Murder Walks the Plank (22 page)

 

“Did your dog die?” Amanda Parker slapped her backpack on the bench. Amanda was five feet two inches of bursting energy with frizzy blond hair and sharp blue eyes that kept track of everything in school.

Rachel lifted a startled gaze. “I don't have a dog.”

“Dog, boyfriend, favorite aunt.” Amanda popped the tab on a Pepsi, sank onto a shady portion of the wooden slatted bench. She gestured with the can, and soda fizzed from the opening. “Can you believe we have to go to school in August? Look at the water. It's brutal to make us sit on the terrace and watch the dolphins when we ought to be out there with them. Anyway, why so sad?”

Rachel's eyes jerked toward the pier that stretched out into the Sound. She'd followed Cole Crandall outside, then lost her nerve. Study hall students had the option in nice weather of taking their books to the terrace that overlooked the water. A half dozen benches were scattered in the shade of live oaks. The humid August heat made the air thick and heavy, but there was an illusion of coolness near the water. The brisk onshore breeze stirred Rachel's hair, fluttered the dangling straps of Amanda's backpack, flapped Cole's baggy trousers as he leaned against the railing, staring seaward.

With an effort, Rachel met Amanda's probing gaze. “You said it. School in August. Ugh.” No way would she let Amanda know she was even aware Cole Crandall existed. Everybody thought he was a nerd. “And I think we're having a pop quiz next hour.” She picked
up her American Lit book, flipped it open to Hawthorne.

“Ms. Cooley? Yeah, she's mean that way. Listen, did you hear that”—Amanda scooted nearer to Rachel, dropped her voice—“Teddy Cosgrove got drunk and took his parents' car out and…”

Rachel half listened, as, her face screened by the book, she watched Cole Crandall walking toward them. He was slightly built, not much taller than she, with tangled brown hair and a nice-looking face—high cheekbones and a pointed chin and kind of an interesting mouth—if you didn't know he was a creep. Every step was heavy as if his feet were mired in muck. His face had a bruised look. Not real bruises but the kind of hurts Rachel had known when her mother died, the sagging muscles that tell of thoughts too dreadful to bear. Cole passed them, not looking their way, head down.

“Rachel, don't you think that's the worst thing you ever heard?” Amanda's voice rose in malicious pleasure.

Rachel slammed her book shut. “I forgot,” she mumbled. “I've got to go by my locker….” She was up on her feet, hurrying toward the wide glass windows framing the back entrance. But by the time she skidded inside, the bell was ringing and the hall filled. She didn't see Cole anywhere. She had to go to class. Maybe he was tired. That was all. Anybody could be tired. She hurried into Ms. Cooley's class, took her seat, third desk from the front in the second row. She got out her notebook, opened the text. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't forget Cole's face.

 

Max lined up the orange golf ball, held his new putter
steady. He bent his knees. There was a hump in the indoor green, very similar to the contours of the green on the fifth hole. Have to adjust…He began his swing.

The phone rang.

Max jerked the putter and the ball sped across the putting surface, disappeared over the side, banged into a wastebasket, and caromed out of his office.

His secretary called out, “Hole in one—if you were aiming for that sculpture of justice blindfolded that your mother gave you for your birthday. Oh wait, the ball's quivering on the scales, nope, it's settling in place. Adds a bright note if I may say so.”

Max didn't take time to check Caller ID. If this was the call he was hoping to receive…He yanked up the phone. “Hello?”

“Maxwell, I sense stress. Your voice…Perhaps you might brew a cup of chamomile. Of course”—his mother gave a trill of laughter—“if you were one of those private eyes of fiction fame you'd open your desk drawer and belt bourbon. One wonders how the poor boys kept their heads. But they often didn't. In any event—”

Max poked his putter into the umbrella stand, strolled toward his red leather desk chair, settled himself comfortably. He was hoping for a call in response to his e-mail with the attached picture. He checked his watch. Surely within the hour he would hear. He'd requested a return call, ASAP. Would Rodney St. Clair oblige? Would Rodney be able to help? Max knew the possibility that had occurred to him might be absolutely wrong. But if he was right…

“—I'm glad I caught you. I took a casserole out to the Heath house and had the nicest visit with Imogene
Riley, the cook. I offered to help and we were soon quite chummy—”

Max's lips curved in a smile. He'd rarely met anyone his mother could not charm, from harried salesclerks to reluctant debutantes to taciturn sea captains.

