Pieces of white Styrofoam lay on the ground near the tree trunk where a bale of hay had served as the backdrop for Tim Talbot’s targets. Metal glinted in the sunlight. Annie picked up a stick, edged aside Styrofoam to reveal a shiny fishing weight. Obviously, Tim had given a good deal of thought to his makeshift firing range. The weight held a cup steady while he lifted a gun to shoot. This evidence of planning made her feel queasy. She poked at the remnants of a cup, saw bright yellow markings. She knelt, edged pieces together with the stick, felt sure she stared at pieces representing an image of Booth Wagner.
Annie was grateful for the weight of hot sunshine pressing down on her, a wonderful antidote for chilling thoughts. She came to her feet and turned to Rachel. “Please. I need your cell phone.”
“Who do you want to call?” Rachel’s tone was sharp.
“The police.” She met her stepsister’s pleading gaze.
“Do you have to?” Rachel’s face drooped. She held a handful of hay, crumpling the dry grass in her hand.
Annie nodded. “Tim was shooting at targets that looked like his stepfather.”
Reluctantly, Rachel placed the phone in Annie’s hand.
“They were just cups. Oh, I should have come by myself.” Then, with quick contrition, Rachel said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I’m glad you’re here. Anyway, maybe that old gun is around here somewhere. Just because he didn’t wrap it up, it doesn’t mean it’s not here.”
Annie clicked on the cell and punched the number, wishing she could agree, wishing she thought it even a tiny bit likely that Tim had dropped the rifle somewhere near, but the crumpled garbage sacks with remnants of tape indicated the gun had customarily been carefully wrapped to protect it.
Rachel grabbed more hay, kneaded the pieces in her hand. “I’ll bet Tim came today to hide everything because he thought it looked bad.”
As indeed, Annie thought, it did. She pushed away the memory of Tim’s pale face, the scar bright and angry, and the despair in his dark eyes. “This is Annie Darling. I need to talk to Chief Cameron. I have information that may be connected to Booth Wagner’s murder.” She took no pleasure in her words.
MARIAN KENYON REACHED the lakeshore first, trained her camera on Frank Saulter, who knelt on the bank. He pulled a ballpoint pen from his shirt pocket and slipped the pen inside the trigger guard of a small pistol. As he held the gun aloft, water streamed out of the short barrel. The pearl handle glistened in the sunshine. “A thirty-two.”
Marian clicked several shots.
Billy bent near, studied the gun. “Bag and tag it. And keep looking.”
Marian’s question came quick and sharp. “Is there a possibility that is the Wagner murder weapon?”
Billy was ponderous. “The weapon was found in proximity to the crime.”
Marian snapped, tight as a terrier’s teeth on bone, “Was Wagner’s death caused by a thirty-two-caliber slug?”
“The ballistics report is part of the investigative record.”
“Is the search for the murder weapon continuing?”
Billy turned away.
Marian stood, hands on her hips, and called out loudly enough for Billy to hear, “I’m on my way back to the office. Looks like the story might read: ‘Although police discovered a pearl-handled thirty-two-caliber revolver in the lake near the stage, the search of the lake continues. Chief Billy Cameron declined to reveal whether the caliber of the gun that caused Wagner’s death had been determined.’”
RACHEL SCUFFED THE sandy dirt with the toe of her tennis shoe and watched the police officer pull out the remnants of the hay bale.
Annie remembered Coley Benson from the high school choir. He had a magnificent tenor voice. He was the newest member of the Broward’s Rock police department. He’d majored in criminal justice at Armstrong State. Billy Cameron had been delighted to welcome him home.
It seemed odd to see Coley in a police uniform instead of a choir robe. Now his strong brown hand delicately plucked at the straw. He held up a tiny piece of metal that glinted in the sunlight. He gave a slight shake of his head and stood. “I’ll take this along.”
Annie was startled. “I thought you’d bring the crime van, pick all of this up,” she pointed at the straggle of straw and crumpled garbage sacks, “for crime scene evidence.”
Coley looked surprised. “It’s maybe a misdemeanor to set up a target in public woods. The chief might talk to him, but right now he’s too busy with Mr. Wagner’s murder.”
