Carolyn G. Hart (51 page)

The heart pine flooring of the entry hall glistened in the early morning sunlight that splashed through the open door of the dining room to the east. Lucy slowly led the way to the drawing room. Annie looked around appreciatively. No expense had been spared in restoring this room to grandeur. Bois-de-rose silk hangings framed the tall windows and emphasized the rose background of the Aubusson rug. The wallpaper was a rich floral print of peonies against a cream background. Rose and cream, too, dominated the upholstery of the Chippendale-style furniture. The most remarkable piece was a mahogany china breakfront, holding a Blue Canton dinner service.

Lucy gestured for her to be seated. “Won’t you have some coffee?”

Annie accepted immediately. The morning offering at the Swamp Fox Inn had a taste like lukewarm dishwater with a dash of instant coffee. Lucy’s coffee had the dark, winey taste of chicory, and the warm, homemade doughnuts she brought were superb.

Lucy smiled as she ate with relish, but didn’t touch her own pastry. “This was a recipe of Corinne’s. We made them often when we were girls.” Her voice was controlled, but a sense of anguish hung in the room, not so much grief, perhaps, as sorrow at the passing of long ago days.

“You had known her for a long time,” Annie said softly.

“A very long time.” Lucy turned the small garnet ring on her little finger and shivered, then looked up apologetically. “I’m sorry. You want me to help. What can I do?”

Annie put down her coffee cup. “Tell me about her. What she was like?”

Lucy had large, expressive eyes. It was as if an
opaque curtain fell. “You met her. Corinne was what she seemed to be, a beautiful, willful, determined woman.” Her voice was studiedly neutral. “She wasn’t all good or all bad—like most of us. She had very decided views on everything, on life and love and what was suitable and what wasn’t. Usually, she meant well—or thought she did. The only difference between Corinne and most of us was that she would have her way, at all costs.”

“You were good friends.”

“We grew up together.”

“Is it true—that she kept you from marrying her brother?”

For a moment, Lucy’s pallid face was absolutely blank, then a lopsided smile faintly touched her lips. “That old story. Lord, don’t people ever forget anything? And Cameron’s been dead now for a decade or more.” She gave an impatient head shake. “People always think that if you never marry, it’s because no one asked you. And that’s not true. No, Corinne had nothing to do with my turning Cameron down.” Her lips closed into a thin line. “And that’s all I intend to say about that.”

Again her eyes dropped to the garnet ring, and she moved it around and around.

Annie knew she was skating on thin ice. “That morning at the Society when I made my presentation, everybody—but me—knew the fictional victim was Corinne. The story listed a bunch of people who had motives for murdering her.”

Lucy stiffened. It was so quiet Annie could hear the tick of the Dresden clock on the mantel.

“It said her husband was playing—”

“You can’t pay any attention to that letter!” She leaned forward, gripping the chair arms. “Please, it
was—oh, it’s just a scurrilous piece of nonsense. I told Chief Wells this morning that it didn’t amount to anything—and he agreed with me. Can’t you just let it drop?”

“Let it drop? Why, it’s the best lead we have! And obviously, the writer was right on target about Tim Bond and Sybil and Edith Ferrier. And certainly about Gail and Bobby. So why not—”

Lucy’s eyes flashed. “Have you come here expecting me to tell you every nasty bit of gossip I know? I’m sorry, Ms. Laurance, but I’m not playing that game. That letter was just a meanspirited attempt to embarrass Corinne. To take it seriously would be absurd.”

Annie tried to suppress her anger, but she knew her response was crisp. “Is it absurd? I don’t think so. And I intend to find out the truth behind it.”

“You must do what you feel is right.” But Lucy’s face was drawn into a tight frown.

“All right, I will. And I wonder if the Chief might be more interested in that letter when he finds out that on Monday afternoon Corinne threatened to keep Gail from receiving her inheritance, and Gail told Bobby? What kind of motive do you think that is?”

“Gail would never injure anyone, and certainly not Corinne.” But the sick anxiety in her eyes showed how deep the barb had gone.

“Perhaps not. But she’s crazy about Bobby Frazier—and Chief Wells is sniffing after him. And, as a matter of fact, after me. I’ll lay you odds of ten-to-one he puts either Bobby or me in jail by week’s end.”

“That’s dreadful.” Lucy’s eyes were wide and shocked.

