Only a few cars were parked in the Haven lot. Two police cruisers claimed shady spots near some pines. Max edged the Jeep into the dimness below a towering live oak. He punched down the windows before he turned off the ignition, leaving the keys in place. He didn’t worry about his car being stolen. Since the Jeep didn’t come with water wings, a thief’s only escape from the island was via the ferry. The Jeep would be hot when Max returned, but minus the furnace effect of closed windows. A gentle breeze rattled palmetto fronds. Moist July heat enveloped him. Cicadas thrummed. Crows cawed.
He wanted to know more about Click Silvester and his excitement over last night’s program. Why would his part be secret? Of course, Billy had a point. Many of the kids who came to the Haven had little chance to publicly shine. Maybe Click’s eagerness for the program was that innocent. Still, Max had a gut conviction that Click Silvester had been murdered. Everyone knew Booth Wagner had been murdered. Sure, coincidences occurred. Once Max had run into one of Laurel’s ex-husbands (a Brazilian) in the British Museum. But two deaths in two days with a common link to the Haven rubbed him wrong.
He swung out of the Jeep and moved fast. Jean Hughes could have the information he needed. As he came around a sweet-smelling pittosporum hedge, he saw her across the open ground, standing near the stage. She could be looking at the stage or at the lake, the murky green water shimmering in the sunlight. Or she could be watching the searchers wading in the muck near shore. Standing beside Jean was Marian Kenyon from the Gazette. A few feet away, Darren Dubois watched every move of the officers.
Max strode toward the lake and the onlookers. If Billy discovered Booth’s threat to dispossess Jean and her dying sister of the cottage, Jean Hughes would surely become the chief suspect. And reasonably so.
Why then did Max feel strongly that she was innocent?
Because the murder had been well planned: a weapon brought, sudden darkness without warning, the unexpected shot.
He felt a tiny spurt of wry amusement. Jean’s main failing as a director was her slapdash approach to records and lack of administrative skills. Nobody doubted her empathy for kids and ability to encourage them.
His amusement was succeeded by cool reasoning. Booth Wagner’s murder at the Haven made the recreation center the focus of the investigation. Jean Hughes might be disorganized, but she was nobody’s fool. If she had planned to murder Wagner, she would have taken great care to commit the crime somewhere other than the Haven.
In response, Billy could point out that she didn’t know until Friday that Booth had the power to force her and her sister out of the cottage with only a week’s notice. If she didn’t announce her resignation at the program, Wagner would evict them. That left very little time to plan a murder.
Max squinted in the sunshine. If Billy was right, Click’s death the previous day was irrelevant. But if Click’s death was connected to Wagner’s murder, that could mean the decision to kill Wagner was in place by Thursday. Then an even stronger argument for Jean’s innocence could be made. She would not have approached Max on Thursday, asked him to intervene for her, thereby sending ripples of knowledge across the island that she had a motive to wish Wagner dead. If she intended to murder Wagner, she would never have asked for help or made a stink about losing her job. She would have acted like the job was no big deal, she was ready to move on. If she knew he was going to be dead, her job was safe. In fact, Jean’s public attempt to fight her ouster likely suggested the Haven as a murder site.
Billy saw Wagner’s death at the Haven as a link to Jean. Maybe the site was chosen because Jean was a perfect ten as a suspect.
Jean stood with shoulders hunched, head bent forward, her posture in striking contrast to her casual summer appearance—bright orange hibiscus on a loose cotton top, flared white slacks, and white sandals. Next to Jean, the Gazette’s star reporter held a notebook and wrote furiously. Marian’s dark hair was stirred by the wind. Bony and thin, dressed in her usual slapdash fashion—a wrinkled blue blouse and baggy brown slacks—she looked alert and eager.
In the lake, Frank Saulter in hip waders gestured to a companion searcher, a thin officer in his late twenties with a blond ponytail and sharp features. The two men, moving clumsily and heavily, mud sucking at their boots, came together.
Max came up beside the women. “Marian.”
The reporter gave him an abstracted nod.
“Jean.”
In profile, Jean’s rounded face was heavy, her makeup too bright.
There was the sound of a splash, an exclamation from Frank.
HENNY BRAWLEY ADDED a final pencil stroke to her sketch of the Haven grounds. Henny was stylish in a navy scoop-neck blouse and white linen slacks. She looked absorbed in her task, her intelligent face thoughtful.
Annie admired the drawing. With an economy of strokes, Henny had created a sharp black-and-white drawing of the woods and lake. Pines, live oaks, magnolias, and wax myrtle grew behind a portion of the outdoor stage at the Haven. The stage was bordered two-thirds by woods, one-third by the lake.
