Yankee Doodle Dead

by Carolyn Hart

  Annie pushed back a sprig of damp hair. Was the air-conditioning even working? She took a deep swallow of the iced mocha-laden coffee. It jolted her system like the Anne McLean Matthews suspense novel The Cave, which was guaranteed to put a permanent shiver down the reader’s back.

  Henny popped down from the stool, began to pace. “…war scenes! That’s all he has in mind, war scenes!” She faced Annie, lifted her hands in outrage.

  “Testosterone tells. After all, he’s a retired general. Look, Henny, why don’t you compromise and—”

  Henny slapped her hands on her hips. “I’d rather do a slow waltz with a boa constrictor.” A bright look. “Or wrap a boa around Bud’s neck. How’s that for a murder weapon?” Henny squared her shoulders. “Look, Annie, I need help.”

  “No.” It came out firm, declarative, crisp. So might Joan Hess’s Claire Malloy have rejected a plea from Caron and Inez. Any plea.

  “Solidarity.” Henny’s dark eyes bored into Annie’s.

  “Henny, I’ve got loads of books to unpack—”

  “Ingrid. And she can get Duane to help her.” Henny had her not-going-to-take-no-for-an-answer gleam in her eyes.

  “I’ve promised Ingrid some time off. She and Duane are going to New Orleans to celebrate their anniversary.” Momentarily diverted, Annie asked, “Have you read Voodoo River by Robert Crais? Did you know he grew up in Baton Rouge?”

  “Everybody knows that. Of course I’ve read it. I never miss an Elvis Cole book. Now look, Annie.” Henny marched to the coffee bar, planted her hands firmly on the mahogany top. “I want you to come to the board meeting tomorrow morning. I need every vote I can get.”

  Henny didn’t wait for an answer. She whirled and darted up the central aisle.

  Annie heard the slap of Henny’s shoes across the heart-pine floor, Ingrid’s farewell, the silvery ring of the bell as the front door closed.

  Dammit, she’d said no. But she was a member of the library board. Henny needed her. Henny was counting on her.

  NO.

  Instead of a booming echo in her mind, the little negative shriveled to a faint gasp. Maybe it was time to root around in her car for that assertiveness tape she’d bought a few years ago, listen while she drove. But actually, the island was so small, she’d never gotten past the stern opening injunction: “Speak Your Mind.” It was certainly an appealing motto, but putting it into action might alienate customers, not to say friends, at an awesome rate.

  Annie carried her glass—A Toast to Tomorrow by Manning Coles—to a table in front of the dusty fireplace. She’d already planned tomorrow, an early swim with Max—which could lead to other morning pleasures—books to unpack, then books to pack for the booth allotted to her for the festival, a busy, happy, cheerful day.

  She didn’t want to get caught up in the explosive dissension threatening to wreck the first-ever Broward’s Rock festival. It had sounded like so much fun in the beginning and such a terrific way to celebrate the Fourth of July and raise money for the library. The island was teeming with tourists and the festival was sure to attract even more. It was all Henny’s idea, really; a celebration of South Carolina history from the earliest days to the present. But this was history with a twist, history from a woman’s perspective. The various women’s groups from the churches were thrilled. Henny, as president of the library board, was directing the overall program.

  Everyone loved the idea.

  Everyone except Brigadier General (retired) Charlton (Bud) Hatch. Hatch was a newcomer to the island, but he had plunged into island society—the golf club, the church, the Chamber of Commerce and the library board—with all the gusto he’d exhibited in his military career.

  And now, soon—tomorrow, to be exact—two opposing forces were going to clash with a bang that would resound all over the island.

  Agatha jumped up on the table, sniffed at Annie’s glass, gave her a disdainful glance.

  “So you don’t like coffee.”

  Agatha bared her fangs.

  “Don’t be so touchy.” Annie sipped the heavenly mocha, then stroked Agatha’s sleek satiny fur, black as a raven’s wing. “Agatha, why are humans so impossible?”

  But even Agatha had no answer for that question, though she looked thoughtful.

