Something Wicked (22 page)

“Sweetheart, don’t you worry your pretty head. If they arrest him, I’ll get the best bail bondsman in South Carolina and we’ll spring him in a New York minute. Now, I’m just takin’ a break for a little sustenance, then I’ll get right to it.”

“They found a gun in Max’s condo. It’s the same kind that killed Shane.”

“Found a gun? That might put us in a pickle, all right.” A pause. Did she hear the slosh of liquid? McClanahan burped quietly. “Now, let’s see, Miss Laurance, tell me this: Does Mr. Darlin’ ever have seizures of any kind, maybe little lapses of memory?”

Oh, God. The music, a dreadful combination of country and acid rock, ranged into the upper decibels. A dog would’ve howled.

Annie snapped, “No. He does not have seizures, mental lapses, emotional aberrations, or festering aggressions.”

“Huh?”

“He is, in short, Mr. McClanahan, innocent. Now, you get the hell over to Posey’s office and protect your client, and I’ll figure out what’s going on.” She slammed down the receiver, bolted out of the booth, then stood uncertainly.

Brave words, indeed. She paced back to her car and stared out across the choppy water with troubled eyes. The ferry must be nearing shore now. Soon Posey would have the gun in his possession, the gun that a clever adversary had hidden in Max’s condo. Yes, somewhere on this lovely island a dangerous and calculating intelligence was weaving a net around Max.

She knew only too well what it took to convict. Means, motive, opportunity—and physical evidence.

The murderer had dropped the last one right into Posey’s grasping hands.

When was the gun placed in Max’s condo? And how?

Annie shook her hair back from her face, but even the ever-present sea breeze didn’t refresh her. Her mind felt like a jellyfish left behind at high tide. When, when, when?

The gun was found in Max’s clothes hamper. He would have showered this morning, before coming over to her tree house for breakfast. The gun must have been placed there after he’d left….

Oh, no, she could narrow the time better than that, much better. Because no one knew Max was on Posey’s list of suspects until the prosecutor went after Max during the grim session at the high school this morning. He’d taken Max in to Beaufort shortly after eleven. The murderer must have enjoyed
Posey’s attack on Max and seen a wonderful opportunity to tighten the net. That’s when the decision must have been made. After eleven. And the chief searched the condo at one-thirty. So, the gun was put in place between eleven and one-thirty. Within a two-and-one-half-hour space, someone slipped into Max’s condo with that damning evidence.

Max’s condo didn’t run to an alarm system. (Who needed an alarm system in a community on an island that had a single security-manned entrance-exit?) A good, healthy credit card would spring the front door. Max had a ground-floor condo with front walls around an entrance patio for privacy. Might as well have laid a red carpet for the murderer. But Posey would sneer at the claim of a frame-up.

Well, Annie had an advantage over him. She knew Max was innocent—and she knew—or could almost be certain—that one of those present at the high school auditorium that morning had put the gun in Max’s apartment. Who else knew he was being questioned in Beaufort?

So she wanted to know the whereabouts from eleven to one-thirty of the members of that select group—and she had a few more trenchant and perhaps downright disagreeable questions to ask.

Cole Drugstore was an enclave from the past, with its original marble-topped tables and wire-backed chairs, revolving red Leatherette stools at the soda fountain, and lazily moving circular fans. The pleasant, musty dimness held memories of yesterday. For just an instant, Annie recalled long-ago afternoons and cherry phosphates with her uncle, the founder of Death on Demand. Then she hurried down the center aisle, shampoos and shaving lotions to her right, face powder and lipsticks to her left.

Arthur Killeen stood behind the cash register. He looked up with an automatic smile. When he saw her, the smile disappeared faster than a table full of Stephen King books at a science fiction convention. His hands pressed tightly against the counter top.

Annie wasn’t sure just how she would approach each cast member. Should she appeal for help, mount a broadside attack, all guns smoking, or attempt a disarming ingenuousness?

