April Fool Dead (23 page)

 

In late March, the beach attracts more walkers and volleyball players than swimmers, but on a cloudless Saturday afternoon there were plenty of sunbathers, surfers, joggers and hot-dog hounds. Boom boxes boomed, a golden retriever bounded into the surf, girls in bikinis the size of postage stamps smiled winsomely
as boys helped them apply coconut oil on hard-to-reach spots. Max nodded approvingly. Those boys must be Eagle Scouts, always prepared, ready to assist any damsel in distress. “Oh, yeah,” he huzzahed softly. Sea oats rippled in the breeze. A lifeguard used a mega-phone to warn beachgoers about an influx of sea wasps, the rectangular jellyfish with dangling tentacles.

Wearing a Braves ball cap, aviator sunglasses, boxer swim trunks and huaraches, Max strolled casually on the boardwalk. A huge beach towel was slung casually over one shoulder. He stopped at an outdoor phone. He used a corner of the towel to pick up the receiver. He dropped in the coins, punched the number written on the palm of his hand. The phone rang twice. A tinny recorded voice announced:

“You have reached the Broward's Rock Police Department Crime Stoppers. If you have information about a crime or criminal activity, your identity will be protected. If you wish to arrange for an officer to meet you or if you wish to leave information, please do so after the long beep.”

Max bent close to the receiver, whispered:

“You got the video.” Sometimes, he had to admit, Annie was inspired. “Listen up. Meredith Muir's murderer will be at the Muir cabana tonight. If you stake it out, you'll catch him.”

 

Annie stopped breathing while she sprayed bug repellent. She paused and looked inquiringly at Max. “Do you suppose police on stakeouts wear Off?”

Max held out his hand for the can. “Around here I bet they do.” He jiggled the can, lifted his cap to squirt
the back of his neck and his hair. He dropped the can into a canvas carryall. He shaded his eyes against the early-evening sky. The setting sun stained the horizon a rich rosy red. The motorboat rocked in a gentle swell. The rowboat to the stern dipped and swayed.

Max craned to see around a saw palmetto. They were anchored on the lee side of a six-foot-long hummock. The small clump of heavily vegetated land was near enough the inlet for them to watch the Muir cabana, but their motorboat and attached rowboat were hidden from view on the shore. They had arrived and taken their position behind the hummock well before dusk. “After all,” Annie pointed out reasonably, “we have to get there before the police do.” They'd finished their picnic supper, a carryout from Parotti's—an oyster sandwich and fries for Annie and grilled chicken sandwich with chutney for Max, and sipped iced tea.

“So far, so good,” Max muttered. “I thought I saw the crape myrtle move a minute ago. Actually”—his face was worried—“if they're coming, they should be here.”

Annie patted the waterproof camera on the seat beside her. “If the police don't come, we'll get a picture of him. And if the police are any good, we shouldn't see them.” She leaned back contentedly against the red leather seat, admiring the last iridescent spill of light across the darkening water.

The motorboat rocked in a swell. Crows cawed.
Something rustled on the hummock, perhaps a raccoon. The night was very dark, only a sliver of moon and the faraway stars glittering cold and distant. Max leaned over the stern, pulled the line hand over hand, drawing the rowboat close. “Come on. It's dark enough now that no one will see us. I'll hold it steady.”

Annie stepped carefully over the stern and into the rowboat, balancing until she settled in the front. Max climbed aboard, handed her the oversize waterproof flashlight. She rested the rubber-sheathed light and the camera in her lap.

In only a moment, he was sculling the boat easily through the water, the dip of the oars a whisper of sound lost in the rustle of the spartina grass and the gurgle as the tide flooded ashore. When the boat drew up on the far side of the Muir pier, Max tied the rope to a piling, bent close to Annie to whisper, “Let's go up on the pier. We can get behind the boathouse. No one will see us.”

Max eased up the ladder first, crouched on the pier, ran lightly to the shadow of the boathouse. Annie followed, dropped down beside him. They took turns watching the cabana. The low-slung structure lay dark and silent. Across the inlet, the Nevis house blazed with lights. Once Annie pointed toward the Muir house. “There's nobody there.”

His breath was warm against her ear. “Shh. They're probably staying with friends.”

Annie nodded. She understood. The Muirs might never wish to come back to the house that overlooked the place where their daughter died.

At eleven, Annie tugged on Max's arm. His turn to
watch. She yawned and snuggled against him, wishing she'd worn a heavier jacket. The night was dank and chilly. If nobody came, tomorrow might see Diane's arrest. That shouldn't happen. Annie wished—She came awake with a jerk, Max's hand tight on her arm, his lips against her cheek. “Somebody's coming. Look!”

Annie bent forward. Was that a shadow near the front steps of the cabana? A dark form reached the porch, slipped to the door.

