April Fool Dead (19 page)

Annie pulled the pillow off her head. “Is it Laurel?”

Max nodded, held a finger to his lips.

“In Atlanta, of course.” Laurel's voice was sleepy but cheerful. “Don't you remember?”

Max covered the receiver, pointed toward the door. “Go down and check caller ID. Hurry.”

Annie popped out of bed and ran.

Max looked appreciatively after the slim legs revealed beneath the shorty nightgown. “Okay, Ma, I want the truth.”

“The truth.” A reverent pause. “My dear, we all seek truth every day. It is the human—”

“Ma.”

A sweet laugh. “Maxwell, I do believe you are
grumpy. Poor Annie. Are you always so bearish when awakened?”

“Ma!” It was short but not sweet.

“Do have a nice breakfast. Perhaps some oatmeal. That's always so strengthening, and yes”—she spoke fast—“I am definitely in Atlanta, as I have been most of the week.” The last words were clear and distinct.

“You damn well better stay there. You didn't give me a chance to tell you when you called before, but somebody broke into your house on Wednesday night. They left a message. They trashed your room. If you'd been there—”

“But I wasn't.” She was serene. “However, I see your point. One would think, however, that the intruder might have relaxed by now. After all, had I been able to identify the person, I would already have transmitted that information to the police.”

“Killers don't rest easy, Ma. Stay in Atlanta until we give you the all clear.” This time Max hung up, which cheered his morning considerably.

 

Sunlight splashed into the breakfast room. “Oatmeal?” Annie held up the Quaker Oats box.

“No. Definitely not.” He cleared his throat. “I'm going to fix French toast. Do you want some?”

Annie nodded happily, returned the oatmeal to the shelf. “Sprinkled with shaved almonds?”

“Sure.” Max picked eggs from the refrigerator, broke them into a mixing bowl. He chose oatmeal bread.

Annie poured orange juice into two glasses. “Do you think she'll stay in Atlanta?”

“She'd better.” His voice was grim.

Annie set the table, shot him a worried look. “Do you suppose Pete is getting close to finding the murderer?” But Pete wasn't checking out anyone at school. Was Pete right? Or Henny?

“Maybe. But we can't stop looking.” Max flipped two pieces, watched them turn golden brown. “She won't stay in Atlanta for long.”

 

Annie walked fast. It was too bad she hadn't arrived a little sooner. The bell had already rung and only a few students still hurried across the school grounds. Annie slowed when she reached the slot where Meredith Muir had parked yesterday. Today there was a beat-up circa 1960 Chevy in that parking space, not the sporty blue Mustang. Annie glanced up and down the row, but she didn't see Meredith's car.

In the main hallway, Annie headed for the office. No one had questioned her credentials yesterday, but she was relieved when she stepped into the main office to see that Dr. Allensworth's door was closed and that Mrs. Otis wasn't at her desk.

Annie reached the counter, spoke to the languid redhead. “Good morning. We're still settling some details for Mrs. Nevis's service. I'd appreciate a visitor's pass. Annie Darling.”

The redhead pulled the sheet with nameplates nearer, began to print.

“I'll start with Mr. Wilson.” Annie nodded toward the corridor branching off the main office. “Oh, could you check for me, see what class Meredith Muir has now?”

The secretary turned to her computer, punched in a name. “Mrs. Whiteside. Room two hundred.”

Annie smiled her thanks as she took the pass, clipped it to her blouse. She felt a flash of triumph. One-two-three. This was going to be easy, George Wilson, Jack Quinn and Meredith Muir, here she came, ready or not.

 

Putter dangling from one hand, Max wandered back and forth by the putting green. He didn't try to keep the irritation out of his voice. “I know the chief's busy, but can't I talk to somebody, Mavis? How about Billy? Or Lou?
Somebody?
”

At the Broward's Rock Police Station, the dispatcher hesitated. “Max, I'm sorry. Everybody's busy.”

Max dropped a ball on the green. “What if I said I knew who killed Mrs. Nevis?”