“You picked out a piece of a bullet.” Annie was puzzled. “Can’t it be checked against the bullet that killed Booth Wagner?”
Coley waved a hand in dismissal. “This,” and it was his turn to point at the remnants of the bale, “was used for practice with a twenty-two. The bullet that killed Mr. Wagner was a lot bigger than that.”
ANNIE WATCHED RACHEL pump away on her bike, dust spewing from beneath the wheels. Rachel’s dark hair streamed behind her and Annie thought of a bird in flight, soaring and serene. The relief both she and Rachel felt upon Coley’s calm pronouncement was tinged by a feeling of foolishness.
Even though Annie usually opted for genteel mysteries, she knew a fair amount about guns. It would require enormous skill and a huge amount of luck for a twenty-two slug to kill at a distance of twenty to thirty feet. She’d had the clue when Rachel described the gun as the kind used at the fair in the yellow-duck shooting gallery. But embarrassment was a small price in exchange for Tim’s dismissal as a suspect. Max would tease her.
She was disappointed not to find Max’s car in the Haven lot. Annie fished her purse from the trunk. She smiled as she slid behind the wheel of her new flaming-red Thunderbird, a Valentine gift. She had lots to tell him, the unleashing of the Intrepid Trio of Emma, Henny, and Laurel as well as the ignominious outcome of her detecting foray with Rachel.
She put the key in the ignition, and her cell phone rang.
“Hey, Max.” She was ready to regale him with the sweaty and fruitless trek to Tim Talbot’s dismantled shooting range. Before she could speak, he said quickly, “Please bring lunch to Confidential Commissions. Jean’s got big-time problems. I want—oh, here’s a call from Handler Jones. I’ve been trying to find him. I’ll explain when you get here.”
ANNIE NUDGED OPEN Max’s office door with her knee, balancing a cardboard drink holder with two iced teas, a nicely hot sack with lunch from Parotti’s, and her purse.
“…Thanks, Handler. I knew I could count on you.” Max put down the phone and popped up to help. He pointed at his office table. “Our places are set.” The office kitchen ran to blue and yellow pottery and woven red place mats. Max insisted on eating in style even for an office lunch.
Annie dished up Veracruz-style red snapper for Max and two green chili chicken enchiladas for herself. Ben Parotti had recently expanded the menu for the island’s many Latino families.
Max disdained iced tea in paper cups. He brought chilled glasses from the refrigerator in the office’s tiny kitchen.
As Max described his morning, Annie pushed her plate away and began to take notes on one of Max’s legal pads. When he finished, she looked at her list:
Pertinent Facts Re: Murder Booth Wagner
Annie read No. 2 aloud. “That’s grim.”
Max shook his head. “Jean would have been an idiot to hide the tape in her own office.”
Annie didn’t reply. Maybe Jean never envisioned a search of her office.
Max took a last bite of red snapper. “The tape is incriminating. There’s no doubt about that. Jean for sure has a motive, maybe a bunch of them. But she said she knows plenty of people who hated him. She’ll be here after lunch. We have until Monday to come up with enough evidence to keep Billy from arresting her. If he puts her in jail, the worst part for Jean will be keeping her away from Giselle.”
Annie was troubled. “I don’t know if I have much to contribute. But,” and she welcomed a reason to smile, “the Intrepid Trio is hard at work. Emma, Henny, and your mom are rounding up information on their list of suspects.”
Max, too, smiled. “We can count on them to make things interesting.”
Annie pulled the legal pad to her, but turned it sideways so Max could see additions:
Intrepid Trio Assumptions
“I don’t want to jump to conclusions. This morning I thought I had everything figured out.” Annie was wry. “Laurel saw Booth’s stepson right after the lights came on, and he was terribly upset. A while ago, Rachel called and wanted me to go into the woods with her, something she wanted to show me about Tim.” Annie described creeping through the woods after Tim and confronting him as he frantically plucked spent bullets from the bale of hay. “He ran away, and I called the police. But it’s a big to-do about nothing. He’d used cups decorated with his stepfather’s face as targets. No wonder he wanted to hide everything, but he was shooting a twenty-two. Officer Benson said the murder weapon was a bigger-caliber gun.”
