when she crept up the stairs this afternoon. And there’s more that could be said about some of these fine ladies and gentlemen.”

And wasn’t that the truth, Annie thought grimly. She lifted the microphone and forced a lilt into her voice. “It’s all yours, detectives. The suspects will repair to the Interrogation Tent, and I will be in charge in the police tent as Detective-Inspector Searchclue of New Scotland Yard. And—one last point, which I’m certain you will all appreciate—Mrs. Gordon at Swamp Fox Inn has volunteered her restrooms for use by the participants and staff of the Mystery Night. Also, the Inn coffee bar will be open until midnight.”

The throng of eager detectives swept toward the tents. It wasn’t quite a mad enough rush to imperil life and limb, but it bordered on the frantic. It matched the festival exuberance in Phoebe Atwood Taylor’s
Figure Away
, but at least it lacked loon calls and shotgun blasts. The comparison was disturbing, though, when she recalled the fate of the person in charge of that celebration. She started down the steps and saw the dour face of the policeman who’d refused her entry to Ephraim Street that morning. Was he assigned to watch her?

13

I
n the last-minute crush around the clue table, Annie tried to answer a half-dozen sharp questions at once, keep an eye on Mrs. Brawley who was edging ever nearer the search-warrant stack, and accept entry envelopes thrust at her with demands for instantaneous time notations. It made the closing minutes on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange seem pastoral in contrast.

Team Captain #3, in his saner moments a courteous druggist on Broward’s Rock, waggled his envelope a millimeter from her nose. “We’re next!” He thrust an elbow militantly into the ribs of Team Captain #9. “By God, we’re
next.”

Team Captain #9 bared her teeth. “I
beg
your pardon. Some people will do
anything
to win,” and slapped her envelope on his.

Grabbing the envelopes, she scribbled 9:48:03 on
both, stuffed them in the shoe box cradled beneath her arm, and reached out just in time to pin Mrs. Brawley’s hand to the table. “One search warrant, Mrs. Brawley.
One.”

“We thought you meant
one
for each suspect.”

Annie reflected honor on her upbringing by overcoming the impulse to snort, “In a pig’s eye.” Instead, she gritted, “
One
search warrant to
each
team, Mrs. Brawley. Your team already received a search warrant for the tool shed.”

That search yielded Mrs. Brawley’s team a card with this information: “The broken lock on the hasp of the tool shed has been wiped clean of fingerprints. The tool shed contains tools and gardening and hobby equipment, including shovels, trowels, hose, putty, paint, the balls and mallets from the croquet game, drills, bits, flower pots, and sacks of fertilizers. Nothing appears out of place. Atop the workbench is a pile of sawdust. On the floor of the shed are found several pieces of gold filigree.”

Mrs. Brawley shrieked over the hubbub. “Can we
trade
cards?”

A piercing whistle brought a merciful instant of silence, then Team Captain #4 demanded shrilly, “Is it true Lord Algernon bought that train ticket to Venice?”

Annie ignored him, too, and mustered the strength to shout, “Time, ladies and gentlemen, time!”

Annie stood guard by the trunk of the Volvo, still parked beside the Winnebago in the deep shadows of the Society parking lot. A faint glow from a single light on the back wall of the old building provided the only illumination. She scanned the shadows warily. Nothing would have surprised her at this point. Faked entries.
A raiding party on camelback. An offer of a weekend in Rio in exchange for the name of the murderer. She had stationed Edith beside the Death on Demand display on the Prichard lawn while she and Max carried the boxes to the car for overnight safekeeping. There was no point in trying to maneuver the Volvo down Ephraim Street. The booths were closed, but the street still teemed with departing Mystery Night participants, and the odds of finding a parking spot in the Inn lot were nil. Max was making the last trip. She didn’t envy him his struggle through the ambling holidayers.

Bright white light exploded beside her. She jumped a foot.

A hearty laugh boomed. “Scared you that time. Just another couple of shots now. Hey, Ms. Laurance, give us the low-down on the murders—Miss Snooperton’s and the real one.” In the recurring flashes, she saw a walrus mustache quivering with good humor. “I told Mother,” her tormentor jerked his head at a dumpling-shaped face nodding in agreement, “this was just the best vacation idea we ever had. We’d planned to go to Europe this summer, wanted to be there for the Wedding, but Mother and I decided there was no time like now to stay home.” Mother nodded sagely. “All those bombs. Why, a man would be taking his life in his hands. So Mother read about the house-and-garden tours, and then we saw the bit about the murder, and we just had to come. I’m a sucker for Perry Mason. And can you believe we’ve got your murder and a real one to boot!” He resheathed his camera, and leaned forward. Annie caught a strong whiff of fresh Juicy Fruit gum. “Tell us now, was that Miss Snooperton a blackmailer?”

Annie caught a flicker of movement at the foot of the Winnebago.

“Come right on out here where I can see you, Mrs. Brawley.”

Without a trace of embarrassment, Mrs. Brawley sidled closer to the open trunk. “I had a little thought. If I could just see our entry, Annie, just for a teeny second.”

“No.” She snapped it with a satisfying sharpness, like the hiss of a plunging guillotine.

“Oh.” Mrs. Brawley gave a nervous titter. “I guess Chastain’s going all out for the Mystery Nights to assign a policeman to guard the entries,” and she looked past Annie.

Annie knew before she turned and saw the sallow face of her favorite traffic cop. “How about that,” she managed to say coolly. But her temper never let her quit when she was ahead. “I’m in Room 312.”

“Yeah. I know.”

She was still staring belligerently at him when Max arrived with the last container. He looked curiously at the newcomers. Annie was in no mood for introductions. She snatched the box from him, dumped it in the trunk, slammed down the lid, and grabbed his arm.

As they rounded the corner onto Ephraim Street and fought their way against the lemming-like stream of exiting gala-goers en route to whatever Bacchanalian delights Chastain afforded after ten o’clock, Max implored, “Hey, where’s the fire?”

“Me. I’m mad. Dammit, I’m more than mad. I’m scared. Look behind us. Is that cop coming?”

He twisted his head and gave a low whistle. “Yeah.”

“Oh, hell.”

Annie stalked up the main walk to Swamp Fox Inn,
but Max took her elbow to detour her around to the side. “We’d better go in the back way.”

“What’s wrong with the lobby?”

“Honey, Refrigerator Perry couldn’t heave through that crowd.”

“Oh,
double
hell. Max, I’m so
tired
—and I’m starving.”

“Not to worry. I spotted a back patio that isn’t in use. Leave it to Papa.”

She almost retorted sharply that she wasn’t Mama (shades of the walrus mustache’s Mother), but she had run out of steam.

But she had to admire Max’s artistry as he charmed their landlady. Annie leaned against the spotted wallpaper in a back passageway and watched plump, exhilarated Idell Gordon succumb to his charm.

Fluffing her frizzy orange hair, she twittered, “Of course, I know how you feel. Ms. Laurance
needs
a restful dinner. And the coffee bar is packed!” She simpered at Max, thoroughly smitten. “I know what we can do.” The “we” was so happily familiar that Annie beguiled herself with a vision of Max and Mrs. Gordon dancing a minuet. “I’ll turn on the whirlpool in the patio, and we’ll just put on a
tiny
little light, then no one will even know you’re there.”