“—and it turns out Imogene came back to the house Saturday afternoon. She wanted to get started on the Black Bottom Parfait for Monday evening. She said it takes a steady hand to add the gelatin to the hot custard and whip until it's smooth. She wanted the dessert to be just right because Meg was looking forward to that dinner so much. And then she muttered, ‘Not like some I could mention.' It took a little doing, but in between cutting slices of cake and setting out Emma Clyde's famous rhubarb dessert, the one with tapioca, Imogene told me all about it. Saturday afternoon there was a heated argument between Jenna and her mother. Oh, I suppose it was Jenna who raised her voice. Apparently Meg always remained quite above that sort of interchange. Jason was there and he stormed down the stairs shouting that his mother was a damn fool and she better come to her senses and he slammed out the front door. Jenna came right behind him. Imogene said she didn't know what the fuss was about, but she put the cooling parfait glasses in the refrigerator and slipped out the back door. She didn't want Meg to know she'd overheard their quarrel.”

Max reached for his pad, made notes. “Good work, Ma. We'll have to find out what the trouble was.”

Call Waiting beeped.

“Got to go, Ma.”

A
BLACK PAW FLASHED
through dangling fronds of fern, swiping within a millimeter of Annie's wrist. Annie yanked her arm back and the spouted watering can in her hand sprayed droplets on the floor and a portion of the classic mystery section.

“Agatha, drat!” Annie glared at the big green jardiniere, which contained a huge whitmani fern and a ball of irritated fur. “How was I supposed to know you were asleep in there?” Annie plunked down the orange plastic container, hurried to the sink, grabbed a roll of paper towels, and rushed to the bookcase. She carefully dried the Josephine Tey titles, wishing she were as perceptive as Tey. The acclaimed British novelist had an uncanny ability to reveal the depth of evil so often hidden beneath the commonplace.

Annie took her time removing the traces of water. She knew she was dawdling. The phone rang. Annie froze, looked toward the front.

Ingrid's pleasant voice was courteous, helpful. “Yes, we have all the reprints of the Constance and Gwenyth Little titles and…”

Annie relaxed. She fervently did not want to talk to Emma Clyde. Annie imagined the likely conversation.

Querulous inquiry: “What progress have you made?”

Defensive, apologetic response: “I haven't had a chance—”

Stony demand: “Why not?”

“All right.” Annie spoke aloud. She pushed up from the floor. “I'm not your lackey.”

Agatha landed on the floor perilously near Annie's foot, cast a venomous golden glance, and hissed.

Footsteps clattered. Ingrid, carrying a note card, paused in the central aisle. “You girls having fun?”

Agatha stalked toward the coffee bar, outrage clear in every mincing step.

Annie followed. She shook out fresh dry food. “You must learn,” she told her cat, “not to take everything personally.”

A snort from the comedy mystery section indicated Ingrid's opinion.

Annie slid onto a coffee stool. Maybe she should heed her own advice. Maybe she was taking offense when none was intended. Moreover, even if Emma suggested that Annie lacked the skills of Marigold Rembrandt, Annie should take it in stride.

The phone rang.

Annie continued to sit up straight. She was as cool as Selwyn Jepson's Eve Gill sitting atop a chest of contraband whisky while revenue agents clambered aboard the
Peacock
.

Ingrid thrust the telephone into her hand. “Emma.” She moved behind the coffee bar, began to measure coffee and milk.

Annie forced a smile. “Emma.” She could handle this. After all, Emma prided herself on being the great detective—she and Marigold—but Annie knew about
the fire, and Emma didn't. Annie was casual. “I'm going out to look over the burned storage building near the Heath house”—the plan came to her suddenly and it sounded vigorous—“as soon as I've talked to Jason Brown.” The intent to question Meg's son indicated an on-top-of-the-crime investigator. “What's up with you?” Match that, pal.

Match and raise. “What's to see?” Emma's voice was dismissive. “A charred ruin. The firefighters stomped around and obliterated anything that might have been a clue to the arsonist. However, Lou found an empty gasoline tin stuck in the branches of a live oak. He removed it very carefully. I'd say they'll find prints, all right, but they won't belong to the person who set the fire. Anyway, glad to hear you've been thinking.”

Annie's brows drew down. Not only did Emma know about the fire, she'd already checked out the site. Moreover, didn't her accolade actually imply that Annie should have been out doing something instead of sitting in her bookstore pondering?

The cappuccino machine made jolly noises.

Emma swept grandly on. “It's a good idea to talk to Jason. Lou Pirelli said Jason was camped out on the front step of the station this morning and insisted on talking to Billy. In a few minutes Jason slammed out the front door, looking as mad as the guy who lost out in the tussle for one of Barry Bonds's home run balls. Be interesting to know what ticked Jason off. I thought the family was relieved that Billy believes her death to be suicide. Yes, you definitely should include Jason on your list of interviewees. I've reserved a quart of fruit salad for you to pick up at Hasty's.” Hasty's Fine Foods
was the island's most popular purveyor of gourmet foods.

