The argument continued on the stairs of the tree house. “I’m going to work just as usual. I do not want to talk about murder.”
“Murders.”
“It has to be a coincidence,” she said mulishly. “Jill and Elliot didn’t even know each other. He didn’t have any pets.”
“How do you know?” Max barred her way down the steps.
Since she didn’t want to go into that, she ducked under his arm. “Look, I’ve got to hurry, or I’m going to be late.” She’d already informed him in no uncertain terms that he was not coming to the store with her. To divert him, she offered, “I’ll have lunch with you. Come to the shop about one, and we’ll go have a mango sundae.”
Max took a childish delight in new tastes, and Annie was pleased at her skill in deflecting him. This was not the time to admit that she’d dated Elliot a couple of times and had once been invited to dinner at his house. That evening was enough to frost any interest on her part. Elliot collected West Indian art and artifacts, including voodoo dolls from Haiti. Her appetite had been seriously damaged by his long-winded and ghoulish description of the walking dead.
Ugh.
Annie ran on down the steps, then realized her car was still in the crushed oyster-shell lot near the plaza, the closest parking place to her store. Of course, Max had brought her home last night.
Since he drove this morning in the old mode, fast and hard, there was no time for conversation.
Annie’s home was on the fringes of the developed part of the resort area. The tree houses had been a builder’s short-lived fancy. She loved living in a remote area, and delighted in the daily surprises of marsh life. Her tree house overlooked the high marsh, and from her sun porch she could watch the never-ending play of light and wind on the thick cordgrass. Salt myrtle, marsh elder, and southern bayberry flourished. A single narrow road snaked inland through palmetto palms and sea pines toward the populated area. Spanish moss shrouded the glossily green live oak trees. Alligators sunned on the banks of shallow green ponds, and turtles, frogs, and snakes slipped silently through the water. The soft air shimmered a paler shade of green beneath the tree limbs.
When Max’s red Porsche plunged out onto the blacktop that circled the island and ran past the luxuriant green of a sleekly mowed golf course, he commented, “From the boondocks to the country club.”
“Part of the charm.”
The blacktop served the access roads to the islands’ mansions, which overlooked the fairways of the Island Hills Golf Club. The three-story Tudor-style Club House glistened in the morning sunlight. Ornate, twelve-foot-tall bronze gates were already open to admit early morning foursomes.
She pointed toward an imposing home on a gentle rise near the fourteenth green. “That’s Emma’s house.”
Max grinned. “Her little place in the country.”
Annie nodded. “Right. I saw a feature on it in American Country Homes. That little cottage is valued at just under two million.”
“Crime does pay.”
“For her.”
Max squinted against the sunlight and upped his speed to sixty.
They flashed by more magnificent homes, some barely glimpsed through the spreading live oak trees.
Max decreased his speed almost immediately because they were already upon the harbor area. Red-tiled roofs marked the beginning of the condos, Swallows’ Retreat. The stores and cafés bordering the basin gleamed a soft gray, the natural wood exteriors weathered by the sun. Max pulled into the crushed-shell parking area.
“She could have done it.”
Looking ahead to Death On Demand, Annie didn’t make the connection.
“Who could have done what?”
“Emma could have murdered Elliot. She’s smart enough.”
“Max.”
“Somebody did it,” he said virtuously.
“Somebody did,” she agreed. “And that charming Chief Saulter can figure it out.”
To Annie’s surprise, Max didn’t even attempt to come into the shop with her. In fact, he dropped her off at the edge of the plaza, promised to meet her for lunch, and waved goodbye with an annoyingly cherubic smile.
Curving around the natural harbor that served as the marina, the plaza was the social hub of Broward’s Rock. Since it was well past the summer season, some of the sailboats were battened down for winter, but most were moored by the wooden docks, ready for island owners to enjoy on idyllic October days. On the far side of the harbor were yacht slips. There were only three big yachts left now, and one of these was Emma Clyde’s, Marigold’s Pleasure.
Annie loved the little harbor. It was as elegant as a Fabergé egg. From her front windows, she could watch sailboats scud into the sound and sea gulls swoop and hover near pier’s end in hopes of free fish. All of the shops built on the curve of the plaza were open, but now that the tourist season was over, the atmosphere relaxed perceptibly. The occasional shoppers were more likely to be year-rounders. It was a good time of the year to inventory, to decide on new stocks for next summer, to savor the relaxed hush.