Max nodded. “Billy’s keeping quiet about the gun, but if the pearl-handled thirty-two that Frank pulled out of the lake is the murder weapon, Ellen Wagner will be the chief suspect.”
A CREW MEMBER hosed down the top deck of a gleaming white yacht. A cabin cruiser putted slowly out of the harbor. Pink-cheeked tourists hurried up the gangplank of an excursion boat.
Leaning on the railing that overlooked the marina, Annie breathed deeply of salt-scented air, welcomed the feel of hot July sunlight. She was turning to walk back to the boardwalk and Death on Demand when Jean Hughes, frowning and abstracted, reached Confidential Commissions. Jean carried with her an aura of sadness, the wrenching awareness of life slipping away. The contrast between Jean’s face and the marina’s summer cheer was a stark reminder that sunny days do not last forever and a reminder as well that even when Annie’s own days were carefree and joyful, there were those burdened by pain and sorrow.
Annie pulled open the front door of Death on Demand. She took a deep sniff of the lovely mingled scents of books and coffee. She had plenty to do, unpacking backlist by Nancy Atherton, Charles Ardai, Leann Sweeney, and Jasper Fforde.
Ingrid looked up from the cash desk. Her eyes gleamed behind stylish new large-framed glasses. “Two book clubs from the mainland. We’re sold out of the new Evanovich. What else is new?”
Annie looked toward the coffee bar. She didn’t know whether to be relieved or pleased to see the coffee area free of Emma, Henny, and Laurel.
Ingrid needed no hints. “Rest easy. They marched out a few minutes ago, moving with both alacrity and determination. What kind of havoc do you suppose they’ll wreak?”
HENNY BRAWLEY PARKED her old Chrysler behind a BMW at the end of an expansive circular drive. Cars were lined along both sides of the drive. A florist’s delivery truck, hazard lights blinking, blocked the center of the drive opposite broad, shallow steps leading to the front veranda.
As Henny walked toward the door carrying a Saran-wrapped disposable bowl filled with fresh-cut fruit, she made two swift judgments: Booth Wagner must have been very rich indeed, for the house was an overlarge, three-story mansion in the current style of combined brick, stone, wood, and glass, and no expense had been spared in the landscaping with a profusion of roses, bougainvillea, japonica, and hibiscus.
Where would all the money go?
Henny pushed the doorbell. Often now, more often than she would have wished, she brought food to houses of mourning, but this was the first time she had done so for a reason other than friendship. If she had felt that Neva Wagner was grief-stricken, she would not be standing here. When Neva gazed at her fallen husband Friday night, she had looked pale and shocked, but there had not been the piercing pain of heartbreak in her eyes or on her face. She had exhibited neither the wild abandonment of crushing loss nor the frozen somnambulism of heartbreak scarcely comprehended.
The door swung in. The maid, perspiring a little, welcomed her inside. She had curly brown hair, a round, open face, and a harried expression. “Everyone’s in the far living room, ma’am.”
Henny’s smile was swift. “I can see you’re pretty overwhelmed right now. I’m here on behalf of the Haven board of directors. I didn’t know the family that well. Let me be useful and come out to the kitchen to catch up on some of the dishwashing.”
“Oh, ma’am.” The housekeeper darted a glance down a wide marble hallway with inset niches holding busts and vases. “She might not like it.”
The personal pronoun was not spoken with affection.
“Who’s to know? And help is best where it’s needed,” Henny said lightly. “You check the living room, I’ll take care of the rest. I’m Henny Brawley.” She looked inquiring.
“Beth Sullivan, ma’am.”
“All right, Beth, we’re a team. Is the kitchen straight ahead?” Henny moved swiftly, her shoes clipping on the marble floor. She had no trouble finding the huge kitchen and stood for only a moment to appraise the stainless steel Bosch appliances. Everything was of the best quality. The counter next to the double sink was piled with dirty dishes. Henny opened cupboards, found a lovely Limoges bowl, and filled it with the fresh-cut fruit. She placed the bowl on an island with other food gifts. Then she moved to the sink, ran water, and began to rinse soiled dishes.
Beth hurried in and out, bringing more dishes, carrying out freshly filled plates and bowls. She flashed a shy, thankful smile each time at Henny.
