April Fool Dead (7 page)

“Laurel.”

Her mother-in-law clapped her hands together. “Yes, of course, let us cut to the chase. Isn't it wonderful how the world of film has added to our language?” Her trill of laughter was gentle. “Although Morgan—you never knew him, dear. He was my husband who loved oil—always insisted the phrase had nothing to do with skipping the preliminaries before the concluding chase scene in a movie. Morgan said it was a term used by those who drill for oil in the great Southwest and their attempts to reach the Chase formation.” Her coiffed head nodded, presumably in the direction of the great Southwest or perhaps the Chase formation. “Now I always thought it had to do with foxhunting, but no matter, it speaks to us. Yes. Dowsing, Annie.”

Annie looked from the copper rods to Laurel. Dowsing.

A decided nod. “Take the rods, hold them like pistols—wasn't dueling a great though dangerous tradition—”

Annie opened her mouth.

Laurel broke off, continued rapidly: “Hold them straight out waist-high like pistols and”—she leaned forward, blue eyes mesmerizing—“determine with great precision your question. That is at the heart of success or failure. It won't do simply to muddle about and think, Well, why did someone put out the posters?, or to wonder whether the clues have merit. No, you must be precise. March up to the suspect in question, hold up the rods and think”—a worried shake of that smooth golden head—“I know that can be a challenge, Annie, but you must simply do your best. March up to the suspect, point the rods and think, Who put you on that list? And voilà, if the rods cross or perhaps even dip or simply wiggle, you will be close to ending your search.”

 

The copper rods, next to the clumps of glass and the brick, rattled on the floor of the passenger side as Annie's Volvo jolted onto Least Tern Lane. Gray dust roiled as the wheels churned in the deep ruts of the narrow road. Annie added another black mark against the vandal who'd smashed her window. She tried to concentrate on her objective, but she kept glancing at the shiny metal rods. Cut to the chase…. Okay, it was spooky that Laurel had in her own bizarre way suggested a new method of attack. Oh, not the dowsing rods. And what did Laurel mean by saying that she was
seeking the fruits of past crimes? Oh, well, wandering about the island with dowsing rods certainly seemed to be a harmless pursuit. But Laurel had, unwittingly, given Annie a good lead. The fake flyers listed five possible crimes. The clues led to suspects in those crimes. The question to pose to each person implicated was simple indeed: Who put you on that list?

 

Henny Brawley loved mysteries and enjoyed emulating the great detectives, everyone from the insouciant Saint, derring-do hero of the Leslie Charteris adventures, to tart-tongued Julia Tyler, Louisa Revell's indomitable Southern gentlewoman. As Henny parked in the lengthening shade of the pines behind the library, she wondered how to approach the present problem. She had a title in mind:
The Case of the Counterfeit Flyers
. She, of course, planned to star as chief investigator. No way would Emma solve this first, not if Henny could help it. Just because Emma wrote mysteries she fancied herself as best equipped to uncover the truth. Pfui! as Nero Wolfe might exclaim. After all, the mystery author knows whodunit before it even happens, so where was the skill in that? No, Henny was determined to demonstrate deductive powers far beyond those possessed by Emma.

Grabbing a stack of flyers and several posters, Henny slammed the car door shut. She didn't bother to lock it, one of the advantages of living on an island and driving an old black Dodge everyone recognized. As she hurried up the back steps, she considered possibilities. Should she hope for the insightfulness of Georges Simenon's Inspector Maigret? Or perhaps this was the
moment for Miss Marple's clever parallels. Or maybe she should opt for a tougher modern-day investigator such as B. J. Oliphant's Shirley McClintock.

Henny paused in the narrow corridor. The names of the detectives all began with
M.
Was this an omen? She grinned. She'd never thought of life in terms of omens, karma or presentiments until she met Max's mother. Perhaps Annie was right. Perhaps time spent around Laurel was dangerous to mental health. Anyway, the answer seemed clear. Maigret all the way. Too bad she didn't have a handy raincoat or a pipe. But the externals didn't matter. Maigret was a man who made himself one with the milieu. When he understood the people, he understood the crime. That would be her task. The people—who mattered most, the author of the flyers or the victims of the flyers?

