Death on Demand (24 page)

Where had Max acquired his perverted weakness for blond anacondas and redheaded vipers?

“So you think he meant every word of his threat to reveal all Sunday night?”

“Of course. I have no doubt that, had he lived, we would all have learned some fascinating particulars about each person there.” Was there a touch of regret in her voice? Viper, indeed.

“So you agree that the motive for his murder must lie in his actions that night?”

“I have no doubt about it.”

“How about his ex-wife? How about Ambrose Bailey?”

Neither of them even glanced Annie’s way. Max was crinkling his eyes at Kelly, and she was responding on cue. Annie knew she would do well to remember his expertise in the future.

“You’ve certainly thought this through very thoroughly. Who are the other candidates?”

Max was spilling all to their new confederate. “The next person we talked to was Hal Douglas.” Then his face abruptly went blank, and Annie knew he’d remembered her own comment that she suspected a romance between Hal and Kelly.

Kelly waited.

With Max struck dumb, Annie explained about Hal’s emotional outburst.

Kelly was unruffled. “His wife could have run off with someone.”

“Did you know he had a wife?”

“I knew there was an emotional block.”

Annie stopped short of announcing her belief that Lenora was in an unmarked grave near that Lake Tahoe cabin. Instead, she skirted. “What do you think about Hal? Could he kill someone?”

“Hal is passionate. I can see problems if he loved someone deeply and discovered infidelity, but I have trouble imagining him cold-bloodedly killing Jill—or Harriet.”

“Jill’s death may not have been intentional,” Annie suggested. “The autopsy revealed she had a very thin skull—and she was only hit once. Perhaps the killer simply intended to knock her unconscious.” Annie reached up and touched the sore spot, still a little swollen, behind her ear. “As for Harriet, nobody really knows what happened. Maybe she saw someone go into Elliot’s house and followed them. She may have accused that person of being the murderer and something happened to convince her she was right. The killer had no choice.”

“That seems possible.” Max nodded.

Kelly was skeptical. She stood and walked slowly to the mantel and lightly touched a piece of painted tinware. “Hal would do things in a rush. He might knock Elliot down or shoot him, but I can’t imagine he would plan and carry out this complicated murder.”

An attack on Hal made her uneasy. What might she do to protect Hal? Were she and Max naive? Did Kelly know all about Lenora, and was she determined to protect Hal at all costs? She’d already revealed that she would go to great lengths if she cared for someone. Witness her determination to shield her sister.

“Hal writes pretty complicated books.”

Kelly merely smiled patronizingly and shook her head.

“How about the Farleys? Solo or together.”

Kelly leaned back against the mantel, very much at ease now that Hal wasn’t the subject. “They’re possible, quite possible.” Her dark red hair swung as she nodded. “There is repression there, and violence.”

She wasn’t at all surprised to learn of Jeff’s attacks or Janis’s protective response. But again, she thought outright aggression would be more likely for Jeff than the carefully premeditated death by dart.

“I wouldn’t rule them out, though, psychologically speaking.”

“What about Fritz Hemphill?” Did Max have to look as if he awaited a guru’s pronouncement?

Kelly reached out and traced her fingers over the raised pattern in the upholstery of the small Queen Anne wingback. “Fritz is a dangerous man. What did Elliot have on him?”

“Apparently he blew away his best friend so he could inherit a valuable beachfront cottage at Carmel.”

“Fritz is a planner, the kind of person who takes what he wants.”

“Then there’s Capt. Mac.” Max’s voice was as curdled as sour milk. “A paternity suit.”

“At least he didn’t kill somebody,” Annie exclaimed protectively.

Kelly’s green eyes darted from Annie to Max, brightly, perceptively.

Annie was getting pretty damn sick of perception.

“So Capt. Mac’s libido caused him some difficulty. Not surprising. But he’s capable and intelligent. A cool customer. Of course, that’s what you would expect from someone who’s headed a police force. Tough. Ruthless. Very savvy.”

“Capt. Wonderful,” Max said sarcastically.