As she crossed the plaza, she was thoughtful. Why was Max so easily dissuaded from accompanying her? And what was happening in the investigation into Elliot’s death? A dart? That still seemed impossible—and contrived. The more she thought about it, the crazier it seemed.
She walked up on the verandah that fronted the shops and stopped at her own storefront. Death On Demand marched in square gilt letters in the center of the south window. The north window carried the information painted in bold scarlet: Mysteries, Suspense, Horror, Adventure, New and Old.
She looked appraisingly at the display behind the north window. The Murder Ink mystery companions took pride of place. Hard to imagine a true mystery aficionado without them. Her latest and most prized old books, first editions all, lay enticingly in front of the trade paperbacks: Dog in the Manger by Ursula Curtiss, the eight volumes of complete Sherlock Holmes published by Collier, and a rare $110 copy of Elizabeth Lemarchand’s first book, Death of an Old Girl. New hardcovers, with splashily bright covers, filled the south window. Annie nodded approvingly. It was always a plus when she could offer a new Martha Grimes or Ken Follett. Readers flocked. All right. She couldn’t stand there forever and put off going inside. No matter what had happened last night, she was determined to erase the memory of Elliot’s murder. She had work to do.
Annie was fishing her key ring from her purse when woodpecker-quick steps tapped up behind her. Ingrid Jones, her springy gray head bobbing, swooped up, waggling the key. “Decided it would be a good morning to shelve those books from that Texas estate.”
Ingrid usually worked only on Saturdays and during lunch hours in the off-season. Annie wasn’t sure what prompted her early arrival, but she knew darn well it signaled support, and she felt a rush of affection. How nice it was to have friends! Then, insidiously, she wondered what made Ingrid decide it was time to rally round the flag.
Ingrid unlocked the door, and led the way inside, flicking on the lights and chattering nonstop about the snowy egret she’d spotted that morning over near McAlister’s Point. Annie followed slowly, not really listening, but very grateful for human—and animal—sound. Agatha streaked inside, meowing imperiously. Annie stopped by the cash desk and looked down the main corridor toward the dark coffee area.
No one was there.
She had almost expected to find that corner cordoned off and a policeman in residence. But that was ridiculous. With a police force of three, and two murders taking place in less than twenty-four hours, Chief Saulter could hardly spare the manpower.
She tucked her purse in its accustomed place beneath the cash register, then walked down the central corridor, flicking on lights. Agatha loped silently ahead. At the coffee bar, Annie stopped.
A wobbly chalked outline marked the long oblong where Elliot had fallen. She looked quickly away and went around the bar to open the refrigerator and get out Agatha’s milk. When it was poured, she shook some cat food into the blue ceramic bowl that was inscribed in white script, The Grande Dame.
The bell jingled. Annie jumped up to peer down the central aisle, then struggled to look normal as Ingrid welcomed Sam Mickle, the postman.
“Good morning, Sam.”
“Morning, Ingrid. Miss Laurance.”
Annie murmured for a moment to Agatha, who expected salutations along with provender, then moved unhurriedly up the aisle to glance through the pile of mail Ingrid had stacked on the cash desk. Despite everything that had happened, Annie was beginning to relax. It was a marvelously normal Monday. She thumbed through the material, dropping junk into the wastebasket, bills into a pile to her left, Publishers Weekly to the right. She would read PW, then … She held a small square package between thumb and forefinger and stared at the bold, slanted writing of the address.
There was no doubt in her mind who had written her name in thick, dark strokes.
But why would Elliot Morgan have mailed a small, square package to her? Shades of The List of Adrian Messenger, she thought miserably.
It didn’t take Max long to figure the layout of Broward’s Rock. Of course, it wasn’t very big, seven miles long and five miles at its widest. One blacktop road circled the island, beginning and ending at Heron Point where the ferry landed, and funneling into the resort area through the checkpoint. The guard on duty nodded respectfully at the Porsche as it scooted by. The ferry office was part of a tin-roofed beer joint and bait shop owned by Ben Parotti, who could chew tobacco and guzzle Schlitz concurrently. When Halcyon Development Company decided to create a rich man’s refuge, it bought the skillet end of the island, intending to leave the narrow handle with its old, weathered homes, some of them shacks, for “support personnel,” as the developers delicately phrased it. However, Halcyon Development found the smelly bait shop and dank beer joint by the ferry landing unappetizing. Since rich prospective residents would arrive by ferry, Halcyon decided to buy the ferry service and its accompanying office/baitshop/beer joint, planning to build a tasteful cottage by the terminal. Square, stumpy Ben Parotti, who also captained the ferry, intended to continue his life as it had always been, and no sum could budge him. It was a singular experience for the young Halcyon lawyer from Atlanta, whose credo until that moment had been that enough money could buy anyone.