Henny paused in the back corridor, eyes narrowed. It was essential to understand the psychology, as Poirot always pointed out. What kind of person would create the flyers? Clearly that depended upon the reason for their existence. Emma was in her lair, presumably thinking. Annie was doggedly seeking out the victims. Perhaps they were missing the forest for the trees. Why not take the flyers at face value? After all, they had certainly set in motion a scramble for facts about the alleged crimes. Police Chief Pete Garrett had to be engaged in digging up every fact available about the incidents because he would have had a series of messages from worried members of the city council, Henny was sure of that. Pete would be busy looking for evidence. Except, of course, for the charge of adultery.

Adultery—Henny would have clapped her hands together if she hadn't been carrying posters and Annie's flyers. Wait a minute. Who would consider adultery a crime to be publicly announced, shades of
The Scarlet Letter
? Talk about psychology! All right, she needed to think, figure out who on the island combined the sensibilities of a vigilante with a rigid code of morality and more than a dash of self-righteousness.

With a clear sense of mission, Henny hurried up the corridor. She reached the main foyer, the heart-pine floors glowing from sunlight streaming through tall, clear-paned windows. The library was housed in a three-story Greek Revival mansion bequeathed to the city by an ardent library lover and it had a thick scent of mold as well as the acrid undertone of electronic equipment and the familiar beloved scent of books, books, books. Henny took a deep satisfying breath and waved a poster at the librarian behind the information desk. “Edith, can I put these posters up? There's been—”

Edith Cummings always moved fast. The
SECTION CLOSED
sign was scarcely atop the information desk before she was through the swinging half door and planted squarely in front of Henny. Jamming a hand through her thick dark curls, Edith bristled. “I know what they're for. Everybody on the island knows by now. Somebody put out fake flyers imitating Annie's contest for Emma's book and you are putting up posters disclaiming any responsibility. I know what you are doing. Do you know what I've been doing? Have you ever worked until your tongue hung low enough to lick your shoe tops? Was the library jammed this morning? Did I have more people here than at
tended the last mud-wrestling contest at the Low Places Bar near the ferry dock? Did we almost have mortal combat between a blue-haired woman whom I shall not identify—and yes, she's a member of the Altar Guild as well as the Rose Painting Society—and the portly, pugnacious pastor of a local church whom I also shall not identify over who should be first to use the library's computer to access the Internet? And would anybody, would a single one of the motley horde that descended upon the computer bank as soon as we opened, would even one of these greed-driven, salacious-minded creatures let me look at a flyer? Oh yes, there were apparently oodles of flyers on the library's front steps this morning, but I was late, caught in a traffic jam trying to get here, and all of those flyers were snatched up. And I've been chained to the library because the director is on vacation and everybody else called in sick and I'll bet they're all out there with flyers. And I can't tell you how delighted I am”—her smile was wolfish—“that the whole damn thing's a sham and nobody's going to get an easy thousand bucks, but, dammit, I want to see those flyers.”

As Edith sputtered, Henny had efficiently taped a poster to the front of the information desk. She stepped back to judge the effect and opened her purse, pulling out a couple of folded flyers. She thrust them toward Edith.

The paper crackled as Edith scanned the sheets.

Henny hung a second poster by the stairs and stepped out on the front porch to hang another.

“Henny, hey, Henny!” Edith charged onto the porch,
the flyers held high. “Now I know why we had a ghost here Monday night!”

T
HE SIGN
, scrawled in huge red letters, was taped next to the doorbell:

 

DON'T RING

DON'T KNOCK

THIS MEANS YOU

 

Annie poked her finger toward the doorbell, hesitated. This house on Least Tern Lane was precisely one-half mile east of Sand Dollar Road. The house belonged to Paul Marlow, owner of The Grass Is Green lawn and garden service. And, according to Barb, one sexy dude. A deep-throated bark sounded beyond the closed front door.

