16
Max bellowed in her ear. “We don’t have time to do this!”
“We’ll take time!” she insisted. Then, standing on tiptoe, she struggled to see over the bobbing heads. “For Pete’s sake, what is that awful noise? And why are people jumping around?”
He reached up and grabbed a gnarled live oak limb and nimbly hoisted himself up. Dropping down in an instant, he yelled, “It looks kind of like a cross between square dancing and tap dancing.”
“Oh, of course. The cloggers,” she shouted.
“Don’t be silly. They don’t have loggers in South Carolina.”
She gestured helplessly toward the side street, and, heads down, they fought their way into the less densely packed mob on Lafayette. The thunderous clacking was reduced from the roar of an approaching subway train to merely the thunder of nearby surf.
“Clogging,” she explained. “I read all about it in the Chastain House and Garden Tour brochures. It originated in Ireland and Lancashire, England, and it’s here by way of Appalachia. That bit of news was tucked next to the information about the magic shows on the hour at Prichard Museum. And the flea market in the Armory. And the praline eating contest in the basement of the Methodist Church.” She grabbed his arm, and they broke into a half trot. At least they were moving against the traffic flow now.
“Is there any other excitement you’re keeping from me?” He darted a worried glance at his watch. “Annie, your cast is going to show up in twenty minutes for a warm-up.”
“They’ll keep. And everybody did swell last night. This is more important.”
She did slow for a moment, however, at the corner of Ephraim and Prince streets to point up a curving drive at the greenish-gray plaster of a Greek Revival mansion. “Lady Lust lives there.”
“Sybil Giacomo?” It would not be inaccurate to say his tone quickened.
Annie shot him a disgusted look. “The one and only.”
“Hey, why don’t we talk to her now? We need to find out where she and Tim were when Corinne was killed.”
Annie grabbed his arm firmly. “Tomorrow.”
But when they reached the long, dark line of wrought iron two doors down, she felt a funny little thump in her chest. The late afternoon shadows threw deep pools of shade across this immense stretch of lawn. Spanish moss hung in ghostly filaments from the live oaks. The day was still and somber, and the sweet scent of the pittisporum hung in the air like a powerful perfume, dizzyingly.
She pulled open the gate with its ornate pineapple motif. The reluctant shriek of the metal was worthy of Inner Sanctum’s finest hours.
Midway up the stately avenue of live oaks, she stumbled to a stop. “Look, there’s another one.” She might have been pointing out a tarantula.
This placard was bound with scratchy brown twine to an especially low and thick branch:
“This live oak was the site of eight recorded duels, only one of which resulted in death. The facts are these: Harold Anderson Chastain derided the conduct of Judge Arthur Winyard, declaring him to be the servant of the factor and disloyal to his duties as a magistrate. The judge’s son, Thomas, sought out Mr. Chastain and, after a heated exchange, struck him with a riding crop. The men met in combat at the hour of noon on August 18, 1805, each walking twenty-five paces, then turning to fire. Mr. Winyard was mortally wounded and died at the scene. He was 22 years, 8 mos. and 6 days of age. Mr. Chastain suffered a grievous injury and passed from this earth on September 6, 1805, at the age of 32 years, 9 mos., and 17 days.”
She shivered, and the chill came from more than the sunless dark beneath the trees.
“She’s crazy,” Annie whispered.
She took Max’s arm again, purely for companionship, of course, and they continued up the shell drive. In the silence, oppressive after the roar near the riverfront, the sound of their footsteps carried clearly.
A low tabby wall enclosed the house, which was built of brown-toned plantation bricks. Four huge tabby-covered Doric pillars supported a two-story verandah and a flat roof with a balustrade around the top. They mounted the steps. A rattan rocker faced the front yard. Annie knocked vigorously.
They might as well have pummeled a tomb door in the Valley of the Kings. No sound. No movement. No response.
“Dammit, she can’t accuse me of murder, then go to earth like a rat in a burrow.”
But Miss Dora’s house brooded in the light of the setting sun, impervious to Annie as it had proved impervious to intruders throughout its history.
Frustrated, Annie lifted both fists and pounded again, but with no more effect than before. They were turning to descend the steps, when she reached out, gripped Max’s arm.
“Look. There. Did you see?”
“Where?”
“The window. That curtain moved. I swear it did.”
Annie stared at the dusky folds of velvet, pressed against the pane. Was there a slit there, a fine line open to vision? Were malicious black eyes staring out at her?
They gave it up, finally, and started down the steps, but Annie knew she was engaged in a duel. A duel of wits that might prove deadly.
Annie was forewarned for Tuesday night. She had, after all, survived Monday night, the kick-off of the English Manor Mystery, a k a “Alas, A Sticky Wicket.” Ingrid was on duty in the Police Headquarters Tent, emphatically instructed to be certain that each team received only one search warrant and warned to be suspicious of everyone, especially sturdy little old ladies with angelic expressions. Further, she was keeping a vigilant eye on the clue table. Tonight Annie intended to personally roam the Suspect Interrogation Tent to ensure that the Mystery Night detectives stayed within some bounds of reason.