  “It was all going to be so much fun.” Annie had truly gotten into the spirit of the Fourth of July plans. She looked up at the five paintings hanging on the back wall. They were a perfect addition to the festivities. Every month a local artist did watercolors of five superb (in Annie’s estimation) mysteries. The first person to identify the books and authors correctly received a free book, excluding, of course, pricey collectibles, such as a signed first edition of Bitter Medicine by Sara Paretsky for $150 or a first English edition of In the Teeth of the Evidence by Dorothy L. Sayers for $240. One did have to have limits.

  Once she’d tried to retire Henny from the competition, hoping to give ordinary readers a sporting chance. Henny threatened a boycott and since she was by far the store’s best customer, Annie retreated.

  Annie smiled as she admired this month’s offerings. Henny was so absorbed in producing the festival, she’d yet to look them over. But Annie knew she would be pleased. They were so appropriate for America’s favorite holiday.

  In the first painting, moonlight shed its radiance over the river bank and the dark flowing water. A heavy-shouldered man with short-cropped hair knelt beside a dying man. Blood bubbled from the victim’s mouth and from the stab wound in his chest. The dying man was small. He wore the fancy blue, red, and gold satin clothes of a seventeenth-century continental gentleman, white lace at his wrists and collar and ribbon bows at his knees and on his shoes. On the ground lay a red velvet hat with a blue feather. The man kneeling by the body was plainly dressed in brown duffel breeches and clogs and wore no shirt, his skin pale in the moonlight.

  In the second painting, a workroom held many necessary implements: a loom, a great walking wheel for spinning wool, a small flax wheel, and a quilting frame. There were rods for candle dipping and great iron pots to boil soap. Softly colored crewel yarns in several shades of rose, indigo, green, and gold hung from a pole suspended in front of the fireplace. A man with a wide face and hooded eyes the color of brandy stood with a child by the quilting frame. His reddish-brown hair curled over his collar. His beard and mustache were reddish brown, too. The little girl, with a pale face and reddish-brown hair, watched him intently as he pointed to the yellow tom cat on the hearth. The man and child were closely observed by a woman in a bright red cloak of felted wool who stood quietly by the door. Her slender face held restless brown eyes behind square-cut wire spectacles. Her curly brown hair was cut short.

  In the third painting, a shaggy white terrier jumped in a frenzy near the young woman on the towpath. She stared in horror at the body bobbing in the dark water of the canal. The shocked observer was an attractive young woman with red hair. She wore a long dress, the skirt over a bustle, and high-laced white shoes, damp now from her walk through the long grass.

  In the fourth painting, the young typist’s straight reddish-brown hair was pulled back and tied with a black ribbon at the nape of her neck. Her green eyes glittered in concentration as her fingers flew over the silver-rimmed round keys of the tall black, shiny typewriter. A copy of Pride and Prejudice lay open beside her. She was the epitome of the well-dressed businesswoman in her pleated white shirtwaist.

  In the fifth painting, both men were redheads. But the man with the upturned nose and deeply cleft bulldog jaw had stopped suddenly on the marble stairway landing, a spittle of blood on his mouth, his arms reaching out. A quarter-sized black powder burn around a small bullet hole marred the front of his tan linen suit jacket. The second man was bigger, taller. His face creased in concern, he appeared to be running up the marble steps, a nine-millimeter gun in one hand.

  Between perusing the paintings and drinking the utterly delicious chocolate-laced coffee, Annie felt her spirits rise.

  �
�Dear Annie.”

  The call of an oh-so-familiar husky voice didn’t exactly dampen Annie’s mood. But she looked warily toward the open door to the storeroom and her mother-in-law, Laurel Darling Roethke. Actually, there were several more names before you got to Roethke, Laurel being no stranger to wedding vows. But, presently, Laurel was a widow and quite friendly with a local widower. Annie smiled determinedly. Well, everybody had a mother, including Max, of course. And really, truly, honestly, she liked Laurel, though perhaps she might have enjoyed Laurel a bit more had she stayed in Connecticut and not moved to Broward’s Rock. And Annie might be even more appreciative of her mother-in-law if Laurel didn’t possess a disconcerting habit of arriving unexpectedly. And often. Though perhaps it wasn’t Laurel’s arrival that disconcerted, but the absolute unpredictability of her enthusiasms. Since Annie had known her, they’d ranged from wedding customs (in re Annie and Max’s ceremony) to Southern ghosts.

