Carolyn G. Hart (54 page)

She looked at them with teary eyes. “She was upset, and walking mighty swift.”

“Do you think she was on her way to meet someone?”

Chloe kneaded her hands against her crisp white apron. “I don’t know. She’d had too much upset. Miss Gail’s a foolish girl, running after that upstart young man. She ought to have listened to Miss Corinne. And
they’d fought something awful, and Miss Gail burst out of the house. Then the phone done ring.”

Annie leaned forward. “Was it for Mrs. Webster?”

The little woman nodded lugubriously. “Yes’m. She said, sharp like, that her mind was made up, that’s all there was to it. Then I went to the pantry. In a minute or so, that was when she left.”

Max frowned. “Where was Mr. Webster while all this was going on?”

“In my study.”

Leighton Webster stood in the doorway to the kitchen, his heavy face cold and unfriendly. There was no genial charm in his manner today. His powerful hands were bunched into fists at his side.

Max was always willing to try. He smiled goodhumoredly at Webster. “We’re trying to discover your wife’s destination when she left the house. Did you happen to hear any of her conversation on the phone?”

“I was not in the habit of eavesdropping on my wife. Furthermore, I believe the police are in a better position to ask questions such as these.” His eyes flickered over them dismissively. “I understand Gail’s asked you to investigate, which I consider absurd—and offensive.”

“Why do you object to our trying to discover the murderer?” Annie demanded.

Leighton rubbed a hand across his cheek, then sighed heavily. “I don’t know what happened.” Truculence gave way to uncertainty. “I can’t believe anyone would hurt Corinne intentionally, and certainly not anyone she knew. It had to be a stranger, one of those dreadful things that can happen.” He looked at them in mute appeal. “Don’t you agree?”

“It could be,” Max said gently.

“You’re going around, talking to people. Ask them if they saw any strangers.”

“It wasn’t a stranger.”

Leighton and Max both stared at Annie.

“How could it have been?” She lifted her hands in a query. “Think about it. Corinne turned her back on the person who struck her. It
had
to be someone she knew—and didn’t fear.”

“I don’t believe it. I’ll never believe it.” Leighton’s voice was rough with anger.

“Why not? She’d made everybody in town mad—and how about you? After I read that letter at the Society, didn’t she ask you whether you were involved with another woman?”

Annie was aware in the shocked silence that followed of Max’s incredulous glance and of Leighton’s sudden immobility.

She’d prodded a raw wound. There was no righteous anger of the innocent.

He made no answer at all, but looked past them, as if they weren’t there, misery and heartbreak in his eyes. Then, without a word, he turned and stumbled blindly from the room.

Annie and Max were silent as they headed down the back steps of Prichard House. They started down the path toward the pond.

“Poor bastard.”

“I know. I’m sorry,” she said defensively.

“That’s all right. God knows he should be at the top of Wells’s list.”

“Except Wells can’t see past the fact that he’s mayor.” Annie scuffed through a covering of pine needles.

“Do you suppose he did it?”

Reaching up, she grabbed a crinkly handful of Spanish moss. “His insistence on the mysterious stranger makes me wonder.”

They came up on the gazebo. Beyond it the pond lay placid and blackish-green without a breath of breeze to stir the reeds. Their footsteps echoed in the morning air as they climbed the steps. They sat down on the wooden benches, and Annie stared glumly at the place where Corinne’s body had lain.

“It makes a hell of a lot of difference whether somebody got mad at her and serendipitously picked up the club and swung, or whether somebody lured her down here with murder in mind.”

“Why?” Max asked.

“A difference in the kind of person. Take Leighton Webster for example. I can’t imagine him plotting a murder in advance. He’s too much of a gentleman. But if he got mad, and there was a weapon handy—”

“Why would he be quarreling with her at the pond? They had that enormous house to quarrel in.”

Annie shot him an appraising glance. “I think you’re sorry for him. Maybe Leighton had just asked her for a divorce, and she’d said no deal, he couldn’t have one. Chloe may have been mistaken about the phone; maybe Corinne was talking to Leighton. She was mad, so she stalked out to take a walk. He went after her, found her at the pond, they continued fighting, and whammo.”

“Maybe,” Max said doubtfully, scuffing the dust with his shoe tip. “That would be unpremeditated, but I think the murder was planned to the last detail. Somebody knew that mallet would be here, called Corinne, and talked her into a meeting. That’s how I see it.”