“I think so, too. That’s why I’m here. I’ve
got
to find out who hated Corinne and why.” She leaned forward. “Won’t you help me?”

Lucy picked up the silver server and poured a stream of fresh, hot coffee into Annie’s cup. Her gaze roamed restlessly from the iris-filled Delft vase on a Chippendale table to the gleaming bronze andirons at the fireplace. “There isn’t evidence enough to arrest Bobby—or you.” Her eyes flicked to Annie’s face. “It’s all just circumstantial evidence—isn’t that what they call it?”

“Juries have been known to convict on circumstantial evidence.”

“Oh, it won’t happen. It won’t.”

Annie was torn between compassion and frustration. Lucy was so evidently upset—and so determined to protect her friends and neighbors. But it was disconcerting to see her willingness to jettison Annie or Bobby.

“So you won’t help me?”

“My dear,” her voice was bone-tired and defeated, “I would help you if I could. But I can’t.”

Max refused to reveal his discoveries until they had eaten, even though it took a forty-five minute wait in a line that snaked from the marina parking lot to the restaurant, The Pink Carrousel, atop the bluff.

Annie brought him up to date on her talks with Gail and Lucy, then suggested, “We could go to a fast food stand.”

“I do not eat fast food.” There was a monumental dignity in his pronouncement.

“That’s un-American.”

“Did you know that the rate of heart disease in China is less than—”

She reached up and put a finger to his lips. “Love, I don’t give a damn.”

When they were finally seated in the outdoor garden, the table listed unsteadily to her right and gnats hovered in a friendly gray cloud.

The menu featured a jaunty merry-go-round, pink, naturally, on a beige cover and 12 pages of offerings.

Max sighed. “A menu this extensive presupposes a microwave.”

“Everybody
uses a microwave.”

“Not in a first-class restaurant.”

It only took twenty minutes for the harassed waitress to reappear for their order.

“Taco salad and a pink limeade.”

Max avoided gagging and ordered, “Baked scrod, steamed broccoli, and a Bud Light, please.”

She grinned at him.

“Taco salad is a gringo invention,” he admonished.

“Don’t try to sound authoritative about Mexican food. That’s my province. And taco salads have an honorable history—”

“If you include junk food in culinary history, perhaps.”

“Ah, refried beans, fajitas, sopapillas dripping with honey and powdered sugar. Heaven in Texas on a Saturday night.”

“If we’re going to talk about the components of a heavenly Saturday night, in Texas or—”

“Down, boy. We’re talking food.”

Their drinks arrived, and he averted his eyes from her gloriously red cherry limeade. She sucked noisily on her straw.

“I do have news,” he said portentously.

“Better than mine, I hope. I didn’t get any change at all out of Lucy.”

Max pulled two envelopes out of his pocket, tossed them to her.

Annie felt the thicker one, poked inside, and recognized the famous mystery plot letter.

“I’ve seen—”

“Put it on the table. Then put the sheet from the other envelope beside it.”

He crossed his arms and smirked in satisfaction.

She glanced at the new sheet, read: “The quick brown fox—” then exclaimed, “It matches. It matches! Where did you find it? How did you find it?”

“The old Remington at the Chastain Historical Preservation Society.”

“Oh.” Her voice sagged. “Hell, I thought maybe we’d learned something.”

Max held his tongue until the waitress unloaded his scrod, which looked like it might rival the Sahara for dryness, and Annie’s salad, which appeared disgustingly delectable, the guacamole a luscious green and the taco shell crisp and light.

“I found out a terrific amount.” His fork stuck in the scrod. He yanked it free and used it as a baton, tapping the beer bottle for emphasis. “One: The letter must have been written between March 12, when your name was first mentioned as the prospective mystery expert—”

Annie poked at the bobbing lime in her glass and frowned at him skeptically. “And who told you that? A flea in the woodwork?”

“Louisa Binning, the Board secretary. She types up Miss Dora’s meeting notes. It’s all there, in black and white.”

For the first time, Annie looked interested. “Okay, the letter must have been written between March 12 and—” she paused, figuring “—and say around March 24, because I got the letter on the 26th, and we have to allow time for delivery.”

“It’s postmarked the 24th.”

A grin tugged at her lips. “Very good, Sherlock.” She balanced a piece of shell heaped with taco meat. “But that gives us a ten-day period—so how does it help?”