There was a pause. “Max, honestly, everybody's out. We had a big stakeout last night at Frank Saulter's. They got that guy—you know, Jud Hamilton—the one who killed his wife and Frank got him convicted. Anyway, everybody knew he was gunning for Frank and he broke into Frank's house last night, and Max, you wouldn't believe it, but Frank shot the gun out of his hand before Billy could even get inside. Billy's just worn out. He was there every night this week and then the Nevis murder and—well, things are pretty wild over here.”

Max dropped the putter and flung himself into his desk chair. “Wait a minute, Mavis. Are you telling me Frank's house was under surveillance every night this week?”

“Yes. That's exactly right.” Another phone rang in the background. “Max, I'm sorry, I got to go.”

Max pulled his legal pad close. On it were two names:

Diane Littlefield.

Frank Saulter.

Max picked up his pen, crossed out Frank Saulter.

 

George Wilson's broad face, spattered with freckles, was made for smiling, with a generous mouth above a rounded chin. He wasn't smiling this morning. Annie judged him to be in his forties, but he had a jaunty youthful air. His small office was a mixture of staidness—scholarly books, green metal filing cabinet, framed diplomas—and bold mementos—a multicolored parachute splashed against the wall behind him, a weathered fossil bone, a lump of coal encased in a clear plastic container. Maureen Riley had described him as something of a rapid-fire comedian. He wasn't making Annie laugh, but he certainly talked a mile a minute.

“…certainly be glad to be of any help I can. We are all absolutely shocked. I can still scarcely believe that Kay is dead. Really a lovely woman. I didn't know her all that well.” A swift grin. “She was lots older, a different generation, though the students respected her. We all did. But today you can't tell what's going to happen anywhere. If students can be gunned down at school…” He shook his head in disbelief. “Anything can happen. Our students are going to have a tough time dealing with this.”

Annie leaned forward in her chair. “That's what I wanted to talk to you about. Who was the student Kay
Nevis was worried about? Could it have been Meredith Muir?”

There was utter surprise on his face. “Kay? Meredith?” He looked at her sharply. “I can't imagine a problem there.” But for once he spoke slowly, his face creased in a thoughtful frown.

The idea was obviously a shock to him. Annie hurried to explain. “Yesterday I saw Meredith here.” She nodded toward the corridor outside his door. “She was very upset. I know you and the other counselor had to help Dr. Allensworth, but it's a shame no one talked to Meredith. I watched her during the assembly, and I could see she was scared. I tried to catch her after school, but Mr. Quinn was talking to her, and whatever he said, it upset her even more and she jumped in her car and drove away. I followed her home—”

“You followed her home?” Wilson's tone was shocked, his stare probing.

Annie realized she was treading on uncertain ground here. Her status as an emissary from the family scarcely included reassuring students. But…“I was worried about her, if you want to know the truth. She wouldn't come to the door. I kept trying to call her last night but there was no answer.” Annie scooted forward in her chair. “Look, Mr. Wilson, I'll be frank with you. The family knows that Kay Nevis was disturbed by something that happened at school and they don't know whether it involved a student or another teacher. We want to be able to tell the police all about this. We are hoping that someone who knew her, who spent time around her, someone such as yourself, may have picked up on the problem, whatever it was.”

He tapped a pencil on the metal desktop, his face furrowed. “This is all a surprise to me. I'm afraid I won't be able to help. If Kay was upset about something, she didn't share it with me.” He gave a helpless shrug. “But if I can be of assistance in any other way, do let me know.” He rose, started around the desk.

It wasn't exactly a bum's rush, but Annie knew her time was up. She stood, but she didn't move toward the door. “You'll talk to Meredith?”

“I definitely will.” He strode to the door, held it for her. “It's good of you to take the time to help a student.”

Annie paused in the doorway. “Have you ever talked with Meredith before? Do you know if she has any problems?”

He gave a firm head shake. “I'm sorry, Mrs. Darling. Our contact with students is strictly confidential. But”—he hesitated, shrugged—“I think I can fairly say that Meredith is a well-adjusted student, a successful student, and that you need have no long-term concern about her. Either Mrs. Heaston or I will speak to her today.”

As the door closed behind her, Annie frowned. Dammit, did the man get it? Did he have any inkling of the girl's deep distress? Would he do something? Okay, okay, if he didn't, she would.