The house was built on sturdy wooden pilings, savvy Low Country architecture in anticipation of hurricane storm surges. The wooden front porch had been recently whitewashed. The shutters were painted a bright red, emphasizing the soft gray of the weathered wood. Two wicker chairs with yellow cushions sat near a wicker table. The house presented a smiling, contented face, a place where leisure and quiet were appreciated. The landscaping was sheer beauty, the blaze of crimson azaleas, the purity of shining white azaleas, the sweetness of pittosporum and honeysuckle and gardenia.

Annie's finger hovered near the bell. She looked away from the sign, stuck her fingertip against the button, heard the shrill buzz.

A clatter sounded to her right.

She looked through a clean windowpane at a darkly handsome face twisted in a scowl. One hand gripped the pull cord of wooden blinds. Abruptly, the blinds fell.

Annie pushed harder on the button.

The front door banged open. He shoved the screen door, stalked outside to glare at her. He was a little over medium height, lean, muscular and definitely a hunk. His blue work shirt was neatly pressed, his jeans unbelted and worn low on slim hips. Dark eyes glared at her. “You can't read, lady?”

Annie wished she were anywhere other than where she stood—on a freighter steaming into Malta, an expedition up Mount Everest, a hog farm, anywhere. She'd known this was going to be hard, but she'd not realized how hard. “Mr. Marlow, I'm Annie Darling.” She thrust a poster at him. “I own the mystery bookstore and I did not put out the flyer listing your house.” And, she thought as she looked into burning eyes, accusing you of adultery. “I want you to know that I had nothing to do with those flyers.”

Marlow jammed his hands into the jeans pockets. “I've seen the flyers from your store. They look the same as the ones that…” He didn't finish.

She didn't look away from his angry stare. “Somebody took my idea and used it. So we're both victims.” She held up her poster with its urgent warning against fakes.

He pulled his hands free, took a deep breath. He stepped toward her, standing so near she could see the slight tic in the muscle of one cheek, smell fresh dirt and grass. He looked deep into her eyes. Gradually, the tightness eased out of his body. He pointed at her poster. “If you didn't do it, who did?”

“That's what I want to find out.” Annie tucked the poster under her arm. “I'm hoping you will help me.”

“If I find out”—he stared at Annie, his face bleak and cold—“I'll kill him.” The words hung in the soft spring air, ugly words on a lovely day. He took a step toward her. “I've got to find out. Do you know what this has done to—” He stopped, pressed his lips tightly together. “Listen, the flyers are like yours. You must have some idea who could have done it. Somebody in your store, maybe?”

For an instant, Annie felt a tingle of shock. No, it wasn't anyone in her store. But perhaps she should address the question she intended to ask him. She listened to her own words with an odd intensity. “No, the fake flyers weren't intended to damage me.” Oh no, surely they weren't! “But someone wants to cause trouble for the people on the list. Do you have an enemy? Why are you on that list?” It was just another way of asking Laurel's pointed question: Who put you on that list? Who knows enough about you—and your lover's Range Rover—to mark a big black X one-half mile east on Least Tern Lane?

“An enemy…” He slowly shook his head. “Why? It doesn't make any sense. And those other people, I don't even know most of them. I did some landscaping for the Littlefields. Yeah, their kid has a red Jeep. But
I didn't know the Tower guy. Somebody hates all of us? It doesn't figure. But if I find out…” He was turning, yanking open the front door.

Annie took a step after him. “Will you call me if—”

The door slammed, cutting off her words.

 

“It was exciting while it lasted.” Edith flashed a gamine grin. “Ever since Monday night, the intern has refused to stay after dark. My take is she can think of more fun ways to spend an evening.” Edith's sardonic gaze mimicked innocence. “‘Mrs. Cummings, I'd just love to be on the evening shift, but it gets so dark out here and I'm on my bike and what would I do if the ghost came back?'”

“Ghost? You mean the boy killed at Secessionville?” Henny knew the old and sad Civil War story about the dark-haired young daughter of the house who hurried late at night to the end of the avenue of live oaks, certain she'd heard hoofbeats and that her lover waited there.

“Not that ghost. Our very own ghost here at the library on Monday night. Flashing lights. An open window on the second floor.” Edith snapped for air like a beached fish. “Damn, ever since I quit smoking…” She plunged her hand into the pocket of her denim skirt, fished out a handful of bubble gum. As she unwrapped two, popping them in her mouth, she offered a third to Henny.