“The Remington was at Crosswhite’s Typewriter Repair Shop March 10 through the 19th. But here’s the meat: Louisa insists the letter couldn’t have been typed during hours when the Society is open and that includes the weekend of the 22–23rd when the Society hosted a local China painting display.”

Annie chewed reflectively on a morsel of taco shell. “So somebody got in and used the typewriter at night on either the 19th, 20th, or 21st of March.” She scowled. “How could anybody get into that place at night? The walls must be two feet thick.”

“That’s the point.” His voice oozed satisfaction. “It would take a broadaxe to make a dent on those doors, and the windows are too small for anybody but a midget. Besides, there were no traces of a break-in.”

“So how did anybody get in?” Her face brightened, and she answered her own question. “A key. Max, the typist had to have a
key
!”

Max interred the remains of the scrod beneath some watercress and prodded doubtfully on the mushy broccoli. “And who has keys?” he prompted.

“Okay, you’re wonderful, Maigret. Share with me the results of your investigation.”

“It’s a nice, small list. The members of the Board and Louisa Binning.”

“Oh, sure. Sure. It certainly figures. That means somebody was enjoying the hell out of my presentation of the Moneypot’s plot.” She wriggled her shoulders in distaste.

“Maybe. Maybe not. A Board member or anybody with access to a Board member’s keys.”

“Like Leighton.”

“Or even Merrill’s wife.”

Annie pushed her plate away. “That brings up a critical point. Did the letter give somebody there a murderous idea? Or is the letter writer the killer?” She banged a small fist on the table and beer foamed over the top of Max’s glass. “Why won’t Wells listen to us? The letter is absolutely critical. Whether Lucy admits it or not, the woods are full of suspects, including Leighton, Dr. Sanford, and Roscoe Merrill. And if Wells won’t investigate them, we will!”

The spicy smell of cedar potpourri didn’t quite mask the underlying odors of burnt coffee, chlorine, and un-swept corners. The bar of sunlight which flooded in as they opened the front door revealed, too, that the black-and-white tiled entry of Swamp Fox Inn was long overdue a good scrubbing. Annie thought longingly of the exquisite cleanliness of Death on Demand, but soldiers of fortune had to make camp at the battle site. At least it was quiet this afternoon; the indefatigable tourists were out thirstily absorbing Chastain culture.

“Miss Laurance. Oh, Miss Laurance!”

The foyer, with its scuffed tile floor, led directly to the old-fashioned oak counter. A desk littered with letters, brochures, empty soda cans, a greasy box with two soggy glazed doughnuts, and a flyswatter shared space with a Depression-era switchboard and a wall letter box with numbers affixed for guests’ rooms. Idell Gordon stood on tiptoe behind the counter. She wore a dark brown cotton dress with speckles of lint from the dryer.

Reaching up to the slot for 312, she pulled out a
scrap of paper. “For you, Miss Laurance. Chief Wells left word for you to call. I have the number for you.” She pushed forward the telephone that sat on the counter. Her protuberant eyes glistened with curiosity.

“Oh, thanks so much. I’ll call from upstairs.”

Annie was pink with suppressed giggles as she unlocked the door to her tiny room. “Did you see her face? She was
quivering
for me to use that phone so she could hear.”

Max draped himself comfortably on her bed. “Either way, your call has to go through her switchboard, sport. I’ll bet a scrod (you eating) that she listens in.”

“I don’t gamble,” Annie countered righteously.

She pulled up a wicker chair next to the telephone stand and dialed. She was put through immediately.

“You called?”

“Oh, Miss Laurance.” The greeting sounded like a dungeon door dragging against twelfth-century flagstones. “Thought you might be interested in the autopsy report.”

“Yes, of course.” Alarm tingled down her spine. Why tell her?

“The skull injury was caused by the end of the croquet mallet. But it wasn’t the cause of death.”

“It wasn’t?”

“She drowned.”

Annie remembered the heavy, wet figure face-down in the duckweed-scummed water.

“Medical Examiner figures someone struck her from behind, and she pitched forward into the water.”

She tried to picture it. Corinne arguing, then swinging around arrogantly to walk off. No, Corinne must have turned away and faced the pond, and someone snatched up the mallet and flailed out.

She had a funny feeling of ESP when Wells’s heavy
voice grated, “Hard to picture why she would turn her back on somebody, look out at the water.”