Max took the three wooden steps in one stride and pushed open a creaky door. Inside, he paused, his eyes adjusting to the rank dimness, his nose crinkling at the mixture of smells, chunks of bait, stale beer, sawdust. A bottle-scarred wooden bar ran along the wall to his left. The mirror behind it might last have been polished just before Pearl Harbor. Two round wooden tables with kegs for seats completed the hospitality area. Straight to the back were the cash register and coolers holding chunks of black bass, grouper, snapper, squid, and chicken necks. To Max’s right, a worn, golden oak desk that might once have stood in a country school provided office space for the Parotti Ferry Service.
Max tried to look genial while not inhaling too deeply. “Bud Light.”
Parotti squinted at him with interest.
“Summer folk don’t drink beer this early. And you ain’t no boozer.” He frowned at Max’s crisp blue-and-white seersucker suit. “You another damn lawyer?”
“God forbid,” Max said piously.
Parotti chuckled. “That’s good. But you want somethin’ besides beer.”
“Information.”
Parotti fastidiously pulled the tab off a can of Schlitz. “Funny. You’re the first rich dude to ever pay me the time of day.”
Max looked at the bent but still recognizable sign of a Flying Red Horse, which hung crookedly on the wall back of the cash register. “You’ve been here a long time. I figure you probably see everything that happens on this island.”
“Maybe.”
“The cops ask you how many people came on the ferry yesterday—and Saturday?”
“Sure. Told ’em four. You’re one of them. You were the only stranger.”
Max drank the cold Bud Light with relish. “That’s what I figured.” He nodded companionably at Parotti. “That means I need to know about some people who live here.”
“Why should I tell you?”
“The hell of it.” Max drank more of the beer, then smiled his most winning smile.
Parotti chuckled, looking like an amused but slightly sinister and very tatty leprechaun. “I like you, young fella. Who do you want to know about?”
“You know a fellow named McElroy? They call him Capt. Mac.”
Parotti nodded and tilted his can of Schlitz. “Keeps to himself pretty much. Comes by here for beer, bait. He was a police chief some place in Florida. Gets a lot of packages on the ferry, picks ’em up here.”
“What kind of packages?”
Parotti shrugged. “Electronic stuff, I think. Maybe he has one of those computers. Most of them do.”
“Most of them?”
“The writers. The ones you want to know about.” The shrewd blue eyes were amused.
“So you already know all about me?”
“You’re friends with the new girl, the one who took over Ambrose’s shop.”
“What do you know about the rest of them?”
Parotti took a paint-stained rag from his back pocket and noisily blew his nose. “I’m not in the business of talkin’ about people.”
“You know Saulter?”
The old man’s fece twisted. “Always tryin’ to pick trouble with me, he is. I won’t tell him nothin’.”
“He’s trying to pitch the murders on Ambrose’s niece.”
“Yeah?” Parotti rubbed his nose. “He’s a dumb bastard, all right.” He hitched closer to Max along the dingy bar. “Listen, what did happen last night?”
Max described it all. Then concluded, “So, you see, I’ve got to find out about all the writers who were there. One of them did it.” He ticked their names off, one by one, starting with Emma Clyde.
Parotti muttered under his breath a couple more times about Saulter, took a large gulp of beer, and made up his mind. “Yeah, I can tell you lots. Now, that Emma Clyde, she’s a tough lady.”
“How do you mean?”
“Had a husband, younger than she was. Everybody said he was slipping around with a Cuban girl. Now, he’s not around anymore.”
“What happened to him?”
“Fell off her big boat. Late one night. Accident, they say.”
“You think it was an accident?”
Parotti pursed his mouth. “Most rich folks are smart enough not to fall off their boats when they’re anchored.” He drowned a snigger in his Schlitz.
“What about Fritz Hemphill?”
“Keeps to himself. Plays a lot of golf. I did some work for him once, digging for a sea wall. He tried to cheat me. I told him what happened to the last man tried that.”