After she made her brief speech introducing the suspects, she followed them and the charging crowd to the tents. She waved at Max, who was busy signing up teams to visit The Scene of the Crime, now moved to the rose arbor near the tennis court. Ingrid flapped her hands frantically. Annie started toward her. She was dodging her way around clumps of conferring detectives, when a piercing voice demanded:
“How about the real murder, Ms. Laurance? Are you snooping around?”
Walrus Mustache, beaming genially, hefted his camcorder and focused. Mother bounded forward, microphone outstretched.
Annie had often wondered what it would be like to be the cynosure of all eyes; abruptly, she knew. A hush fell, like the dead air at a hurricane’s center.
“Understand you and the police chief had some words.”
The intelligence-gathering capabilities of the Sticky Wicket detectives should be studied by the CIA for possible emulation.
“We have discussed the crime,” she answered carefully.
“Come on, now, girl. Let us in on the real scoop.”
“I don’t really know very much—”
A disappointed collective sigh rose.
“—but I can tell you this much.”
The quiet was absolute.
“It looks like the murderer is someone who had known Mrs. Webster very, very well.” She waved her hand, smiled, and turned away. Let Chief Wells stuff that in his jaw and chew it.
She was in high good humor when she reached a besieged Ingrid and the clue table.
“Aren’t there supposed to be five exhibits?”
She glanced down at the table, which held a train ticket, a crumpled initialed handkerchief, a Turkish cigarette stub, and a note that read I can’t come.
She felt disgust but no real surprise. These addicts were capable of anything. “Somebody’s ripped off a clue,” she muttered to Ingrid. “I’ll be right back.” Thank heavens, she had duplicates of all the clues at the Inn. Replacement seemed simple enough, but she hadn’t taken into account the limpet-like qualities of the detectives. She was accosted three times en route to the front gate, then had to struggle through the county-fair-strength crowd on Ephraim Street. This evening, the free entertainment featured a ventriloquist with a talking banana. Fortunately, the Inn was just the other side of the Benton House. She wormed through the coffee bar patrons, raced up to her room, grabbed the cast of a footprint, and hurtled back downstairs.
Idell poked her head out of the untidy office behind the counter.
“Miss Laurance, oh Miss Laurance!”
“Sorry, I’m in a hurry—”
“Miss Laurance, do the police think the person who wrote that letter to you is the same as the murderer?”
Halfway out the door and barely paying attention, she yelled back. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
She replaced the pilfered clue, then began to circle unobtrusively. At least, this investigation was proceeding smoothly, although not everyone appeared enchanted with her Stately Home murder. A skinny man in black-checked trousers perilously held up by yellow suspenders snarled to a fat woman in pink tights, “This is a sissy kind of murder. As far as I’m concerned, you need a hero.” He paused, then said gruffly, “Down these mean streets—” “Oh, my God,” his companion groaned, “if you’re going to quote Chandler …” Annie turned away to hide a grin. In the Interrogation Tent, Team No. 4 concentrated on the search, and its captain, a white-haired Chastain lawyer, bore down on Reginald Hoxton.
“Can you tell us how you earn your living, Mr. Hoxton?”
Sanford lolled back in his chair, a wolfish smile on his dark face. He wore a pale yellow shirt with a round white collar and pale blue slacks. It wasn’t nineteen-thirtyish, but he was the epitome of a man from whom you wouldn’t want to buy a used car. For the first time, Annie suspected the abrasive doctor of having a sense of humor.
“Investments,” he replied airily.
“Investments in what, Mr. Hoxton?” the lawyer persisted.
“One business today, another one tomorrow.”
“Perhaps your real business is taking advantage of women, Mr. Hoxton.”
“Those, sir, are scurrilous words.”
“Oh? Can you explain the testimony of Lady Alicia’s maid? She tells us Lady Alicia owed you 3,400 pounds.”
“Lies, all lies.”
“Agnes tells us you have badgered her poor mistress for huge sums of money, claiming she owes them to you for losses at cards. Is this true, Mr. Hoxton?”
Smiling, Annie moved on and came up behind the circle of questioners around Agnes.
Her smile faded. Poor Lucy was obviously miserable. She sat unsmiling and rigid in her chair. Tonight she wore an attractive black-and-white silk dress and white gloves. Her face carried an unaccustomed splash of color on each cheek, and Annie knew she’d tried to use make-up to hide her pallor. Lucy listened attentively to her questioners, answering each question dutifully, but her gloved hands were clenched in her lap.
“Agnes, what exactly did you hear Mr. Nigel say to Miss Snooperton?”