She tapped her fingers impatiently on the arm of the bench. “What we need is some clever analysis of our suspects. Kate Fansler
always
figures out how everybody’s mind works.”

“I’m agreeable, whoever Ms. Fansler may be. What do you suggest?”

“Some tête à têtes.”

Edith Ferrier reluctantly invited them inside and led the way to a side piazza. Cheerful red and black cushions made the white wicker furniture comfortable. A partially completed yellow afghan lay atop a wicker coffee table.

She gestured for them to sit on a divan and took her place opposite in a straight chair. She looked at them unsmiling, her heavily mascaraed jade green eyes wary. “I don’t know why you want to talk to me.” Her chin gave an infinitesimal backward jerk.

Here, you couldn’t hear the tourists. Bees droned in the honeysuckle that nuzzled the verandah balustrade. Swallowtail butterflies flitted near a blossoming dogwood with white flowers as brilliant as a snowy peak. The manicured garden, though much smaller than those of the show houses, was April perfection, but the tension on the porch was thick enough to cut.

“We’re talking to everyone who had a motive to kill Corinne.” Annie knew it was the equivalent of a flung gauntlet, but why not?

Again, that nervous tic, but Edith kept her awkwardly rouged face impassive. “That doesn’t include me.”

Annie continued on the attack. “You were the clubwoman mentioned in the letter.”

“No one can prove that.” Her fingers nervously worked the pleats in her navy silk skirt.

“It’s obvious. And you admitted on Monday, when Corinne was deviling you, that she’d kept you from being president of the Society.”

Edith picked up the afghan and began to crochet, her eyes intent on the flashing hook.

“I am busy with a number of organizations. Certainly, I can find plenty of opportunities to fill my time, and there are many in Chastain who appreciate my efforts.”

Before Annie could speak again, Max knocked his knee against hers and smiled winningly at Edith. “Actually, I’ve been looking forward to our chance to visit with you.”

The crochet hook eased to a stop.

“Since Annie and I are strangers, we have to depend upon others for information about Chastain and the people who knew Corinne. As a mainstay in the city’s power structure, it seems to me that you are an invaluable resource with your contacts, and, even more importantly, that you are singularly well qualified because of your extensive volunteer work to be able to look past the obvious and give us real insight into personalities.”

Annie would have gagged except for the magical effect of this honeyed flow upon Edith. She was settling back into her chair, the afghan draped loosely over her lap, and a faint flush of pleasure stained her powdered cheeks. “I’ve dealt with all kinds of people over the years, Mr. Darling, and, let me tell you, I can see through a false face pretty quick.”

Max beamed at her. “I knew you were the right person to talk to.”

Annie might as well have been invisible. She stifled a malicious urge to give a piercing whistle.

Max’s voice was as smooth as chocolate mousse. “Tell us about the Board members. What are they really like? And who do you think wrote the letter?”

Edith’s face sharpened, like a hawk preparing to
dive. “You’re right, of course.” Her voice was more animated than Annie had ever heard it. “It must have been done by a Board member. And I think I know which one.”

She paused and received the attention she sought. “I think Gail wrote it.”

“Gail!” Annie’s voice rose. Max nudged her again, harder.

“You can only push any living creature so far. Corinne was killing that girl, crushing the life out of her.” Edith’s voice vibrated with emotion.

“Would Gail know all of the things in the letter?” Max asked.

Edith moved her hands impatiently, jangling her silver charm bracelet. “Of course, she would. She lived in that house. And everyone in town knows how Corinne and John Sanford were wrangling over the hospital funds, and about Tim’s paintings and Sybil.” She paused, and a frown drew her carefully lined brows down. “I don’t know about Roscoe, though. I had heard a few whispers, something about some young woman lawyer in Atlanta. I suppose if I’d heard, Gail could have heard.” She tossed her head and her red-gold hair rippled. “It’s like Gail, though. A weak person pushed to attack and doing it secretly.”

“So you don’t think John or Roscoe were likely to have written the letter?” Max persisted.

Edith didn’t dismiss them outright. “Oh, I don’t think so. It’s too calm and studied for John. As for Roscoe—actually, Roscoe is a very complex man. You rarely know what Roscoe is thinking; he keeps his own counsel. He seems so dry, such a stick, but I don’t think he really is. He’s absolutely crazy about Jessica. That’s why I thought that story about a girl in Atlanta might be false—but he did seem upset when you read the
letter. I was watching him, and his face went absolutely livid for a minute. So I can’t imagine that he would have written it.”