  Laurel beamed.

  Annie felt her smile soften. Laurel had this effect on everyone, especially men, though Annie didn’t stress that fact with Max. Laurel never seemed to age. Her golden hair shone like spun moonlight, her finely chiseled features were smooth and perfect, her Mediterranean-blue eyes sparkled with delight, and something more, a vivid and vital liveliness that fascinated and charmed.

  However, Annie knew better than to succumb to Laurel’s charm. She managed to keep her voice even, but perhaps an edge of concern was evident. “What’s up, Laurel?”

  “Up,” Laurel repeated, as if first encountering the word. “Dear me. Yes. Of course. Parbleu, as dear Hercule would say. Up! Annie. It’s simply providential that I’ve come to you. Up, indeed.”

  Annie took a deep breath. Perhaps if she closed her eyes and counted to five hundred, this apparition would be gone when she looked again.

  But Laurel was across the room and Annie smelled the sweet scent of lilac and felt the light touch of Laurel’s lips on her cheek.

  Laurel whirled away and looked up at the watercolors over the fireplace.

  Annie stiffened.

  “There.” Laurel swept a beautifully manicured hand with fire-truck-red nails. “Up.” A tinkling laugh. “Those paintings can come down.”

  “No.” Maybe she didn’t need that assertiveness tape. So might Truman have told MacArthur.

  Laurel’s graceful hand gave a magnanimous wave, yielding the point.

  Annie wasn’t fooled. She hadn’t studied classical warfare, but she’d read enough Phoebe Atwood Taylor mysteries featuring Leonidas Witherall to know that when a frontal assault was repelled, watch your flank. Or as Witherall (aka Bill Shakespeare) was wont to intone: “Remember Cannae.” Annie concentrated on Cannae.

  “Dear Annie.” Laurel’s husky voice was full of concern. “Are you not feeling well?”

  “I’m fine. Fine. Absolutely fine.” But her eyes never left Laurel’s lovely face.

  “You look strained.” Laurel wafted near, touched Annie’s brow with a light hand.

  Annie backpedaled. She wondered if this was how a fly caught in a web felt. “Laurel,” she said desperately, determined to frame a rational discourse, “what do you want?”

  Laurel smiled a sweet, kindly, forgiving smile, clearly willing to ignore her daughter-in-law’s gaucherie. “It is not what I want, my dear child. It’s simply that I’ve been struck with a realization.” Her dark blue eyes were dreamy.

  And deranged? Annie squashed the disloyal thought. But if Annie’s nerves had earlier snapped like wind-tossed pennants, now they twanged like power lines in a hurricane.

  Laurel delved into her mesh bag, pulled out a handful of old-fashioned hand fans, the kind with scalloped edges. “These,” she said simply, “are the answer. I can envision them arranged above the fireplace in lieu of the paintings, perhaps as many as fifty of them. Oh, what a glorious sight that would be.”

  “Not my fireplace.” The words were clipped. Maybe just thinking about that tape was helping her hold her own. But she kept trying to make some sense of Laurel’s arrival. “Laurel, back up. Explain. What was the question?”

  Laurel proclaimed, “It’s the Fourth of July.”

  Annie reached out, gripped the beveled edge of the coffee bar. It was hard, real, and solid. And it wasn’t the Fourth of July. “Laurel, it’s not the Fourth yet.”

  “My dear child, of course not.” Laurel’s tone was kind and gentle and forbearing.

  If Laurel called her dear child one more time, Annie was going to put her hair up in pigtails and wear red sneakers and if Max asked why, she’d tell him.

  “But,” Laurel swept on, “our dear island—”

  Dear child.

  Dear Hercule.

  Dear island.

  Well, at least Annie was in good company.