Arthur’s eyes flickered uneasily. His features looked pinched and tight. Odd. He had seemed, until now, a peripheral figure, the genial druggist who created such a diffident, appealing Dr. Einstein.

A mystery ploy flashed through her mind, that old saw of the telegram warning, “Flee, all is discovered.”

She planted herself determinedly by the counter. “Arthur, you’d better level with me.”

His shoulders sagged. “It was over years ago.”

Annie waited, her face stern.

“It will kill her, if it comes out.” His mouth twisted with bitterness. “Goddam, he was like a pig in heat. Why the hell did he want to go after Bea? She wasn’t his type.” He laughed mirthlessly. “But maybe that’s why he did it, so he could chalk up a hit in the kind of circles he despised.” His eyes reddened. “He laughed at her, you know. Told her she was a silly fool woman who thought she was better than everybody else, and he just wanted her to know she wasn’t, then he walked out, still laughing.”

Annie riffled through a dozen pictures in her mind, and finally, from a players’ picnic the summer before, recalled Arthur’s wife, Bea, a tiny blonde who wore her hair in a tight bun and only a smattering of pale pink lipstick.

“Where was Bea Tuesday night?”

“Oh, no, she’s out of it, Annie. She was in Savannah with our daughter, who’s expecting a baby.”

So he was worried about Bea’s reputation, not the possibility that she might be a suspect.

Or was he worried sick that Posey might sniff out the affair between Shane and his wife and go after him?

“I guess you’re going to tell Posey.” A nerve twitched in his cheek. “You’ll do anything to help Max, won’t you?”

“Max didn’t do it.”

“Neither did I.” He started to turn away.

She decided on an oblique approach. “Arthur, you want to get this cleared up as soon as possible, don’t you? I need to know where everyone went after they left the school this morning. Did you see anyone between eleven and one-thirty?”

His long pause might mean he had no idea of the purpose behind her question, or it might mean he thought very well on
his feet. Finally, grudgingly, he said, “I went to the
Gazette
this morning to turn in some ads for the weekend. I saw Sam down there. I think that’s—oh, I passed Hugo jogging as I drove back. He was on one of the bike paths next to the road. And Henny flashed by on her ten-speed near the bird preserve.”

The Crown Shore Motel on the shore side of the island proudly offered a salt-water pool, in-room Jacuzzis, free continental breakfasts, and candy roses at bedtime. Jerry’s Cabins on the marsh side of the island were the flip side of the coin, and offered very damn little. Rusted window screens, sagging wooden shutters, once-a-week maid service, and a half mile walk to Jerry’s gas station, cafe, and roadside market for ice at 89 cents a bag were the extent of its amenities.

A rusted blue bike and an ’86 Ford Falcon rental car with Georgia plates sat in the sandy ruts next to cabin seven.

Annie knocked on the door.

It opened at her first tap, and Sam burst out onto the wooden steps, with his finger to his lips. He softly closed the door behind him. “Tonelda’s taking a nap,” he cautioned. “Have you heard?” His voice radiated cheer, and Annie looked at him in surprise. His face blossomed with delight. Obviously, he didn’t know about the gun being found at Max’s.

Sam was prattling on. “Listen, we’re hot. Really hot. AP called. UPI called. Cable News is sending a crew out from Atlanta. I’ve been down to the
Gazette
to talk to Vince. He says everybody in hell wants to know what’s going on. Murder behind the scenes. Death backstage. Annie, you’re not going to believe it, but”—he paused significantly—“the
New York Times
called.”

“You’ve been to the
Gazette
today? Around lunchtime?”

A look of thoughtful cunning flashed in his bloodshot eyes. “Later than that. I had to fix lunch for Tonelda. I was over to the harbor just a little while ago. Anyway,” he went on impatiently, “this story has everything, a good-looking woman, a rich man—” He paused and stared at her, apparently thinking for the first time of his audience. His eyes shifted away. He gnawed on his upper lip, then said brightly,
“But look, Annie, Max has money out the ass. They won’t hold him. Even if they arrest him, I’m sure he can get out on bail in time for our opening. And it takes forever for criminal cases to come to trial. And no jury would convict him.” He shook his head in awe. “Think about the free pub!”