Lucy glanced down at her prep cards. “It was shocking to me, sir, that I can tell you. Mr. Nigel was all upset. He kept saying he wanted to know how long she’d been seeing Lord Algernon on the sly. Miss Snooperton denied it had ever happened. Mr. Nigel said he wasn’t going to marry anyone who would lie to him, but Miss Snooperton told him he’d given his word and she wore his ring and it would be a scandal if he broke it off. Mr. Nigel stormed away, but she called after him that she’d talk to him later, as they’d planned.”
Team Captain No. 6 probed deeper. “Funny how you can see and hear so much about everyone but your mistress. Tell us now, when was the last time you saw the necklace in her possession?”
Lucy’s distrait silence was perfect. Finally, she responded sharply, “I know that necklace like my own hand. I saw it that very morning. But you can’t fault me for having eyes and ears, and Mr. Nigel’s not telling all he knows.”
A high, sharp voice urged her teammates, “Oh, let’s hurry. Let’s get a search warrant against Nigel Davies.”
Annie would know that voice anywhere. As the team members broke into a trot, heading for the Police Investigation Tent, she called out, “Mrs. Brawley.”
Slowly, reluctantly, a slight figure with a fox-sharp face paused for an instant.
Annie reached out, gripped a bony elbow. “You were here last night.”
Mrs. Brawley lifted her chin defiantly. “I have a ticket tonight, too.”
“That isn’t fair.”
“There’s not a thing in the rules that says you can’t come every night, if you buy a ticket.” Mrs. Brawley shook free of Annie’s hand. “And I bought a ticket for every single night.” She darted away.
Annie stared after her.
Obviously, it was cheating. By the time she’d been on four different teams, it would be a bloody miracle if she weren’t the first to figure the mystery out.
But Mrs. Brawley was right. There wasn’t a single thing in the rules to prevent it.
It was not, Annie decided, a surprise that so many murders occurred, but so few.
She stalked after Mrs. Brawley and her team, and arrived in time to see the members receive their information from the search warrant on Nigel Davies.
They learned: Nigel Davies had been expected to marry his girlhood sweetheart, Susannah Greatheart, and friends had been surprised when his engagement to the worldly Miss Snooperton was announced. Nigel and Miss Snooperton had been observed quarreling, with Nigel threatening to break the engagement. The search of his room at the Manor revealed a note from Miss Greatheart, which threatened suicide if he did not return to her.
With happy clucks of anticipation, the team rumbled off en masse to return to the Suspect Interrogation tent and a session with Miss Greatheart.
Annie glanced at her watch. Nine-forty. Thank heavens, the madness would soon be over.
“Miss Laurance.”
“Could I talk to you for a minute?”
It was politely phrased, but Bobby Frazier’s tone brooked no disagreement. His face was shadowed by a tall, perfumed pittisporum shrub.
“Certainly.”
He jerked his head toward the Benton House. “Let’s walk over by the fence.”
They found an oasis of quiet near the gate between the two houses.
In the yellowish glare of the overhead security light, he looked drawn and tired, tension lines bracketing his mouth.
“What did Gail tell you?”
Annie didn’t like his peremptory tone.
“Why don’t you ask her?”
Frazier swallowed jerkily. “Look, I’ve got to know. I’ve got to know what the hell is going on.”
“Pick up a phone,” she retorted. “Call her.”
“I can’t.” He grabbed a bar of the fence. He should have looked inoffensive, a young man in khaki slacks and a yellow sports shirt with pencils poking out of the pocket, but he reminded Annie uncomfortably of a predator crouched to spring, every muscle taut, every nerve stretched to the highest pitch. Then, with evident effort, he smoothed out his tone. “Look, Miss Laurance, I just want to know what she told you. It’s no state secret, right?”
“She told me about her talks with you the day Corinne was murdered.”
His hand tightened convulsively on the bar. “You may have gotten the wrong impression.”
She waited.
“Gail’s a nice girl, but she’s not interested in me—and I’m not interested in her.”
“Yeah. We’re just friends. That’s all.”
“I guess you forgot to tell her.”
He reached out, gripped her arm so tightly that Annie gasped softly. “What the hell do you mean?”
Because his tone frightened her, Annie responded fiercely. “Gail is a nice kid, Mr. Frazier. She doesn’t know any better than to tell the truth, and she’s telling everybody—and I’ll bet that includes Chief Wells—that you didn’t give a damn about her not having any money and you intended to go on seeing one another.”
“Oh, shit.” His fingers unloosed her, and he banged through the gate and was gone.
Annie stared after the yellow shirt until it was swallowed by the darkness. What did that mean? Nothing good for Gail. Was this a less than graceful effort by Bobby Frazier to remove himself from suspicion?
Annie sighed, turned to return to the fray, and froze. Was there a rustle in the bushes behind her? Swinging around, heart thudding, she peered into the shadows. Yes, there was movement and a dark splotch of cloth. Suddenly, she shivered. The bushes lay quiescent now. But she had glimpsed a wizened face and malevolent eyes.
Hadn’t she?
With a feeling of horror, she plunged up the path toward the tents.