Suddenly lights blazed. Huge swaths of light pinned a dark figure in a circle of brightness. A gloved hand rose to hide a white face. A black knitted cap was pulled low on the forehead. Black sweater, black slacks. One hand held a metal tin of gasoline.

Harsh shouts came from every direction. “Hands up. Police. Hands up!”

The figure dropped the heavy tin and darted to the side of the porch. He jumped to the uneven ground, stumbled and ran toward the water, pausing once to reach into a pocket and pull free a gun. The gloved hand rose and a flash of light came from the barrel of the gun.

A gun answered in return and the running figure tilted to one side, slowly slumped to the ground.

Annie held tight to Max's arm. “Oh, Max, oh, Max!”

Max pulled her close. “He shot first.”

Heavy running feet thudded across the ground. More shouts. “Watch him, watch him!”

But the figure lay unmoving, the gun beside him on the dusty ground. A light illuminated the slack muscles
of the blanched face. A hand reached down and pulled away the knitted cap to reveal bright red hair.

“George Wilson.” Annie nodded with sad finality. “Meredith tried to talk to him Thursday afternoon. I saw her in the corridor by the counselors' offices. Oh, Max, she was scared. Meredith didn't talk to him that afternoon, but she must have called him, and when he came that night she accused him of killing Mrs. Nevis—so he killed her.”

A
NNIE WORMED
her way through the crowd. Death on Demand was packed. This was starting April with a bang, all right. The gathering might be the store's most successful book signing ever. She'd better get a bunch more books out. Annie was almost to the storeroom when a hand touched her lightly on the shoulder.

“Hi, Annie.” Frank Saulter bent close so she could hear over the cocktail-party roar. “Can I help you carry some stuff?”

“Frank, that would be great.” Annie smiled up at his dear familiar face, his brown eyes somber above a subdued smile. “You're wonderful to come. I know Emma's not one of your favorite—” Remembering tact at the last instant, Annie regrouped. “Hey, I've got the new Bob Crais saved for you. On the house.”

His eyes lighted. “That's great. But”—a shrug—“I couldn't miss a signing at my favorite mystery bookstore.”

They reached the storeroom door and stepped inside. Annie closed it and the hubbub of Emma Clyde's signing receded to a roar on a level with a college football game in the next block, distant but still awesome.

Annie found two more boxes of books, handed one to Frank.

She was reaching for the knob when he said. “Annie, thanks.”

She stopped. Frank wasn't thanking her for the new book. She looked at his lined face.

He crooked one arm to hold the box, lifted his hand to rub at his cheek. “That day you came to see me. You had those flyers.” His eyes brightened. “You did good work there, Annie, catching that guy. But the deal is, if you hadn't taken the time to come and tell me you didn't have anything to do with that stuff about Jud—” He broke off, pressed his lips together. “You're a lot like Colleen, Annie. You're a sweet girl. And that got me to thinking about what was going to happen.”

Annie blinked back tears. “You would have done the right thing, Frank, whether or not I'd come.”

His head shake was slow but definite.

They stared at each other wordlessly for a moment. Annie stood on tiptoe, leaned forward, kissed his weathered cheek. “You're a good man, Frank.”

He ducked his head, pulled open the door, stepped aside for her. Annie struggled against the crowd. Her arms ached from lugging books. It was a bookseller's dream, but honestly, how could Emma's books sell this well? Weren't people ever going to tire of Marigold Rembrandt, who was always odiously right? Apparently not.

Emma lifted a flute of champagne. “
Salud
, Annie!” Emma's broad face was flushed. Today her hair was an improbable metallic blue in swooping waves reminiscent of the 1930s. Her vertically striped caftan, alter
nating bands of silver and emerald-green, rippled as she rose to her feet.
“Salud!”

The jammed bookstore, after a moment's pause, erupted with applause, though the customers looked puzzled.

Emma hoisted herself atop the wooden chair, peered gaily around the coffee area of Death on Demand.

Annie drew her breath in sharply. Oh damn. How much champagne had the woman downed?

Emma leaned forward, wavering precariously, and snatched up a bottle, refilled her glass. “We are gathered here—” She gave a snort of laughter. “Another time. But I wish to honor our hostess. Not only has she provided us with the grandest book event in the history of our island—”

Annie shot a desperate glance at Max behind the coffee bar, handing out cookies with “Whodunit” written in icing. He lifted his shoulders, let them fall. His message was clear:
Que sera sera
. Annie edged nearer Emma's table.

Emma gestured dramatically with the glass, champagne sloshing perilously near the rim. “Oh, I say. Desperate moments require desperate measures”—Emma eyed the flute—“and I'm just the lady to meet the challenge.” She upended the glass, downed the wine. “I always meet challenges. I have to compliment Annie because she created a superb contest to attract readers to the store for the signing of my latest book,
Whodunit.
And”—Emma pulled a sheet from her pocket—“I wish to announce the answers.”