Henny smiled. “No, thanks. What happened Monday night?”

Gesturing for Henny to follow, Edith sped toward the stairs. On the second floor, she pointed down the
hall. “See those windows? They open onto the rear balcony. The second one was wide open Tuesday morning. Nobody admitted leaving it open. Cordelia Whipple…” Henny nodded. As a past president of the library board, she and the library's director, Ned Fisher, had dealt several times with Cordelia, who lived in a cabin just past the parking area. Cordelia had strong views about parking, noise and after-hours activity at the library. “…called Ned Tuesday morning to say she'd seen lights in the library around eleven o'clock and she'd been promised there would be no night events except for those included in the annual calendar. And Cordelia said further—”

Henny held up her hand. “I've heard it all before.”

“Anyway, Ned soothed Cordelia and nobody thought anything about it until we found the window open. We started looking around. Now”—Edith threw open the third door from the stairs—“I can't swear to it, but I thought I left the cover over my monitor. It was tossed on the worktable. Hey”—Edith fluffed her hair until she looked like an excited cockatoo—“wait a minute, wait a minute!”

She dashed to the computer station, flung herself into her chair. Her fingers flew over the keyboard. “Oh, God, if we only had DSL. How long is it going to take this time?” The mutter rose, cut off abruptly. “Okay, okay, here we are. Let me check.” She clicked on a window, scrolled down. “Oh.” Her tone was awed.

Henny peered over Edith's shoulder at a listing of web sites.

The cursor highlighted www.IslandGazette.com.
“This is my computer. I haven't called up the
Gazette
in a couple of months.”

Henny understood. “That means somebody else used your computer to go to the
Gazette
site.”

“There it is, fourth from the top. And I didn't go to the web site.” Edith tapped her fingers near the mouse. “No one on the staff would use my computer without asking. There'd be no point to it anyway. Everyone has a computer. So, not the staff. This room”—she waved her hand—“is off-limits to patrons. Whom does that leave?”

“Monday night's ghost. But Edith, I don't understand why anyone would go to the trouble to sneak into the library just to look up something on the paper's web site.”

Edith folded her arms, her bright dark eyes serious and thoughtful. “Oh, I get it, Henny.” She pointed at the computer. “That's where all the information came from that was used in the flyers.” She pulled the flyers from her pocket, spread them out on the worktable. “Look at this.” Edith pointed at the list of clues on the first flyer. “There are stories in the
Gazette
files about the hit-and-run and Jud Hamilton's manslaughter conviction and the deaths of Emma's husband and Laura Fleming, lots of information in lots of stories. But you know what scares me?” She swung toward the computer monitor, her dark eyes intent.

“Getting information from
The Island Gazette
web site?” Henny looked puzzled.

“No. What scares me is, Why did the ghost go to the trouble and effort to come here? After all, Cordelia could have called the police.” Edith tugged at a sprig
of hair, wrinkled her face in thought. “You see, the person who did this must be really computer-savvy, smart enough to know that the computer used would always contain the information on its hard drive that it had been linked to
The Island Gazette
site. Now this person, our Monday-night ghost, obviously knows computers, probably has one both at home and at work. What scares me is, Why was it so important not to have that information on his or her computer?” Edith swept up the flyers from the worktable. “What's going to happen next, Henny?”

 

My Attic occupied a beautiful brick Georgian house with a glorious view of the harbor. A pleasure boat moved slowly out into the Sound on calm water that glistened in the April sun like polished jade. A flock of royal terns rode high in the sky. Annie breathed deeply, enjoying the mingling of creosote, salt and fish smells.

Carrying two posters, she climbed the creaking wooden steps of the antique shop. An old Flying Red Horse
MOBIL
sign leaned against a barrel with faded letters:
MILLER
'
S FLOUR
,
SOUTH CAROLINA
'
S BEST
. Tattered books overflowed a wooden trunk. A sign read:
YOUR PICK
$1. Annie took a step toward the trunk, forced herself to march to the screen door. She opened it, stepped into dust, must and dimness.