Henny wedged a few more glasses in the dishwasher. She found detergent beneath the sink, filled the dispenser, and punched start.
Back with another tray, Beth heaved a tired sigh. “Ma’am, you saved my life. If you don’t mind, I won’t tell Mrs. Wagner you helped out in the kitchen. I told her you came for the Haven and brought fruit. Is that all right with you?”
Henny dried her hands. “That’s fine. Why wouldn’t Mrs. Wagner want anyone to help in the kitchen?”
“Oh, she’s very fancy. Everything is always la-di-da.” Her dark eyes were disdainful. “You’ve got me caught up now. Would you like some iced tea?”
They settled at the center island on tall stools. Orange slices and fresh mint garnished the glasses.
Henny chose her words carefully. She spoke in an inviting, confidential tone. “Murder is dreadful, but I understand Booth and Neva didn’t get along very well. I suppose that makes it much easier for her. Or much harder.”
Beth looked around to be sure she wouldn’t be overheard. “I’d say no love lost. She moved into her own room a few months ago and you know a marriage is on the rocks when that happens. She’s been white as a sheet today, but I don’t think she’s wasting any grief on him. She’s a lot more upset about her son than she is Mr. Wagner being dead. The kid’s been kind of nuts since the murder.”
“Was her son especially fond of Booth?”
Beth squeezed the orange, took a huge gulp. “I needed that. She’s run me ragged today. She treats me like I’m a robot, punch a button and watch me go. ‘The stairs down to the lower den aren’t clean.’ ‘I found dust in the laundry room.’ ‘Master Tim doesn’t like cinnamon on his toast.’ As for Master Tim, he’s kind of weird. Master Tim, that’s what I’m supposed to call him, it’s Master Tim and Miss Meredith. I’ve worked for a lot of families, but I never had to call kids ‘master’ and ‘miss’ until here. Anyway, Master Tim’s scared out his mind. He kept screaming out in his sleep last night and she was up and down with him. But he wasn’t the least bit fond of Mr. Wagner. Master Tim could hardly stand to be in the same room with him, anybody could tell that.”
LAUREL REMINDED HERSELF to keep her thoughts on her goal, though it was difficult with dear Johnny so near. How lovely to be a woman and how enchanting to have such an attractive man pressing close. He was such a help with her follow-through. Such a gorgeous young man…This was not the moment for thoughts such as these, however.
“…If you turn your left wrist a little more, that will add loft to the ball.” He was lithe and athletic. Dark curls framed a matador-handsome face that reminded Laurel of Spanish grandees.
Laurel looked up, her lips curving into a smile. She knew she was at her best on a sunny summer afternoon, her hair a shimmering gold, her dark blue eyes softly glowing, her lips inviting.
Johnny Rodriguez took a deep breath.
Laurel understood. She gave a tiny shake of her head. “It is hard sometimes to focus on the game.”
“Your wrist…”
“Someone told me that poor Van has had the hardest time lately keeping his mind on golf. Someone told me he was furious with Booth Wagner.” She arched golden brows in delicate inquiry.
Johnny looked appalled. “Who’s talking about Van?”
“Oh, everybody.” She was charmingly vague. “You know how interested people are in love affairs.”
“Look, it isn’t how it looks.” He was quick to defend his boss. “I mean, he and Neva were through. It was making him crazy. See, she broke things off because of this prenup agreement. I mean, she and Booth were kaput and had been ever since the kid got hurt. She was feeling pretty grim and Van was really nice to her and he thought they could work something out. I mean, he got it in the gut from his ex-wife. She took up with a drummer and walked out on him. But if Neva tried to get a divorce, she wouldn’t get anything and she’d lose health insurance and her kid still needs another couple of operations. So, it doesn’t do any good for Van to be mad. She had to make the choice and she stayed with the money. Seems to me, he’s better off. If a woman wants money more than she wants love, that’s a lousy deal for a guy.”
Laurel murmured, “Life can be so difficult.” Of course, death sometimes made everything simple. Possibly it had occurred to either Neva or Van that Booth’s death made certain Neva would receive whatever had been due to her under the prenuptial agreement. Likely the agreement provided nothing if she left him for another man. “Now, show me again,” she moved closer to Johnny, “just how do I turn my wrist?”
