ANNIE STARED AT a dark oblong on the wall of Pete Garrett’s office. That’s where Chief Saulter had hung his poster of the Ian Fleming portrait by Amherst Villiers that appeared as a frontispiece in the first 250 numbered and signed copies of On Her Majesty’s Secret Service. One of Frank Saulter’s continuing ambitions was to own one of those copies. Since Pete Garrett had taken over as police chief, more than the decorations in the small office had changed. Frank’s office had been untidy, with books piled in the windows and files stacked against the old-fashioned wooden cabinets. A rack of pipes, still fusty even after years of disuse, had sat next to a chipped pottery tray filled with jelly beans in the summer and foil-covered chocolate kisses in the winter. Garrett’s office was as austere as a monk’s cell. An aerial map of the island filled one wall. A framed certificate behind his desk attested that Garrett had earned a degree with highest honors in criminal jurisprudence. The walls were pale gray, the filing cabinets and desk gray metal. There were no photographs on the desktop, which was bare except for an in box, an out box, and a lined yellow legal pad. If an office reflects personality, this one shouted that its occupant desired order, eschewed flamboyance and prized privacy.
Annie popped to her feet and paced toward Max, who sat in casual ease despite the hard wood of the blond oak chair. Annie stopped in front of him, riffed her hand through her hair. “What if he doesn’t tell us what was in the packet?”
Max didn’t answer directly. His blue eyes were troubled. “We had no choice, Annie. This is a murder investigation.”
“He’s stopped investigating.” They’d wrangled all the way to the police station. “What if he says he can’t release information about evidence?” Annie clenched her hands. She was positive that they had held in their hands, even if only fleetingly, the solution to Happy’s murder. Held, because of Max, very fleetingly. He’d whipped off his sweater to carefully wrap the duct-taped, quart-size plastic bag. Annie had glimpsed several sheets of paper. Would that be all she ever saw?
The door opened. She scarcely glanced at Garrett’s sober face. Her eyes were on the slim manila folder in his hand.
She surged toward him. “Chief, you’ve got to tell us what the papers said. Is it information about Swanson? Don’t you see?” Max was tugging at her hand. “These are the papers Rachel told us about and Happy hid them just before she met someone in her room. The papers have to be important.” Annie could see it all in her mind, Happy clutching papers that someone would kill for, trying to safeguard the papers, settling finally for a hiding place beneath a stone bench in the maze.
Garrett pointed toward the other straight chair that faced his desk.
Max tugged again and Annie sat, but she leaned forward like a greyhound poised to race.
Garrett sat behind his desk. He placed the folder—the closed folder—precisely in the center. His round young face creased in indecision. “I appreciate your cooperation as citizens. As a matter of policy and law, an investigating officer never releases information about evidence from—”
Annie lifted her hand. Max grabbed it and pulled it down.
“—an ongoing investigation. However, in the process of investigating, an officer often must share information in order to gain information.” He looked at Annie. “I have here copies of the papers which you discovered this afternoon. The papers and the duct tape contain the fingerprints of the first victim. Since that victim is your stepmother, I would like to ask you to tell me the significance of this material.” He stood and held out the folder to Annie.
Late afternoon shadows threw dark streaks across the gazebo. The onshore breeze rattled the palm fronds, kicked up little spits of gray dust. Rachel’s overlong sweater dangled to her knees. Pudge stood protectively at her side. Donna pulled up the hood of her blue silk coat, muttered, “What a nasty day.” Wayne stroked his beard and looked speculatively toward the gazebo steps, where a haggard Emory Swanson waited. Billy Cameron, one massive hand resting on his holster, stood a few feet away from Swanson. Terry rubbed his red face. His worn blue blazer was shiny in the sunlight. Joan’s eyes were watchful. As always, Marguerite was striking, her fine bones set in sorrow, her deep-set eyes dark with horror as she looked down at the ground where her longtime companion’s body had lain.
“Officer.” Marguerite placed her red-nailed hand at her throat, the color bright against a jade green silk blouse. “Although I wish more than anyone in the world to see justice done, I find it terribly difficult to be so near the man who killed my sister and my dear Alice, the man whom I trusted with my deepest family feelings. But if this reenactment you desire can be of use against him”—she swung, one hand flung in accusation toward Swanson—“let us proceed.”
“We believe the reenactment will make clear what occurred.” Garrett’s tone was stolid.
Annie felt cold despite her thick wool sweater. Now it was up to her, and she wished she felt the confidence she’d shown to Garrett. Could she pierce the shell of this clever, audacious, calculating killer? They had not a single particle of physical evidence. All they had was surprise.
Annie shook open a paper sack. “I will play the role”—and wasn’t that a perfect description—“of Alice Schiller on Saturday night. Emory, please show us what happened.”
Swanson lifted his heavy face, gave Marguerite a defiant, angry stare. “I didn’t kill anybody. I came here because you—I thought it was you—called and said you were frightened and asked me to bring a gun. I parked over there”—he gestured toward the gate—“and I came here….” He walked up to the gazebo. “You weren’t here. I waited, and in a few minutes I heard running steps.”
Garrett nodded sharply at Annie.