Emma’s stubby forefinger tapped the medium-weight sheet from Henny’s fourteen-by-seventeen-inch sketch pad. “The force of the shot toppled him forward. The shot must have been fired from the woods behind the stage.”
Golden hair cut in a winsome pixie style, dark blue eyes kind and thoughtful, Laurel Roethke was a vision of loveliness, not an unusual state for her, in a green-striped blouse with white cuffs and a pleated white cotton skirt. She bent to look over Henny’s shoulder. “Your sketch brings that dreadful moment back, Henny. Emma, as always, you see the important fact.” Her tone was admiring.
Annie glanced at her mother-in-law. Kindness was good, but Emma didn’t need encouragement. Emma was obnoxiously self-confident. As for her sleuth, Marigold Rembrandt, her confidence bordered on egomania.
True to form, Emma said grandly, “Therefore, as Marigold would be quick to point out, the critical area is obvious.”
Annie recognized Emma’s tone. She was in the hectoring mode favored by her red-haired sleuth when superciliously addressing the hapless Inspector Houlihan. The Clue in the Queen’s Tiara, Emma’s newest title, was Death on Demand’s current bestseller. Millions of readers adored Marigold. That number did not include Annie, who found Marigold as enchanting as mildewed socks. The necessity to mask her instinctive recoil plus maintain good relations with her bestselling author forced Annie to an excess of bonhomie.
“What would Marigold do?” Annie heard the faint undercurrent of sarcasm in her voice.
Laurel’s glance chided Annie. Henny masked a grin with a slight cough.
Emma was oblivious. She gave Annie an approving nod. “That is just what I was asking myself.”
Annie concentrated on pouring steaming milk into espresso cups. She added different extras to each serving—whipped cream and cinnamon for Henny; shaved chocolate for Laurel; a tablespoon of brandy for Emma; and, for herself, a little bit of everything, including a double shot of caramel. As she placed the mugs on the table, she took pleasure in the mystery titles inscribed on each one: What Did I Do Tomorrow? by L. P. Davies for Laurel, All Is Vanity by Josephine Bell for Emma, Scene of the Crime by John Creasey for Henny, and Try Anything Once by A. A. Fair for herself.
The Lithesome Ladies, a private nickname for Henny and Laurel since they’d instituted a weekly and very popular tai chi class at Death on Demand, awaited with great deference Emma’s reply to her self-asked question.
Not feeling deferential, Annie took solace in her delectable, multiflavored cappuccino. A whipped-cream mustache nicely disguised a sardonic expression.
“Marigold at once pinpointed the wooded area.” Emma’s voice rose in triumph. “Marigold immediately asked: When the lights came on, were Jean Hughes, Neva Wagner, her son Tim Talbot, or Booth’s daughter Meredith observed in the vicinity of this rectangle? Marigold, in her trenchant way, describes this as the Rectangle of Interest.” That stubby forefinger measured a rectangle that encompassed the area directly behind the stage and the space between the woods and the first twenty rows of chairs on the left side facing the stage.
Annie wouldn’t deny that the clever author had posed an excellent question. However…“You can add two names.”
For an instant, Emma looked pettish, then she graciously nodded, the detective queen welcoming additional information.
Annie described Meredith slipping away to the inn and her mother, Ellen, possibly intoxicated, possibly not, arriving in the hallway and the search for a gun, which possibly existed, possibly not.
On her sketch pad, Henny drew the wooded area between the Haven and the inn.
Laurel beamed at her daughter-in-law. “So brave of you, sweetie. I know how you feel about alligators.”
Emma flicked Annie a look of disdain. “If you don’t feed them, they aren’t a problem.”
“Unless someone else has fed them,” Annie said stiffly. It was a constant worry for islanders that tourists, either unwittingly or deliberately, tossed food to alligators, teaching them to associate food with humans and making them more likely to attack.
Henny warmly rushed to Annie’s defense. “Anyone with sense worries about alligators.”
Emma thumped the table, clearly bringing the meeting to order. “That’s one name. The second?”
Annie recalled with sharp clarity watching Neva Wagner disappear into the gloom of the arbor to be followed very soon by the club’s golf pro. “Van Shelton.”
Laurel nodded in agreement. “Dear Van, wearing his heart on his sleeve. I’ve been playing a bit more golf than usual these days.” Her tone was bland.
Annie kept her expression bright and interested. She wondered if Max was aware that his mother had been spending quite a lot of time with a new assistant pro, darkly handsome Johnny Rodriguez. All, of course, to improve her game. Whichever game she was, in fact, playing. Johnny’s enchantment, despite his youth, came as no surprise. Johnny, of course, was single. Laurel had standards. Of course she did.