EMMA CLYDE WAS pleased that the crime scene tape had been removed, indicating the area had been searched and was now open for its customary use. Her square face creased in a grim smile. Customary use would not have included a further search by a noted mystery author. However, that was her intention and she felt confident that she would make deductions and quite possibly realize information missed by all others. After all, she and Marigold had encountered much knottier challenges in their eighty-six books and counting.
Emma walked briskly to the stage. The blood had been washed away. Eyes narrowed, she re-created in her mind the moment before the shot rang out. Booth Wagner faced the audience straight-on, big, burly, self-confident, a showman enjoying his domination. Had he turned either to the left or right? She shook her head. The shot had propelled him forward, because he landed facedown. If he had turned, he would not have fallen as he did.
Emma jumped into Booth’s mind as the lights went out. She often jumped into character’s minds, the prerogative of a writer. Why hadn’t Booth turned to see about the lights? Her smile became even grimmer. Arrogance. An assumption that rectifying stage miscues was the work of underlings. It wasn’t for him to bumble about in the dark. He would wait, calm and in charge, until the momentary blackout ended. But when the lights came on, he was dead. That lack of movement afforded the murderer time to move after pulling out the cord from the battery pack.
Emma climbed onto the stage. Here was where Booth had stood. She marched forward, came to the back of the stage, stepped off. The four light stands were still in place. Emma walked to the battery pack. She looked at her watch, followed the second hand as she estimated the time between the cessation of light and the sound of the shot. Not more than nine seconds. Much can be accomplished in nine seconds if planned in advance. She reached down as if yanking the cord loose. She hurried to the woods and looked back at the stage. Of necessity, the shooter had to be able to see Booth, so the murderer had gone no farther than here. She moved into that unknown mind. Possibly the murderer had night-vision goggles. Somehow Booth had been visible. She lifted her hand.
If Jean Hughes committed the crime, she had then returned to her place near the stage. If another hand held the gun, it was essential for the shooter to get away from the area.
Emma turned toward the trees. A few steps and she was out of sight from the stage. Then light had been needed. A small pencil flash would have sufficed.
She surveyed the trees. Not that live oak. A rope would have been necessary to reach the fork of the trunk. Her gaze moved. A satisfied smile lifted her lips. With a decided nod, she walked out of the woods and strode toward the Haven building.
JEAN HUGHES WAS unsparing. “I was too late smart.” Pale and composed, but with haunted eyes, she faced Max. “I should have known that a man like Booth wouldn’t really care for somebody like me, a singer in a second-rate jazz club. Always before, when guys gave me a rush and told me they weren’t married, I asked around. I didn’t ask around about Booth until it was way too late. I was a fool, but everything was so awful with Giselle getting sick that it seemed wonderful to have Booth be so kind and thoughtful. I guess I wanted to believe in happily ever after. He was good-looking and rich and charming. Did you know he could be charming?” Bitterness twisted her face. “He didn’t care about me. He used me to get back at the people on the board who dared disagree with him. So much for having dreams.”
Max heard the pain. He made an abrupt gesture. “Don’t give up on life, Jean.”
She managed a tremulous smile. “People like you and Annie prove not everybody lies. And Giselle…Do you know how brave she is? I could never be that brave. She’s dying and she smiles. She thinks of me. She tries to make me feel good. She’s always thought that I was wonderful. I don’t know how she could, but she does.”
“She knows you.” Max’s voice was gentle. “She knows you are good and kind. That’s why the kids at the Haven love you.”