“What happened?” Max asked dutifully.
“Funny thing. His car blew up one morning when he started it.” Parotti’s rheumy blue eyes were as cold as an early frost.
“Hemphill pay what was due?”
“Yep.”
“Know anything about the Farleys?”
Parotti jerked his head eastward. “They live a couple miles from here. One time I ran out of gas near their place. Heard somebody screaming.”
“Screaming?”
“A woman. I went up to the house, called out, and in a minute he came to the door. I asked if there was anything wrong, told him I heard screams. He said his wife had burned herself, spilled hot grease on her hand.”
Max remembered Janis’s air of tension and the way she looked constantly to her husband for support. Hot grease.
“Do you know the middle-aged blonde, Harriet Edelman?”
Parotti grimaced. “I stay away from women like that. Reminds me of my first wife.” He shuddered in loving reminiscence and gulped down the rest of his beer.
“How about Hal Douglas?”
For a moment, Parotti looked blank. “You mean the fat one that lives on Blue Magnolia, grins a lot? He seems all right. Another newcomer. Just been here about a year.”
“There’s one more, a pretty redhead, Kelly Rizzoli.”
Parotti opened the refrigerator door and surveyed the contents before taking out another can of Schlitz.
“That’s a funny one. Saw her one night, streaking down the beach like a crazy woman. Turns out she was chasing another female. Caught her on a dune not far from my cabin. They were kickin’ and rollin’ around in the sand, and I almost went out to see what the hell, then the first woman kind of gave up and started bawling, and the redhead led her away down the beach.”
Annie hadn’t been in the store fifteen minutes before she understood why Ingrid had shown up. It was a deluge. Twenty-seven customers before lunch. She didn’t even have time to do more than open Elliot’s package, see that it was a floppy disk with a folded note, and slip it behind a package on the storeroom table.
It took only a few more minutes for her to realize that half the curiosity seekers believed this was their big chance to rub elbows with a Lizzie Borden—her. Typical was Mrs. Porter Fredericks, who bought six hardcovers while watching Annie with walleyed fascination. The woman didn’t even know the books she’d grabbed up, which included one first edition Mike Hammer and two James Bond titles. Annie was tempted to offer to cut off a sprig of hair and price it at fifteen dollars. Ingrid worked grimly and fast, saying once out of the corner of her mouth, “By God, if they come in, they’re going to buy something!” Annie would have been delighted at the constant ring of the register, but the price was pretty high. More than one customer jumped back perceptibly when she approached. Ingrid finally shooed her off to the storeroom. “I can handle this.” She resembled a militant sparrow, darting up and down the aisles coercing the sightseers into purchases. Annie was absurdly grateful for her support.
Mrs. Brawley squeezed down the central aisle at one point and poked her head into the storeroom. “Miss Laurance, I hate to bother you—”
“The Pollifax is not in.”
“Oh, I know that, but I wondered if you could just give me a little hint on that picture with the butler in it.” She fluttered her bejewelled hand toward the watercolors pinned to the back wall. “I think I have all the rest of them.”
Annie was impressed at this evidence of singleminded devotion to the hunt, but she shook her head chidingly. “Now, now, Mrs. Brawley. That would be cheating, wouldn’t it?”
Grudgingly, Mrs. Brawley turned away. She was still posted in front of the watercolors twenty minutes later, and Annie heard her muttering to herself, “Just one more, and I can get my Mrs. Pollifax free!”
The only fellow suspect to come in was Harriet Edelman, whose arrival almost caused a traffic jam on the verandah when people realized they could see two of the people who were there.
Max drove fast. He had time for just one more stop before he met Annie for lunch.
He tossed the names up in his mind like confetti, then glanced down at the crude map he had drawn with Parotti’s help.
Max squealed onto Sandpiper Terrace. Number Eleven was the third house on the left, a yellow two-story stucco with a long clear pane of glass in the front foyer. The largest hanging fern he’d ever seen glistened in the sunlight on the front porch. He parked and strode up the manicured gravel path past crisply trimmed monkey grass. Summer marigolds and zinnias still bloomed. Mauve and gold chrysanthemums flooded a square plot by the front steps with autumn colors.
He stepped up on the recently painted porch and rang the bell.
A voice boomed, “Come on around here. I’m out in the garden.”