Annie stood on tiptoe. “Emma,” she shouted, “the
contest is for everybody attending your signing. The winner gets—”

Emma's gravelly voice rose, drowning out Annie:

“Book 1—A country doctor knows there is more behind the murder of his old friend than anyone realizes. Answer:
The Murder of Roger Ackroyd,
by Agatha Christie.

“Book 2—A messenger dies in a mysterious plane crash, leaving behind a list of ten names. Answer:
The List of Adrian Messenger,
by Philip MacDonald.

“Book 3—Two strangers travel on a train and talk about murder. Answer:
Strangers on a Train,
by Patricia Highsmith.

“Book 4—A smart-mouth reporter investigates the drug scene on a California beach and meets a man who wants to die. Answer:
Fletch,
by Gregory Mcdonald.

“Book 5—A half-English, half-Egyptian con man, who never quite succeeds at anything, drives a car to Istanbul and finds himself in the middle of a daring robbery. Answer:
The Light of Day,
by Eric Ambler.

“Book 6—A very conventional English lawyer defends an attractive dark-haired woman and her eccentric mother against a charge of kidnapping. Answer:
The Franchise Affair,
by Josephine Tey.

“Book 7—A middle-aged spinster takes a house in the country for the summer, a man is shot to death in the clubroom, and her niece and nephew seem to know more than they admit. Answer:
The Circular Staircase,
by Mary Roberts Rinehart.

“Book 8—Three children try to solve a neighborhood murder while their mystery writer mom races to meet a deadline. Answer:
Home Sweet Homicide,
by Craig Rice.

“Book 9—Can the new mistress of Manderly ever escape the shadow of her husband's first wife? Answer:
Rebecca,
by Daphne du Maurier.”

Max moved out from behind the coffee bar, reached up to grip Emma's elbow. “That's very good, Emma. And now some of the customers have some more books for you to sign.” He helped her step down.

Annie plunked down the box of books next to Emma's chair. She didn't slam them down. Of course not.

The author settled into the chair, waggled her pen. “Annie, I got them right. Didn't I?”

Annie bent forward, tried to smile. “But Emma, the winner gets an autographed book from you.”

Emma blinked. “Oh, well, we can always make an adjustment. And besides, I know the books in the watercolors, too—”

A light voice sang out, “I'm just back from Atlanta. I had such a wonderful time, exploring all different sorts of photography, always a fascinating study. It is simply fascinating to know about some of the technical advances in the field and their ramifications for the good of society.” Dark blue eyes gleaming with good humor, Laurel burbled, “It's so sweet of you, Annie, to make it easier for your devoted readers to identify these wonderful Southern mysteries by giving us the
letters in the alphabet of the authors' initials and naming the state bird where the books are set.”

Laurel pointed at each painting in turn:

“
To Live and Die in Dixie,
by Kathy Hogan Trocheck.
K
is the eleventh letter in the alphabet,
H
the eighth and
T
the twentieth. The book is set in Atlanta and the brown thrasher is the state bird of Georgia.

“
Killer Market,
by Margaret Maron. Her initials are the thirteenth letter and the cardinal is the state bird of North Carolina.

“
Mama Stalks the Past,
by Nora DeLoach. Her initials are the fourteenth and fourth letters and the Carolina wren is the South Carolina state bird.

“
Murder Shoots the Bull,
by Anne George. Her initials are the first and seventh letters and the yellowhammer is the state bird of Alabama.

“
Angel at Troublesome Creek,
by Mignon F. Ballard. Her initials are the thirteenth, sixth and second letters and the cardinal is the state bird of North Carolina.”

Laurel wafted near the table. “Dear Emma, of course I will take
Whodunit
as my prize.”

“Whodunit.”
Emma grinned. She picked up a pen, signed her name in bold strokes. “It's a ripping good title, if I say so myself.”

Laurel beamed. “It will probably sell enough copies to afford you a new Rolls-Royce. But until then, have you given Annie the keys yet? After all, it was Annie who figured out whodunit.”

Annie felt as exposed as John Mortimer's dodgy barrister Rumpole confronting She Who Must Be Obeyed.

“And of course,” Laurel trilled, “everyone on the island knows you are a truly generous spirit, Emma, and will be delighted to provide Annie with free use of your Rolls-Royce for a week in honor of Annie's success in unmasking a particularly devious miscreant.”

If Emma's yacht was her pride, her pink Rolls was her joy. Emma's eyes glittered for an instant, then, with a shrug, she poked her hand in her pocket, pulled out a key chain hanging from a miniature silver dagger. She thrust the keys at Annie.

Annie's fingers closed around the little dagger. A Rolls-Royce. And there was that track in Florida where anybody could race…. “Emma, I scarcely know what to say, but—”

Before she could finish, Emma's lips curved in a lopsided Cheshire-cat grin of delight and she yanked the keys away. “April fool, Annie!”