“Unless that was a particularly clever double bluff,” Max suggested.

“What would that achieve?” Edith asked reasonably. “No, I can see where John and Roscoe would have the necessary knowledge, but they both seem unlikely.”

“How about Lucy? She’s an old Chastainian,” Max observed.

Edith nodded. “Oh, yes, she is. And I’ve heard, too, that Corinne ruined her romance with Cameron. But that was a long time ago. Isn’t it a little late to try for revenge? So far as I know, they were on the best of terms. In fact, I guess Lucy was about Corinne’s only friend.”

“How about Sybil?” Annie ignored Max’s involuntary wriggle and concentrated on Edith.

“Sybil.” Edith dropped the name like a pound of butter in boiling chocolate. “Ah yes. Sybil.”

For the first time in their acquaintance, Annie saw a glint of humor in those huge green eyes.

“I’d like to think it was Sybil. Everyone believes Sybil capable of anything outrageous, but frankly it would take too much time and be much too subtle for her.” Her mouth curved in a sardonic smile, admiration mixed with disgust. “If you dumped Sybil in the middle of the Sahara, there would be a half dozen sheikhs there within the day. There’s something about her—”

Max opened his mouth, intercepted Annie’s glare, and wisely remained silent.

“She sends out signals,” Annie said dryly.

Max opted for a diversion. He ticked them off on his
fingers. “So, John’s too abrupt, Roscoe’s too careful, Lucy’s too unlikely, Sybil’s too—impetuous. You think it’s Gail.”

“I’m afraid so.”

But Annie was shaking her head. “You’re both wrong. It’s obvious as it can be. Miss Dora wrote that letter.”

To her surprise, Edith was adamant. “Oh no, she wouldn’t do that. No, you have to understand Miss Dora. She’s devoted heart and soul to Chastain, to its history, its traditions. Nothing matters as much to her as Family. She wouldn’t do anything to harm the Society.”

“Just strangers she sees as a threat,” Annie muttered. “Like me.”

Annie wasn’t enchanted about their next interview, but she realized it was necessary.

It didn’t improve her humor to see one of Miss Dora’s placards posted on the main entry gate.

“The present structure, built in 1833, is the third home at this site. It is Chastain’s oldest surviving Greek Revival home. (The Prichard House on Ephraim Street was built in 1834.) The first home at this location was built by Chastain’s founder, Reginald Cantey Chastain, and the property remains in the Chastain family to the present day. The younger son of an English settler in the Barbadoes, Chastain established the settlement which bears his name in June of 1730. Of an energetic and adventurous nature, he came to the province of Carolina at the age of 23 years and, within five years, amassed a fortune to compare with those of the factors in Charleston. He was a well-built man, standing almost six foot tall with curly chestnut hair and
eyes of the palest green. He was married to Anna Margaret Hasty on January 9, 1736, and they had five sons, Thomas, Nathaniel, William, Percival, and Harold.”

Reginald was probably a rapacious swashbuckler. Sybil no doubt came by her appetites honestly. Heredity, Annie decided, was an awesome force. She glanced up at Max, who was striding eagerly toward the marble steps, his dark blue eyes gleaming with anticipation. Perhaps she should give some thought to Mendelian truths before September.

Max poked the doorbell, then bent down to whisper. “Look, honey, why don’t you let me handle this one?”

“Are you suggesting that I lack tact?”

“Mmmm,” he said, displaying his own exceptional perceptiveness, “let’s just say, I think this one needs a man’s touch.”

“Ooh-la-la,” she hissed as the door opened.

Annie immediately felt like a pile of sunbleached bones. Today Sybil wore red. Flaming red. A red that rivaled that of the San Francisco fire. She was riveting in a linen dress that most women would categorize as skimpy even while recognizing a Bill Blass original and lusting in their hearts. Whether for the dress or a little of Sybil’s panache, it would be hard to say. Who else but Sybil, at her age and voluptuous state, could look magnificent in a dress that ended three inches above the knee? When she turned to lead the way down the hall, navigating on four-inch red leather heels, the curving hem rose high in the back, revealing more leg than a rack of lamb. She managed to overshadow even the spectacular length of hallway with three intricately patterned oriental rugs and a spectacular four-tiered crystal chandelier.