Kelly slipped gracefully into the wingback chair and looked at him, amused. “You asked for my opinion. I didn’t say I liked the man—either.”

Max scooted away from that one. “Well, off the top of your head, who’s the most likely suspect?”

Kelly gave them an enigmatic smile. “I’d rather know
what each of you thinks. Your choice will be so revealing.”

T
he breeze through the open sunroof ruffled Annie’s hair, which hadn’t been combed in some time. As the Porsche rattled over the wooden bridge, and they left the ruins of Fort Hendrix behind, she blew out a whoosh of relief. “My God, that woman’s enough to give you the creepy crawlies for life. I don’t think Hal can be the good old boy everybody takes him for.”

“I’m not taking him for a good old boy,” Max said drily.

Her lips quivered in a smile. “I guess I have a perverse streak. I was pretty well set on Emma, until Kelly said she could be the villain. Now I keep thinking of Emma’s good points.”

“Such as?”

Annie laughed. “She’s a nice guest. She brought extra chips and clam dip Sunday night.”

“And a poisoned dart?” He gunned the motor, then turned right onto the blacktop.

“Hey, wait. Where are you going? Let’s go back to the shop. I’ve got some ideas, and we have to hurry before the ferry leaves.”

“I’m thirsty.”

“Who do you think you are? Phil Marlowe? We can’t spend the afternoon slaking your insatiable thirst. We’ve got work to do.”

But he was already past the checkpoint and turning into Parotti’s tavern parking lot when a siren sounded behind them. The Porsche smoothed to a stop, and Max turned an
indignant face toward the big motorcycle cop. “I was going twenty-eight miles per hour. A motorized wheelchair could have passed me.”

Annie recognized the young giant as the second of the Broward’s Rock force, the one who’d dusted for fingerprints in Death On Demand after Elliot was killed. Now he placed ham-sized hands on the doorsill and ignored Max to fix her with a gimletlike stare out of his beady eyes. She started to bristle even before he spoke.

“Just a word to the wise, Miss Laurance.” He radiated a thick scent of spicy cologne.

Was there ever a phrase better designed to incite rebellion?

“You’d better stay put. The chief told me to keep an eye on you.”

Before Max could pull on his barrister’s wig, Annie attacked. “Do they pay you extra to be officious?” she demanded, gray eyes glittering dangerously.

Max held up a hand, clearly a warning to cease and desist.

“Sure, I’m official,” the cop retorted.

“Officious,” she repeated loudly. “As in rude, overbearing, and gratuitously self-important. Just like Inspector Slack.”

The young giant’s face turned a dull plum color. “You can talk just as fancy as you like, lady. But you better watch your step, or you’re going to jail.” With that, he swung on his heel, remounted his motorcycle, and roared off in the direction of the village.

Annie slammed the front door to Death On Demand so hard the front window quivered and a display copy of
Break In
tumbled down. “I’m
mad.”

“Cool down, Tiger.” Max moved down the central aisle, carrying the sack from their side excursion to Parotti’s tavern.

Flicking on the lights, she followed, too infuriated to take time to pet Agatha, who registered her contempt with a resentful yellow glare.

Max put two six-packs of Bud Light on the coffee bar, then opened the refrigerator.

“Want a beer?”

“I’d rather have that cop’s head on a platter.”

“Annie, Annie,” he said mournfully. “What are we going to do with your temper?” He lifted the beers from their cardboard cartons and put all but two away. “I’m doing my best to keep you out of jail, and that famous Laurance temper’s going to get you tossed in the can before nightfall. Honey, didn’t you ever learn it’s easier to sweet-talk your way out of trouble?”

She banged a stack of
Sugartowns
into a neat pile. Some of the flush began to die out of her cheeks, and she could almost smile. “Okay. So I’ve got a short fuse.”

“That’s not all bad—depending upon what you’re triggering.” His dark blue eyes glinted meaningfully.

She reached up and ruffled his hair. “Stow it, lecher.”

“Seriously, sweetie, you’re going to have to button your lip. The chief isn’t like that director you reamed out when they were casting ‘Sailors Ashore.’”