Laurel smiled a bit dreamily, then said briskly, “Annie’s quite right. I’ve seen Van with Neva and there’s no doubt in my mind there is a strong attraction there.” Her gaze was limpid with innocence. “I have rather a sense of these things.”
Emma’s lips twitched. Henny studied her sketch.
Henny wrote below her drawing: Jean Hughes, Neva Wagner, Tim Talbot, Meredith Wagner, Ellen Wagner, Van Shelton. Her dark eyes were thoughtful. “Larry Gilbert and Booth were at each other’s throats a few weeks ago. Apparently they got over their tiff, but I’d be interested to know what caused the fury.” She added Larry’s name. “Maybe Larry might know if anyone else was mad at Booth.”
Annie sipped her cappuccino. “For all we know, Booth had a bunch of enemies, all lurking in the woods behind the stage.”
Emma’s smile was pitying. “As Marigold emphasizes to Inspector Houlihan, it is necessary to think matters through.”
Annie’s eyes glinted. Someday the old harridan was going to go too far. The implication was that Annie’s intellectual capabilities were minimal.
Emma proclaimed, “We can confine our suspects to those present at the program. The news stories in the Gazette quoted Jean Hughes.” Emma flipped open a folder to reveal several small clippings. “There was no mention of Booth’s involvement in the program. Therefore, only those with a connection to the Haven or someone close to Booth would have been aware that he was scheduled to speak. Moreover, the crime required knowledge of the terrain.”
Annie accepted defeat. “That’s what Billy thinks, too.”
“So,” Emma demanded, blue eyes gleaming, square face hound-dog eager, “where were these people when the lights came on?”
Annie pointed behind the lamp stands. “Jean Hughes was right there. We know she was standing behind the stage.”
Henny drew a box with the letters JH behind the stage.
Emma’s glance at Annie was dismissive. “We will each speak in turn.” She pointed at Laurel.
Annie would have liked to ask Emma when she was elected emperor of investigations, but a tête-à-tête with an alligator would be more pleasant than confronting Emma.
Laurel’s classic features were suddenly sorrowful. “Oh, I won’t forget his face. Poor dear little boy. Tim Talbot came running, as well as he can with that shorter leg, toward his mother. Of course, the shock was horrible for everyone, but he appeared devastated.”
Henny nodded at the drawing. “Show me where he was.”
Laurel reached across the table and tapped a spot not far from the stage. “He was near the woods. He was breathing hard.”
Henny placed a box enclosing the letters TT not far from the woods behind the stage.
Emma was brisk. “Did you see anyone else on our list?”
Laurel’s blue eyes narrowed in thought. “Neva hurried up to the stage. She was alone. It was later that Tim ran toward her.”
It was a matter of dispute, but finally there was a consensus that Neva had also come to the stage from the left.
Henny placed a box with the letters NW in the space between the woods and the far left seats.
Emma nodded at Henny.
Henny’s eyes narrowed in thought. “Larry Gilbert walked down the center aisle toward the stage. I suppose as a director he felt he should take charge. He certainly looked shaken.” Henny drew a box with the letters LG and placed it in the center aisle toward the back.
Emma looked at Annie.
Annie tried to re-create that first moment when the lights came on. Her gaze had been held, as was surely true of almost everyone there, by the shocking view of Booth Wagner’s crumpled body and the men clustered near him. But yes, she had seen Neva coming from the left side, that critical area near the woods that must have harbored the murderer. “I’m pretty sure Meredith Wagner came from the left side, too.”
Henny added MW to the area left of the stage.
Annie concentrated. “Meredith ran up to the stage and saw her father and then she turned and ran back into the crowd. A few minutes later I saw her heading toward the path to the inn.” Annie felt sure that Meredith had plunged into the crowd, seeking her mother. Not finding her, she had set out for the inn. “Did any of you see a petite woman with dark hair who might have been unsteady on her feet?” If indeed Ellen Wagner had been drinking. “She had on a gauzy blue blouse and terribly wrinkled beige slacks. She looked frowsy.”
No one had seen Ellen.
“Van Shelton?” Emma inquired.
None of them recalled seeing him when the lights came on.
“We know he was present. Now we need to discover everything we can about our probable suspects. We will divide our investigation—”
Ingrid came down the central aisle, holding the portable phone. “Hey, Annie, sorry to interrupt. It’s Rachel and she says she desperately needs to talk to you.”