Turning, Max saw Capt. Mac. He wore khaki slacks and a tattered pale blue polo. Max’s mouth turned down. James Bond. Then he managed a smile.
“Glad I caught you.”
McElroy led the way down a flagstone path past the house to a tiled patio beside a swimming pool. He waved Max to a white, webbed patio chair. The air carried the scent of honeysuckle and crape myrtle from the back stockade fence.
“You wanted to see me?” McElroy’s voice was friendly, but his gray eyes were wary.
Max tried butter. “Annie tells me you were a super cop.”
“Really? I don’t remember ever talking about my work with Annie, Mr. Darling.”
Strike one.
“I guess someone else must have told her. You were a police chief in Florida?”
“Chief and assistant chief. On the Gold Coast. Before that, I was a cop in Miami. The Gold Coast is a good deal more pleasant.”
Max glanced up at the house. It wasn’t large, but it was nice. Very nice. And the figure-eight pool was a beauty.
“You retired to the same kind of place.”
“Right. The only difference is, I don’t know all about everybody here.”
“A police chief in a high-class resort gets to know more than he wants to sometimes.” Capt. Mac’s face was no longer genial, and Max suddenly had a glimpse of a tougher, harder persona than the retired man usually revealed.
“Is that true of Saulter?”
“Ask him.” Not unpleasant, but not exactly forthcoming. Capt. Mac sat solidly in his deck chair, his posture almost military.
“I’m surprised you aren’t lending a hand.”
“Lending a hand?”
“Helping out. I don’t suppose Saulter’s ever handled two murders in one weekend. Or maybe even one.”
“He knows the drill.” But was there in that dry comment just a hint of disbelief in Saulter’s ability to properly run such an investigation?
“You keep on top of it last night?”
McElroy leaned forward in his chair. The polo shirt fitted him snugly, revealing the strength of his upper torso. “Saulter didn’t quite want to throw me out, so I hung around. He did okay. He secured the area, made a list of all the physical evidence. Photos. Dusted for fingerprints.”
“What did he come up with?”
Capt. Mac squinted. “What’s your interest, Mr. Darling?”
“Call me Max.”
McElroy waited.
Finally, Max said baldly, “My interest can be summed up in one word: Annie.”
The deeply tanned face softened. “That I can understand.” He scowled. “I’m a little worried there, too.”
Max had an uncomfortably empty feeling in the middle of his chest. If this ex-cop were a little worried, Max was a lot worried.
“Why?” he asked sharply.
McElroy picked up a cigar from a humidor on the glass-topped patio table and offered one to Max, who declined. He rolled the cigar in his fingers. “I don’t want anybody to think I’m critical of another cop.”
“Of course not.”
He took his time putting the cigar in his mouth, lighting it. He didn’t look at Max.
“Thing about it is, Saulter thinks the simple answer is the best.” He blew a thin stream of smoke that hung in the soft, pine-scented air. “Of course, that’s how cops are trained to think. The simple answer usually is the right answer.”
“So what’s the connection between the simple answer and Annie?”
McElroy tapped the ash from the cigar. “Let me tell you how a cop thinks. One, who had the best opportunity to set up the kill? Two, does that person have a motive? Saulter’s worked it out.
“Who could rig the lights to go out?
“Whose fingerprints are all over the circuit box?
“Who could hide a dart at her leisure?
“Who had an argument with Elliot Sunday morning and was obviously furious with him on Sunday night?
“Who faced financial disaster if Elliot raised the rent on her shop?
“Who was the champion pitcher and batter on the Island Softball team in August?”
Capt. Mac took a deep breath and frowned significantly.
“There’s one name that fits—and that’s Annie.”
“What about the writers?” Max demanded hotly. “Didn’t you tell him what was going on? That Elliot was about to dump everybody’s inmost secrets out on the floor? Did you tell Saulter about that?”
“Sure, but that’s too fancy for Saulter. Besides, how much dirt could Elliot possibly have on these people? If they’d done something criminal, how could Elliot know about it and not the authorities? No, I’m telling you, Max, Saulter sees this as an open-and-shut equation: Annie fought with Elliot, Annie was mad, it’s Annie’s store. Who did it? Annie. All he’s doing now is looking for proof.”
Max felt like someone had kicked him in the stomach.
But Capt. Mac wasn’t through. He gripped the cigar so hard it dented. “And there’s something you don’t know, son. Something bad. Saulter’s got another damn fool idea—”