“That sorry clown took his feebleminded script too seriously.” She put her hands on her hips, ready to do battle. “At least Saulter hasn’t made a pass at me.” Her brows drew together. “I wonder why the hell not?”

Max laughed uproariously. “My God, you can’t have it both ways.”

“Well, just let him try,” she said in a steely voice.

He opened two beers and handed one to her. “Come on, chum, cool off. You waste too much energy being mad.”

She tilted up the brown bottle, then set it down without tasting its contents. “You know something, we are incompatible.”

“Just because I believe in avoiding trouble?”

“That’s one reason. But it typifies …”

He grinned and reached across the coffee bar to touch a finger lightly to her lips. “Typify’s the kind of word Kelly Rizzoli likes. She could undoubtedly draw up a list of incontrovertible reasons why you and I should avoid interpersonal relationships.” His hand traced the line of her cheek. “But she’d be wrong.”

She should firmly push his hand away, but another kind of short fuse was ticking.

“Everyone says it’s foolish to pursue relationships that
will deadend—” She didn’t finish. Max’s lips got in the way. The coffee bar was an obstacle, but neither paid any attention to it. Who moved first? Who cared? Their lips met, and Annie stopped analyzing, analogizing, and pontificating.

The phone rang.

Annie didn’t quite have her breathing under control when she answered.

Max looked savagely at the phone.

“Yes, Chief?” she said icily.

“Understand you and that pet lawyer of yours are out bothering people.”

“It’s a free country. Or so I thought.”

“You have no call to go around interviewing people. Mrs. Morgan resents it.”

“The ex-Mrs. Morgan knew all about the Sunday night session—and she was pretty annoyed that Elliot wasn’t forking over her alimony on schedule,” Annie said furiously.

A voice broke in. “Hey, you people better leave Carmen alone.” She pictured a meaty face with beady brown eyes.

“Butt out, Bud.”

So that was Inspector Slack’s name.

“Ms. Laurance, I’m calling to give you another chance. You keep your face out of my investigation. I’ve got enough trouble on this island without you and your boyfriend playing detective. Bud was just giving you some friendly advice.”

“I have some friendly advice for Bud,” she retorted. “His pal, Carmen, is a real pistol, and she wanted money—”

“Hey, lady, you watch your mouth about Carmen. What d’you mean, she’s a pistol?”

“And, furthermore, Chief, have you found out who inherits Elliot’s money?”

“Of course.”

“Who?”

“That’s no business of yours.”

“If you’re going to slap me in chains tomorrow, you can bet my lawyer will
make
it his business.”

Finally, Saulter spoke, and there was just a hint of consideration in his voice. “He hadn’t changed his will.”

“So Carmen inherits?”

“Yes.”

Bud was still fuming. “Hey, wait a minute. Nobody’s going to hang a rap on Carmen. Me and her were on the beach Sunday night.”

Not Inspector Slack, Annie decided. Mike Hammer on a vacation.

“Bud, get off the line.” After an instant, there was a click. “Okay, Ms. Laurance, you and your boyfriend have your fun—but I’ll be over to talk to you in the morning. And you better have some good answers.” He hung up.

She replaced the receiver. “The tumbril’s going to roll first thing in the morning.” Her voice was light, but she glanced up at the clock. “Oh Lord, we’ve got to get cracking. It’s ten after five. Come on, Max, let’s split up the work. You summarize what we learned from everybody, and I’ll call around and see if I can find out where everybody was when Harriet was killed.”

Max spread out his notes from the day on the table nearest the coffee bar. He draped himself comfortably in a chair, took off his brown cordovan loafers, wiggled his toes, and drank some more beer.

She called Emma first.

“Yes?” The mistress of mysteries was not cordial.

“Emma, where were you between five and six
P.M.
Monday?”

There was a chilly pause. “I understand Harriet died about then,” she said finally. “Is that what prompts this call?” She laughed softly. “You are indefatigable, aren’t you? I was here, my dear. In my office. Working.”