FRANK SAULTER’S PITCHFORK came up out of the dark water, pulling up a sodden bundle of cloth. The second officer used his pitchfork to steady the mass and prevent it from slipping back into the green water.
“Hold it, right there.” Marian lifted her Nikon D3, snapped several shots.
The men ignored her call and squelched their way to the bank. Frank heaved the slimy mass forward to slop onto the grass.
Marian was on her knees a few feet away. She made a face. “Nasty. It stinks.” But she kept snapping.
Jean moved nearer the crime scene tape, craned her neck to see. An assortment of muddy objects, obviously products of the search, lined the bank in a neat row, a rotted bicycle seat, pop cans, pieces of Styrofoam food containers, a broken putter, a rusted Hannah Montana lunch bucket, and a broken wooden chair. Even at a distance of twenty feet, the stench of lake-bottom muck was rank.
Max moved nearer, his nose wrinkling at the smell.
“Hey,” the thin-faced officer shouted, swinging his pitchfork. “Watch out.” Like a batter’s splintered bat, the pitchfork spun away from him, disappeared in the water.
Oozing out of the reeds, a muddy-brown water moccasin, mouth agape, white lining showing, was poised to attack.
Darren gave a shout. “I can get him if you need help.” His narrow face was eager.
Max wasn’t surprised that Darren saw a cottonmouth as no problem. In a minute, he’d talk to Darren. He still had some questions for him.
Marian was scrabbling backward faster than a sand crab. “I get no hazard pay. Somebody kill that thing.”
Frank’s right hand dropped out of sight, screened by the hip waders. In a swift, controlled movement, he lifted his hand holding a police forty-five and fired. The venomous snake’s head disintegrated. Frank holstered the gun, studied the water, took a couple of steps, and eased his hand down into the water. He pawed and found the pitchfork. He pulled it up, ignoring the water streaming from his arm. He was casual when he turned to the shaken officer. “Let’s take a break. See what we’ve got.” He nodded toward the bank.
The sharp-featured young officer was pale under his tan. His eyes darted nervously as he clambered through the reeds to the bank.
Farther out in the water, Frank lifted his booted feet with effort to lumber through the mud. He nodded toward Jean, lifted a hand in greeting to Max and Marian. As he came up out of the water, mud and reeds clung to his waders. He carried the pitchfork to the mucky black mass they had tossed onto the bank. “I’m curious about this thing. The cloth doesn’t look like it’s been in the water long.” Frank tugged and teased with the tines to unfold the material. Exposed was a ball of felt that wasn’t altogether sodden. Again Frank worked patiently. A soggy foot-long feather poked into the air.
Max was startled. The felt looked like a squashed, old-fashioned highwayman’s hat adorned with a now-bedraggled but once-decorative feather.
Marian was as close as she could get, camera trained. “Great shot.”
Jean stood on tiptoe. “That looks like our Puss-in-Boots hat and cape. I wonder if somebody got them out of the shed. I’ll have to—”
“Ms. Hughes.” Billy Cameron’s voice came from behind them.
The police chief had arrived unnoticed by the group at the lake. His blond hair glinting in the sun, Billy was big and impressive in his uniform. His expression was stern, a cop at work.
Jean turned to face him, drawing in a sharp, startled breath. In the unforgiving summer sunlight, she was haggard, makeup splotchy on her face. Her blue eyes were wide and strained.
“Captain.” She drew herself up, gestured toward the stage. “I’m glad you’ve come. I wanted to ask if the stage could be cleaned up. I’ve kept the kids in the clubhouse or on the far side of the lake.” She looked strained. “Except for Darren—” She glanced to her left. “Oh, he’s finally gone. I’d asked him to leave and he said he would in a little while, but he wasn’t a little kid and blood didn’t bother him. Anyway, we don’t have many here today. I guess their folks are scared. But I sure would like to have that bloodstain removed.” She looked faintly sick. “It isn’t right for kids to see.”
Marian turned, lifted the camera, took several shots of the darkly stained cement. “Vince probably won’t use these.”
Billy glanced toward the stage. “Chief,” Billy always used his old title as a courtesy when addressing Frank, the former chief, “please hose off the stains when you finish checking the lake. And thanks for helping us out.”
Frank nodded. “ASAP.”
Billy glanced at the collection of trash on the bank. “Anything interesting?”
Pointing with the pitchfork at the dark cloth, Frank was laconic. “Funny thing to be wadded up and thrown into a lake. I thought maybe there was a gun in the middle. Instead, it’s a fancy hat. Makes no sense.”