As her eyes adjusted, she had the overpowering feeling of sadness that always swept over her in antique stores. Bits and pieces of long-ago lives jostled each other in disconnected chaos. On a scarred Federal-style table, a toy soldier in Napoleonic uniform, the musket broken off, stared blindly at a little French
clock studded with semiprecious stones—garnets and lapis lazuli and carnelian. Some child once played with the toy soldier. Some drawing room was once proud host to the little clock. Some gentleman's study held a shining mahogany table. But the human eyes and hands and hearts that cared for these pieces, as well as all the other relics—tables and chairs and mirrors and clocks and tapestries and china and silver—had long since turned to dust. Now the mute pieces awaited new owners, who in turn would yield their prized possessions to time and death.

The spacious entryway was filled with antiques, and more could be glimpsed in the matching rooms to either side. Near the staircase, a slender teenager in a red-and-white-striped blouse and red capri slacks lounged on a beanbag, oblivious to the opening door. The scarlet-tipped fingers of one hand tapped on a knee.

Annie grinned. The headphones added a nice, young, modern note. As she crossed the foyer, Annie heard the faint
whump-whump-whump
of drums. Hard rock? Hip-hop?

Annie's shadow fell across the heart-pine floor. The girl glanced up. Bronze hair emphasized a milky-white complexion. Slowly she focused on Annie. She pulled off the headphones, pushed up with a fluid grace. The music ended in mid-whump. She had a nice face, although her blue eyes looked uncertain and there was a touch of petulance—perhaps unhappiness?—in the droop of her mouth.

“Hello.” Annie spoke normally, but it seemed over-loud in the sudden silence.

“Cut glass and silver are on the second floor. Furni
ture, toys and china on this floor.” A brief, disinterested smile scarcely touched her face. She lifted the headphones.

“Please.” Annie turned a poster toward her. “I have a poster I'd like to give you.”

“We don't permit solicitations of any sort. Thank you.” She didn't even glance at the message and started to turn away.

“Wait a minute.” Annie was crisp, holding on to her always volatile temper. All right, maybe the girl wasn't trying to be rude. Maybe she simply didn't give a damn about her job. “Is Mrs. Littlefield here? I need to talk to her.”

The girl tossed her hair, gorgeous coppery hair that glistened in a shaft of light through the window. “Mother's not here.”

“You're Diane?” Annie stepped closer. “Look, I know your mother will want the posters. Somebody probably picked your family because you live on the road where Bob Tower was killed and they knew you had a red Jeep—”

Diane Littlefield stiffened. Her blue eyes widened. Her face sagged. “Jeep?” Her whisper was so low, Annie barely heard it. Step by step, she backed away. Whirling, she ran to the end of the hall, yanked open a door, slammed it behind her.

Annie followed. But when she turned the handle to the door, it was locked. “Diane?” Annie called out. “Please, I need to talk to you.”

There was no answer.

Annie frowned, then propped a poster against the beanbag chair. Outside, a car motor roared. Annie ran
to the front door. She stepped onto the porch in time to see a red Jeep careen out of the dusty drive.

 

Laurel Darling Roethke glanced at her reflection in the windowpane of Confidential Commissions. The blood-red of her crimson blouse was rather startling and, of course, the black slacks fit quite well. She was well aware that the dark colors would attract notice and quite likely evoke head shakes of surprise at such a costume when it was almost April. Laurel smoothed a golden curl. Costume! She must simply remember that her attire reflected her present enthusiasm and in no way betrayed a lack of fashion sense. Not, of course, that it was important to her to be regarded as fashionable. In a moment of rare self-appraisal, Laurel smiled at her reflection. All right. She genuinely abhorred appearing publicly in unseasonable colors. She must simply lift her chin—her reflection moved in the window—and remember that the ultimate goal was worthy of sacrifice. She took a step toward the door to Max's office, resisted the temptation. Dear Max. No doubt he was striding about the island, purposefully assisting Annie. Wasn't that sweet? Max would be most appalled if he knew what his mother was doing. But what Max didn't know…