Annie walked swiftly down the path, holding a paper sack. She hurried up to Swanson. “Oh, thank God you came. Did you bring the gun?” She held out the sack.
Swanson reached in his pocket. He pulled out a small silver gun.
“Ooh.” Donna took a step backward.
Wayne’s eyes narrowed. “Just a toy.”
Swanson dropped the gun in the sack.
“Oh, I hear…Wait, I’ll be right back.” Annie hurried down the steps, ran up the path. She stopped near the terrace door, where Max waited. She knew it was Max, knew his oatmeal cashmere sweater, his navy slacks. But this figure wore a sack with eyeholes and slick vinyl gloves.
He reached in the sack, took the gun and strode swiftly down the path and circled behind the gazebo.
Annie came down the path, stopping a few feet from the steps, just where the body had lain. “Emory, I’m so glad—”
The masked figure drew out the gun, lifted it.
Click.
It would have been a bust in an old-time western, the small snap from a play gun. But the sound seemed inordinately loud in the strained, frightened silence.
Annie looked at each face in turn. “Who shot Alice?”
Terry’s hand shook, but he pointed at Swanson. “He brought the gun.”
“I brought the gun. She took it.” Swanson took a step forward. Billy moved, too. Swanson ignored him, staring at the members of the Ladson family. “One of you got the gun. That’s what happened. She gave it to one of you and—”
“Wait, wait, wait.” Marguerite’s voice rose imperiously. “I don’t understand this. You are saying that Alice took the gun from Emory and gave it to one of the family? Why would she do that?”
“For protection. She wasn’t a fool. She thought Swanson was a murderer.” Annie ignored Swanson’s angry growl. “Alice’s plan was to accuse him of Happy’s murder. Her confederate would be waiting in the darkness with the gun. Alice made two mistakes. She was afraid to ask for help on her own, so she pretended to be Marguerite. No one in the family was in any position to refuse Marguerite. That was her first mistake. Her second was in the confederate she chose. She forgot that everyone in the house wanted Marguerite’s money.”
“Oh, that’s not fair,” Terry blustered.
“How dare you?” Donna’s voice was shrill, but her eyes slid away from Annie’s.
Joan’s plump face congealed like stale pudding. “You’re saying that one of us killed Alice. That’s dreadful.”
Wayne ignored them all. “Wait a minute.” His face hard and intent, he stalked up to Garrett. “The autopsy should answer some of this. Where was Alice shot?”
Garrett was an instant long in answering. Cops like to get information, not give it. But the autopsy report would soon be released to the media. His voice was clipped. “In the chest.”
“The distance?” Wayne’s eyes flickered from the place where she fell to the hooded figure near a thick stand of hibiscus.
A reluctant admiration shone in Garrett’s eyes. “Approximately sixteen feet.”
Everyone looked at Swanson. He stood only three or four feet from where Alice had fallen.
Wayne looked past Swanson to the hooded figure. “You’re saying one of us took the gun from Alice, thinking she was Marguerite, and ran around the gazebo. When she spoke to Swanson, she was shot.”
Garrett looked sharply at Wayne.
“It was almost a perfect crime.” Annie spoke soberly. “Marguerite shot with Swanson’s gun with Swanson’s fingerprints on it and with Swanson present. There was no risk, no danger for the murderer. So if this is what happened, who is the murderer?” She pointed at each in turn as she spoke. “Terry, Donna, Joan, Wayne?”
Donna yanked tight the belt of her silk coat. “I don’t have to listen to another word of this. I’m going back to the house.” She swung around.
“Donna.” The husky, volatile voice was compelling.
Slowly Donna turned and looked at Marguerite. “You can’t believe this?” Donna reached out her hands.
Marguerite backed away.
Donna’s hands slowly fell.
Tears trickled from Marguerite’s eyes. “Who?” The single word was heavy with heartbreak.
“Whom would Alice turn to?” Annie’s words dropped slowly into a pool of silence. “Not Marguerite. Marguerite believed in Swanson. Who’s left?” She looked at a circle of faces: Joan’s resentful, Terry’s defensive, Donna’s strained, Wayne’s skeptical. “Who did Alice know best? Who lived in the Dumaney house? Who served in Viet—”
Joan bolted across the dusty ground to stand in front of Wayne like a lioness defending a cub. “No. Not Wayne. Never Wayne. And”—she spit out the words, her voice shrill—“he couldn’t have done it. I spent that night with him.”
“Sheesh.” Terry’s eyebrows quirked. “I thought you hated his guts.”
“Actually,” Donna drawled, “if anyone did it—”
Joan whirled. Her hand whipped through the air. The sound of the slap was sharp and distinct.
Donna stumbled back, her cheek flaming.
Wayne was between them in an instant, his arm around Joan, pulling her along with him. “Hey, it’s all right. I didn’t shoot anybody.” He looked down at his former wife, his face puzzled. “Hell, you never lie about anything.”
She looked up, her face turning a bright red, her lips trembling. “I know you, Wayne. You don’t care about money. You love the house, but you’d never hurt anyone, not really hurt them. You wouldn’t shoot Marguerite.”
“How can you know that?” His eyes sought hers.