If there was a party in the offing, no one had told Annie. “Fruit salad?”

“You can say you're bringing it to the house on behalf of Pamela. After all, Pamela saw more of Meg the last few months than anyone but Claudette.” Emma gave a bark of laughter. “There's nothing like a death in the family to open the door to all comers. Including you. While you're there, see if you can find out where Claudette was when Pamela went overboard. Ditto Jason and Jenna. I've got a phone brigade at work. We're gridding the entire excursion boat. We may come up with something interesting. Keep your cell phone on. Cheerio.”

Ingrid brought Annie a steaming mug of cappuccino, topped with whipped cream and chocolate shavings. She pointed at the mug's inscription, “The Under Dog” by Agatha Christie.

Annie managed a wry smile. “Actually, the old”—she made a determined effort to be civil—“dear has a good idea. Several good ideas.” Give credit where credit was due. Happily, pinpointing the location of everyone aboard the excursion boat at the moment Pamela went overboard would keep Emma occupied for a good long while. But first Annie was determined to relax and enjoy her cappuccino, although she did take a moment to open her purse and switch on the cell. Who knew? Maybe she'd get a call that she'd won the lottery. Better yet, maybe she'd have occasion to call Emma and announce the resolution of the investigation. Mmmm. The cappuccino was orange-flavored this morning.

The bell jangled at the front door. A customer?

Annie took another sip of the hot sweet drink, put it on the counter. “I'll go see, Ingrid.” There was no hurry about the fruit salad. She banished a picture of Emma swooping into Death on Demand on a broomstick. As she headed for the front of the store, enjoying the sound of her shoes on the heart pine floor, she took pleasure in the rows of bookcases and the brilliant book covers face out on the end caps. The new Harlan Coben cover was so vivid it glowed. It would be nice to have customers, but on a sunny August day she had to admit the beach was better. She'd check the updated forecast. Was that tropical storm still building steam near the Virgin Islands? In a few days, she might have customers aplenty.

“Anybody here?” The call was brusque.

She came face-to-face with Jason Brown. She had last seen him pushing his mother's wheelchair aboard the
Island Packet
. Despite his scowl on that bright hot evening, he'd had the pampered, arrogant expression of a man who expects everyone to admire him and do for him. Not now. His handsome face—dark eyes, dramatic chiseled features so like his mother's—sagged with fatigue and misery, a preview of how he might appear as an old man. His eyes were reddened, his curly black hair uncombed. He stopped in front of her, hunched his shoulders, jammed his hands into the pockets of worn jeans. “You called the cops, said there should be an autopsy on my mother.” Each word was distinct and harsh.

Annie thought that battle was over and done. She stood straight and defiant. “Yes. I did.”

His gaze was unwavering. “I guess since you were there that morning, you and my mom must have been pretty good friends. Listen—”

Annie would have explained, made it clear she was at the Heath house because of Pamela Potts, but Jason Brown had come to talk and the words blew faster than beach sand in a March wind.

“—maybe you can help me. I've been to the police station. They told me—the guy who's in charge—that it looks like my mom committed suicide because there was only stuff in her glass, not in the decanter. I told him he was nuts. Mom”—he stopped, swallowed, wavered on his feet—“never did that. She never would. I thought maybe you could talk to him, make him see. Somebody who really knew her might be able to make him understand what she was like. He thinks I don't want to believe it because she was my mom. But that's not true.” He freed a hand, massaged his face. “She was flying high this weekend. I saw her Saturday and Sunday.” He swallowed hard. “She was as happy as I ever saw her in my whole life.” There was no joy in his voice.

“Because of Bob Smith?” It was a stab in the dark.

“Who's Bob Smith?” Jason looked bewildered.

“I'm sure everything that happened is linked to Bob Smith.” Annie spoke with confidence. “He came to see your mother Friday morning.” She saw sudden knowledge in Jason's eyes and intense attention. “He was shot Saturday night—” Jason's shocked expression stopped her.

She stared at him. “Didn't you know? Wait a minute. Come with me.” She led the way to the coffee bar, hurried behind it and reached for her purse. She pulled out one of the pictures created by Marian and Max, handed it to Jason.

Jason took the sheet, held it tightly with both hands,
but there was no emotion in his face as he gazed down at the handsome man.