Jean looked uneasy. “That may be one of our costumes. Thursday night somebody broke into the shed where we keep our props and stage supplies.”
Billy nodded. “I’ll take a look at the shed. First,” he pulled a small notebook from his pocket, “I want to go over your actions last night.” He pointed at the stage. “Please stand where you were when the lights went out.”
Marian sidled close, camera now dangling from the strap around her neck, a pen poised over her notebook.
Jean turned stiffly toward the stage. In bright sunlight, the black splotches of the dead man’s blood were ugly and mesmerizing. She averted her gaze from the stains. She gingerly edged beneath the crime scene tape. Behind the stage, she stopped nearer the dock than the woods.
Marian lifted the camera.
Billy waved her back. “No shots here.”
Marian’s raspy voice was loud. “First Amendment, Billy.”
Billy ignored her, stared at Jean. “When the lights went out, did you move?”
Jean gestured at the light stands. “I thought someone had stumbled over the cord, pulled the plug out of the battery pack. I took a step or two, but there was a cry and the sound of someone falling. I stopped. Someone shouted—”
Almost the instant the lights went out, Frank Saulter had flicked on his key-ring flash and moved fast.
“—That they were coming with a light. I waited.”
Billy moved quickly, stepping over the tape.
Jean’s frightened eyes never left Billy’s face.
Billy pointed at the black cable lying on the sandy ground. The plug was now pulled out of the battery pack. The plug lay in the sunlight, only a few feet from where Jean stood. “You made no effort to get the lights going.” Although his voice was uninflected, the flat statement sounded accusatory.
“I was frightened. I knew something was wrong.”
Marian was taking notes, her bright, dark eyes intent.
Billy looked dour. “You’re in charge.” His tone was tough. “There’s an emergency. Your first instinct should have been to restore light. Why didn’t you move to the plug?” His eyes were steely. “Maybe the answer’s simple. You weren’t standing there.” He pointed at her feet. “Everyone was listening to Wagner. No one noticed what you were doing. You could have moved behind the stage,” he took a few steps and stood over the battery pack, “and pulled out the plug.” He moved fast until he was directly behind the stage. “You stood here with a gun and shot him in the back. You got rid of the gun,” he gestured toward the lake, “and hurried back here.”
“I didn’t.” Her voice trembled. “I swear I didn’t.”
Billy swung away from her, pointed at the metal shed that stood about fifteen feet away. “The shed was broken into Thursday night.” Again it was a statement, not a question.
Jean looked puzzled. “The hasp holding the padlock had been pried loose. One of the boys found the door standing open Friday morning and came and told me.”
“Let’s take a look at it.”
Max and Marian followed as Jean and Billy walked to the shed.
Jean displayed the twisted remnant of the hasp with the now-useless padlock still in place.
Billy gestured at the shed. “I’d like to see inside.”
Jean pulled the door open. “I’ll see about a new hasp next week. With the program, I didn’t have time to take care of it yesterday and nothing seemed to have been bothered.”
When the door stood wide, Billy turned on the light. The shelves were packed with props, light filters, spotlights, paint cans, and assorted odds and ends. “You said there might be a costume missing?”
Jean eased past him, walked past a row of trunks, stopped at the next to last. She knelt and pulled up the lid. She pointed at a sheet of paper pasted to the interior of the lid. “The costumes are listed. See. Number five. But they get out of order. I’ll look through the trunk.”
Jean lifted out, one at a time, Abe Lincoln’s top hat, a Viking breastplate, Daniel Boone’s fringed leather shirt, Robin Hood’s green tunic and shorts, an Eskimo fur, a samurai robe and vest and sash with a soft hat, a Harvey rabbit, a Japanese kimono, and a half-dozen more costumes. Finally, she began to replace them. Then she stood and looked toward Billy. “The Puss-in-Boots cape and feathered hat are gone.”
She joined him in the doorway, shaking her head. “I don’t see why anybody would steal a costume and throw it in the lake. I suppose that’s what happened. Maybe one of the kids wanted to dress up in the hat and cape and then got scared and tossed everything in the water. Anyway, it’s a relief to know there was some reason why the shed was broken into. It doesn’t seem important now.”
Max glanced at Billy and knew they both suspected a very clever use for the cape and cavalier hat. In the darkness behind the lamp stands, a murderer—man or woman—could easily be disguised with the cape and hat. Who would notice one more costumed figure?
“Was anyone scheduled to play Puss-in-Boots last night?”
“No. Or we would have noticed sooner that the costume was missing.”
Billy nodded, his face thoughtful. Then he reached into his pocket. “I am serving you with a search warrant for your office, Ms. Hughes.”