She looked at him without pretense, the love and sadness and heartbreak there for him, for everyone, to see. “I know you.”
He put his hands on her shoulders. He looked straight at her. “If you know me, why did you believe I’d drop you for a girl? Why didn’t you ask me about her?”
“Wayne?” It was scarcely more than a whisper.
“I didn’t care about her. She chased me. She was a tramp and she thought I was rich. I never gave a damn about her. But you heard the gossip and you left.” He bit his lip, struggled, then said, his voice shaking, “You left.”
And, with a sigh, she was in his arms.
“I suppose he does want the house.” Marguerite’s voice was cold, remorseless. “Is that why he killed Alice?”
Wayne gently disengaged from Joan, though he held tight to her hand. “Let’s get this straight, Marguerite. It’s a damn clever scenario, but there’s one piece missing.” His bright eyes bored into Annie’s. “You’re missing a little step in your equation. Sure, you can spout why one of us might shoot Marguerite, but none of us, not a single one, had any reason to kill Happy. I sure as hell didn’t.”
Annie hoped for the right words because this was the moment. “Wayne is asking the right question. Who killed Happy? Anyone could have killed Marguerite at any time. That didn’t happen. Instead, Happy died—good-natured, kind, silly Happy. Everything else that happened flowed from Happy’s murder. That’s what we realized this afternoon when we found Happy’s papers.”
Annie saw an instant of utter stillness on the murderer’s part, the physical reaction to an utterly unexpected and shocking revelation.
Annie watched that still face. “Chief, please read what we found.”
Chief Garrett, his round face intent, pulled two sheets of paper from his pocket. He cleared his throat. The only sounds were the rustle of palm fronds in the breeze and the faraway whistle of the ferryboat. “These papers”—his voice was uninflected—“were discovered this afternoon by Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell Darling. They had been fastened with duct tape to the bottom of a marble bench in the center of the maze…”
Rachel pressed her hand against her mouth.
“…and contain the fingerprints of Mrs. Happy Laurance. There are three items, all Xerox copies: two sheets from a girl’s diary, a printout of the vital statistics column from the May 24, 1961 issue of the Reno Gazette-Journal and the envelope in which the three sheets were contained.” He unfolded the sheets. “The diary excerpt reads: ‘Daddy is so mad at Rita. She was gone a whole week with that man from the ski place. Daddy got a private detective to find her and bring her home. Daddy told her he’s paid the man off. Rita is mad as she can be. She told me she’d have her way because Daddy didn’t know they’d got married. Daddy said we can’t go back to the lake and I hope it doesn’t ruin our summer. I’m going to get to go to camp pretty soon anyway and that will be fun.’” Garrett cleared his throat. “The copy of the vital statistics lists twenty-six marriage licenses issued.” He lifted his eyes and looked across the dusty ground at Marguerite Dumaney. “Including a license to Wendell George Harrison, thirty-four, and Marguerite Dumaney, eighteen, both of Los Angeles.”
Marguerite waved her hand in dismissal. “A youthful foolishness, Captain. Certainly nothing that matters now. It was annulled, of course. I was just a girl.”
Garrett held up an envelope. “On the outside, your sister had written in capital letters: ‘NO DIVORCE.’”
The silence was broken by a whoop. “No divorce!” Terry’s eyes glittered. “You were never legally married to Dad. No divorce! The money”—and his voice was rich with satisfaction—“belongs to us.”
Marguerite fingered the golden necklace at her throat. The only hint of strain in her beautiful haggard face was the guarded watchfulness in deep-set dark eyes. However, she managed a derisive smile. “I see this as simply an effort to protect Rachel. After all, it was her hockey stick that was used to kill Happy. No one could ever say that I had any reason to kill my dear Alice.”
Annie began to feel a sweep of panic. Marguerite seemed impervious. And yes, even if it could be proven that the long-ago marriage occurred and that there was no divorce and that the Ladson fortune was not hers, that was no proof of murder—and still there was the hockey stick with Rachel’s fingerprints and the gun with Swanson’s fingerprints.
Marguerite continued to smile.
Annie stared into those dark eyes and knew that she was looking into the soul of a murderer.
Wayne stared at the gazebo. “Marguerite’s got a point there. Why the hell would she go through that charade that Alice cooked up? Or are you saying it was Marguerite who called Swanson?”
Annie pressed her fingers against her temples. No. Alice had told Annie that she had a plan. Annie remembered that moment—her head jerked up. She looked at the old actress with her perfect features and eyes filled with darkness.
“Alice.” Annie spoke the name with force and a curl of horror. “Alice called Swanson. She met him. She took the gun. Then she ran up the path and here came Marguerite. Alice had told Marguerite that Swanson would meet her that night. Alice told Marguerite that Swanson was waiting.” Annie pointed toward the hooded figure. “It was Alice who came around the gazebo, Alice who used the gun to shoot Marguerite. It was Alice who would do anything to keep Marguerite from losing the money, the money that made Alice’s life in comfort possible. Then, with murder done, Alice saw how she could enjoy that money even more. She became Marguerite.”
Alice Schiller, her face sharpening into ugliness, turned to run.