“He came to see your mother Friday morning.” Annie watched Jason, tried to read the blank look that molded his face into a mask of emptiness. “He was murdered Saturday night. Pamela Potts took his card to your mom. Pamela was pushed overboard Sunday night. The sherry was poisoned Sunday night. And last night somebody set fire to the storage building out at your mom's house. It all has to be connected to him.”

“No.” Jason's denial was vehement. “That can't be right. No way. I didn't know about him. I mean, I didn't know he was dead. And I don't know about this Bob Smith stuff.” He shook his head. “Anyway, that's crazy. Besides, Mother didn't know he was dead. She had no idea. Why, Sunday she was happy as a lark. She wouldn't have killed herself Sunday night.”

Annie held out her hand for the picture. “If you know anything about him, you need to talk to the police.”

“Talk to the police…” He took one step back, another. “Oh God, I can't. You say he's dead?” His eyes were wide with shock.

“Somebody shot him, left the body at Ghost Crab Pond without any identification, then used his room key to check him out of the inn early Sunday morning.” As far as Annie could tell, all of this information was news to Jason. “If you know why he came to see her—”

Jason's hands clenched into fists. He swung around, ran up the central aisle, banged through the door.

Annie stared after him. Jason Brown knew about Smith, but didn't know he'd been killed. Or maybe—and the thought came quick and cold—he was making an excellent pretense of ignorance. Whatever, Billy had to talk to Jason, find out what he knew about Bob
Smith and Meg. There was an air of panic about Jason's sudden flight.

Annie headed for the front door. According to Emma, Jason and Jenna had both been at the Heath house Saturday afternoon. Had Meg, a happy, excited Meg, told Jason about her handsome visitor? She might also have told Jenna.

It was time to deliver that fruit salad.

 

Max knocked on the partially open office door. A metal plate announced: Acting Chief Billy Cameron. Billy had finally moved from his smaller quarters to the chief's corner office with its sweeping view of the Sound.

“Come in.” Billy's deep voice was firm.

Max stepped inside, held up a green folder. “Billy, I've got the goods on Bob Smith.”

Billy sat with his back to the windows, but he could swivel in his chair to look out at the bustling harbor. Bright sails patched the Sound with color. Sleek speedboats thrummed, leaving wide wakes. Whistle shrilling, the
Miss Jolene
thumped into the dock. The ferry was packed with SUVs, pickups, and cars. Passengers with bikes clumped near the rails, waiting impatiently for the ramp to lower. August sunlight flooded through the panes, burnishing Billy's hair a bright gold.

Max admired the harbor scene. He hated to miss out on a perfect summer day. Was that a dark hint of building cumulus clouds to the south? But he and Annie, their duty done, could take a spin on
Fancy That,
his new speedboat, as soon as he told Billy. Max's grin was expansive.

He pulled a straight chair close to Billy's yellow pine desk. The desk was so new there was a definite
smell of varnish, and truth to tell, the finish was a little sticky. Moreover one leg, the left front, was a trace shorter than the others, so the desk had a decided list, but Billy was extraordinarily proud of the piece. His stepson, Kevin, with help from Mavis, had made the desk this summer for Billy's birthday, working long hours in the woodworking shop at The Haven, the island rec center for teenagers.

Max slapped the folder on the desktop, loosened the edge of his hand from the varnish. “I have definite identification. Apparently the dead man had used the name Bob Smith ever since he returned to the United States in 1982. I haven't been able to trace him between 1976 and 1982, but for certain he was actually Tony Sherman, Meg Heath's second”—he paused for dramatic emphasis—“and presumably deceased husband. According to what I've found out, Sherman was given up for dead when his boat went down in a storm. Everybody thought Meg was a widow, including Meg.” Max flipped open the folder, retrieved Meg's biographical sketch, handed it to Billy.

As Billy read, Max flapped the altered photo. “That fire last night at the Heath house got me thinking. Why would somebody destroy a storage building? Unless it was a pyromaniac impulse—and you know nothing like that's been happening on the island—it had to be part of a rational plan. Marian Kenyon said the building held papers and mementos that belonged to Duff and Meg. Maybe there was something in those papers that would give us a hint why Meg was killed. Like old scrapbooks. Like a picture that would be a clear match to this one.” Max rattled the sheet again. “I know, officially you're considering Meg Heath's death a suicide. But it could have been murder. Annie figured it
out.” His tone was admiring. “Annie thinks someone dissolved the Valium tablets in the decanter. Sunday night Meg poured her evening sherry, carried the glass out on the verandah, drank her sherry as she always did. The killer knew she'd die. Late that night the murderer went to her room and poured out the sherry in the decanter, washed out the decanter, and substituted fresh sherry. That way the only Valium residue was found in her glass, and, reasonably enough, her death appeared to be suicide.”