“The kids.” There was a depth of sadness in her tired voice. “I didn’t know when I came that I’d care the way I do. There’s Mickey, who isn’t quite right. He’s stiff and can’t look at you. But I got him to painting the sun and now every day when he comes he goes straight to the art room and he fills pages with suns and they’re as bright as gold. Sometimes he smiles. He brings me a sun painting every day. There’s Willamae, who loves everybody and everybody loves her. There’s Bud. He’s always angry. I got one of those punching dummies, you know, you blow them up and they have a heavy base and you can knock them around. I asked Bud if he’d like to have some boxing gloves. He thought about it and then one day he came and said, ‘Yes,’ and every day he goes to the dummy and he hits and hits. There are the fun ones and the sad ones. I want things to be good for all of them. Most everybody will probably be back by Monday. I called Mr. Gilbert, told him I may have to take some time off. If I get put in jail. He was real nice, even though I know he didn’t want me back. He said maybe everything will work out. Anyway, I told him Rosalind can take care of things just fine. She’s done a great job this summer. She’s another good person like you and Annie and Giselle. I got to hold on to knowing about good people to keep me from being so upset about Booth. See, when I got to the island, I was working hard to try and learn everything I needed to know. I didn’t even realize at first that I wasn’t seeing much of Booth. And then maybe it was only after a week or two, I found out he and his wife were still together. I didn’t know what to think. I have a friend, a guy I knew at the club. I’d helped him out when his daughter was sick. Anyway, he’s a private detective. I asked him if he’d find out what he could about Booth, but I didn’t have much money. Ben said he’d be glad to and it wouldn’t cost me a cent. I told him I didn’t want to take up his time, but he said he could find out a bunch in no time flat.” She reached into her purse, pulled out a manila envelope. “He found out a lot. You can have his report. I found out more than I ever wanted to know.” She pushed back her chair, stood. “Now, I got to get back to the Haven.”
EMMA NODDED AT Officer Harrison.
“Morning, Mrs. Clyde.” Hyla Harrison was crisp in her uniform. As always, her demeanor was that of a careful, thorough, thoughtful cop.
“Good morning, officer. Everything going all right?”
“Just fine, ma’am. I’m keeping a close eye on everything.”
Emma nodded approval and strolled around the side of the building. She stopped to watch a vigorous volleyball game. The middle hitter on the north side spiked the ball into the opposite court for a kill. As a player darted out to pick up the ball, Emma held up a hand. “Your attention, please.” Her deep voice was at its most stentorian.
Obediently, the players turned to look.
“Your game can resume in a few minutes. However, I need assistance. I’m here on behalf of Miss Jean.” Emma would have hotly insisted that she spoke accurately. Any effort made to solve the murder of the Haven board member would benefit the Haven and therefore its director, so Emma’s actions were being taken on behalf of Jean Hughes, whether she knew it or not. That her listeners would assume she came to them as an emissary from Jean Hughes simply demonstrated how easily a statement could be misconstrued. “Which one of you is the best tree climber?”
Every player immediately claimed to be best.
Emma nodded gravely. “I see. Since all of you are equally expert, it will have to be a matter of chance. I am thinking,” she glanced over the possibilities, “of a number between one and twenty. Whoever comes nearest will win.”
The numbers rang out.
Emma immediately pointed at a tall, skinny teenager who hadn’t yet grown to fit his huge hands and feet. “You win. What’s your name?”
“Craig.” His sunburn couldn’t compete with the flush that stained his face at what was clearly unaccustomed attention.
“Very well, Craig. Follow me.” She pointed toward the woods behind the stage. “The rest of you can come, too. But mind now, only cheers, no jeers.”
At the edge of the woods, she arranged the players in a semicircle. “All right, Craig.” She pulled a pair of gardening gloves from her capacious purse. She handed them to him. “I don’t want you to leave any fingerprints as you go.”
Craig’s blue eyes glowed as he pulled on the gloves.
Emma pointed. “Climb that magnolia.” The magnolia was huge, with several limbs low to the ground. Clusters of blooms scented the air. “Look for signs that someone has recently climbed the tree: scuffed bark, bent limbs, snags of thread. Be careful not to disturb any markings you see.” She glanced toward the stage, judging distance. “When you get up about twenty feet, hunt for anything that might be left in the tree. If,” and now she was emphatic, “you find anything, anything at all that doesn’t belong in a tree,” her voice grew louder, “do not touch it. Shout down to me, and I will tell you what to do.”
Craig scooted up the tree with ease.
A dark-haired girl folded her arms in disdain. “Who’d hide something in a tree?”
Leaves rattled above them. “Hey, lady,” glossy leaves framed Craig’s face as he held aside a thick branch to peer down, “there’s a twenty-two rifle stuck in the crook between two branches.”