 

Max drove slowly past the Littlefield house, one of the island's earliest homes, frame on a brick foundation. Wide porches extended along the front and sides of the house both on the first and second floors. Old live oaks, wisteria, crape myrtles and azaleas pressed close.
Max craned to see. No cars were visible. No red Jeep. He reached a dead end, backed, turned, retraced his route.

The dusty road curved. It was just about here where Bob Tower died, thrown a half-dozen feet to lie bleeding and broken in the ditch. Longleaf pines threw deep shadows. The morning sun had yet to pierce the gloom of the narrow lane. Diane Littlefield drove this way to reach the main road.

If a car came around the curve too fast early in the morning, it might be hard for the driver to see a jogger.

Max was thoughtful as the road straightened out. There was the Tower house, a shabby gray wooden house on pilings. No cars there either. The next house was a low-slung ranch style built flush to the ground. Max pulled in the drive behind a sleek green Jaguar. Obviously, there was money here. He wondered if the owners had come to the island from a landlocked state. Didn't they realize Broward's Rock could be under four feet of water from a storm surge if a category-3 hurricane struck? For that matter, who had built this and similar houses on the island? A contractor from Montana? Mars, maybe.

A woman in a sleeveless denim dress knelt beside a bed of impatiens, a trowel in one hand. An oversized floppy yellow straw hat shaded her face. She looked around as he slammed the car door shut.

Max walked swiftly across the yard, noting the nameplate that dangled from an iron stanchion next to the front porch:
MARK AND IRENE HUDDLESTON
.

She rose to face him. Tendrils of auburn hair poked from beneath the hat. A tiny woman, she had bright
dark eyes, sharp features and the restless impatience of a hummingbird. She jiggled the trowel in a gloved hand.

Max assumed his most genial expression. “Hello, I'm Max Darling and I'm looking at houses in this neighborhood. If you'd give me a minute I'd really appreciate it. Realtors always suggest checking with the neighbors.”

“What's for sale?” She poked up the wide brim of her hat with the tip of the trowel.

“We're interested in the Littlefield house.” That was true enough. “Perhaps you know the family?”

“In passing.” A whisper of laughter. “They aren't home much. He's off on business and the mother's an antique hound. The girl's there during the school year. I know I wouldn't have gone off and left my children at home alone when they were in high school. I doubt the house would have been standing when I got back. Of course, we have three boys. Our youngest just turned thirty. I think maybe we're home safe. But Diane's a quiet one. Except when she drives. Roarrrrr—there she goes in that Jeep. Must think she's at Daytona.” She waggled the trowel. “I know who you are, of course. Known your mother in my garden club for some years. Not that she grows anything. But she's a joiner, isn't she? You want to know about that Jeep, don't you? I saw those flyers, heard your wife was really upset about them. That's clever of you, saying
you're interested in the house, letting me think you want to buy it. I know it's not for sale. Lou Anne Littlefield would sell Diane before she'd sell that house. ‘The house'”—her tone clearly mimicked Lou Anne as she quoted—“‘is a shining example of the classic Adam style, with lavishly designed decorations that recur throughout.'” Irene Huddleston sniffed. “But about those flyers, once I thought about it”—she cocked her head to one side like an attentive sparrow—“it makes perfect sense. Diane probably ran right over Bob, not meaning to, you know, but she drives too fast and that time of morning it's hard to see on that road. Is that what you wanted to know?”

Max folded his arms and lounged against an urn with a mass of gladiolus. He grinned. “My disguise penetrated! Yes, you're right on all counts. I am trying to find out more about Diane Littlefield. I want to know if Diane was at home the night before last at midnight.”

“You have a good reason for asking?” The dark eyes peered at him intently.

Max's smile eased away. “Yes, ma'am, I do. One of Diane's teachers—Kay Nevis—was shot that night near midnight.”

Mrs. Huddleston drew her breath in sharply. “I know Kay. How dreadful.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Max waited. This woman would not be hurried or led.

She turned away, walked to a wooden bench, sat down. “Why would you think I might know where Diane was at midnight?”

Max strolled nearer, turned over his hands. “It never hurts to ask.”