So Sam did know about the gun. Of course he would know if he’d been to the
Gazette
offices. Vince would be the first to learn the astounding news of a search warrant sworn out for the home of a leading citizen. Vince was probably on Max’s doorstep when the chief came out with the gun. But Sam would also know, obviously, if he put the gun in the hamper. And wasn’t his claim of having been to the harbor area after lunch a clearly feeble attempt at an alibi?

She stared at him coldly, and even Sam must have felt the chill. He shot her a craven glance and reached inside his pocket to pull out a crumpled sheet of paper.

“Would you take a look at this? I’m going to see how much Vince will charge to run it as an ad. What do you think?”

She looked at it briefly.

“What do you think?” He couldn’t disguise his eagerness. “I think it’s remarkable,” she replied dryly. It was remarkable
for its insensitivity, gall, and callousness. She stared up at his plump face, with its straggly halo of thin blond hair.

“Gee, that’s great.” Sam beamed at her. “Well, I’d better hurry, get it down to Vince. He’s about to lock up this week’s edition. I’d better hurry.” He started down the steps toward the rental car, then turned. “Uh, Annie, if I can do anything to help about old Max, you let me know.”

She watched him thoughtfully as he backed out of the rutted drive. Sam had one aim in life, to regain his place on Broadway. She had no doubt he would scratch, bite, kick, and knife his way past any obstacle.

But would he shoot Shane? And frame an innocent man for murder?

She wouldn’t be at all surprised. She turned and began to pound on the weathered door.

“Jesus, knock it off!” a high voice called.

Annie continued to knock. Louder.

The door was yanked open. The spiky hair drooped sideways and makeup was smudged on Tonelda’s sleep-heavy face. “What the hell do
you
want?”

Annie felt a stab of compassion. What the hell did Tonelda want? What had happened in her short and obviously traumatic life to land her in this seedy cabin with a man at least twice her age? But the dark eyes peering out from mascaraladen lids looked like old stones, discouraging sympathy.

“How long have you been asleep?”

“Jesus, you some kind of crazy government survey? What the hell difference does it make to you?” The door began to close.

Annie grabbed the doorknob. “When did Sam get back this morning from the meeting at the high school?”

For the first time, interest flickered in those eyes. “You’re in the play, aren’t you?”

Annie nodded.

“You got the rich boyfriend.”

“Yes.”

“So you’re not after Sam, huh?”

“No, Tonelda.” Her voice was gentle. “I’m not after Sam. Not that way. I just need to know where he was around lunchtime.”

Reassured that her meal ticket wasn’t endangered, Tonelda
yawned. “I slept late. He was gone when I woke up, and then he was late gettin’ back. I was hungry. He didn’t fix lunch ’til almost one.”

So Sam hadn’t come directly to the cabin from that session at the high school.

“And you went back to bed after lunch?”

Those old eyes stared at her. “What the hell is it to you, lady?” and the door slammed.

Back in her car, she headed for the entrance to the resort area. The guard waved her through the checkpoint (a yellow-and-black sticker on her windshield identified her as a resort resident). She hesitated at the fork. If she turned right, she would take the quicker route back to her tree house, then sweep by her turnoff and drive on to the condos that overlooked the sound. Max lived there, and so did Carla. If she turned left, she would head for Hugo’s palatial beachfront house.

Carla obviously didn’t like Shane. But Hugo, like Sam, harbored overweening ambition. Thoughtfully, Annie weighed dislike against ambition and turned left.

Unlike most island residences found at the end of dusty gray roads bordered by live oaks, Hugo’s home was hidden from view behind a curving stucco wall painted lime green. A white-lacquered louvered gate barred entry. As Annie coasted to a stop, a green button glowed on a communications box atop a stand at car level. She stared at the wire-meshed box. A smooth male voice requested politely, “May I help you?”