  “—is poised for a grand celebration of America’s most glorious, soul-stirring holiday.” Those dark blue eyes glowed with excitement. “And I’ve realized that the focus is wrong, utterly wrong. Think for a moment, Annie. What happens when you hear a Sousa march and you see the flag rippling in the breeze and watch the fireworks sparkle against the night sky?” She looked encouragingly at Annie.

  Annie looked back.

  Laurel’s graceful hand—the one unencumbered by fans—beckoned hopefully, inviting a response.

  “Uh.” Annie realized this was not adequate. She cleared her throat. “Well,” she temporized.

  Laurel’s fingers fluttered like the wings of a monarch in a hurry to get to Mexico.

  Annie hadn’t felt this much social pressure since she went to her senior prom. “Uh, you feel—I feel—I guess it’s exciting.” She continued with more confidence, “That’s it. Exciting. Thrilling.” She watched those mesmerizing blue eyes and knew she didn’t have it right. Not yet. “Exhilarating?” she ventured.

  Laurel’s fingers stopped fluttering. Her smile was kindly. “Love,” she said simply.

  “Love?” If Laurel had suddenly begun to speak in Turkish, Annie couldn’t have been more lost. “Love?”

  “Annie, it’s so clear. The Fourth has always been a celebration of love of country. But what is love of country?” This time Laurel didn’t wait for Annie to answer, no doubt having concluded that the dear child wasn’t quite bright. “Why, it’s so obvious. Love of country is a love of fellow citizens. And how can we best celebrate the Fourth? Oh, it has come as a revelation to me. We can celebrate by focusing on love and there is no greater way—well, perhaps there is but one can’t do that universally—” this aside was in a reflective undertone. “In any event, we can best celebrate the Fourth by calling forth Shakespeare.”

  Annie wondered how she was going to break it to Max. Laurel had lost it. This was surely proof. The Fourth of July and Shakespeare?

  “Dear William.” Laurel might have given him a hug just moments ago, her tone indicated such familiarity. “No one has ever captured the depth and breadth of love better than he. We must share the joy and vigor of his verse with all the citizenry. So,” she concluded briskly, “I know you’ll come to the library board meeting in the morning.”

  Annie stood absolutely still as Laurel darted back toward the storeroom door.

  Laurel paused, gave a fleeting glance back, once again lifted the fans. “We must share love.”

  Annie was seized by an almost overpowering desire to follow that first precept of assertiveness training, Speak Your Mind. The Speak Your Mind that begged to be said: Laurel, sweetheart, sharing love can get you in a whole lot of trouble.

  Annie managed to remain silent as her mother-in-law wafted a kiss with crimson-tipped fingers.

  Annie’s thoughts swirled chaotically between fireworks, love, Shakespeare, and the library.

  “Why the library?” she asked aloud.

  But there was no answer. A gentle click marked the closing of the storeroom door that opened into the alley behind the shops.

  Agatha looked at Annie curiously.

  Annie knew her expression was odd, one of amuseme
nt struggling with uneasiness. Amusement won out. Annie grinned. “Agatha, I have a feeling the library board meeting tomorrow will have more fireworks than the Fourth. I think I’ll go.”

  The bell over the front door tinkled. Perhaps it signaled the arrival of a customer. Surely one out of three wasn’t too much to hope for.

  A hollow thump sounded on the heart-pine floor.

  Annie’s smile fled. Not a customer.

  “Hello, Miss Dora. How are you today?” Ingrid sounded genuinely pleased.

  Easy for Ingrid, Annie thought. Ingrid only worked here. But whatever Miss Dora Brevard wanted, Annie knew it would be made clear. Unlike Laurel. In fact, a refreshing contrast to Laurel. Annie started eagerly up the center aisle, pleased to free her mind of Shakespeare, love, the library, and the Fourth. Miss Dora Brevard was the doyenne of Chastain, South Carolina, a charming antebellum town not far from the ferry stop to Broward’s Rock. Annie had first met the wily and wise elderly resident when Annie became involved in creating a mystery program for the House-and-Garden Week in Chastain. On another occasion, Annie and Max had helped Miss Dora solve a long-ago crime involving the Tarrant family.

  The thump of Miss Dora’s cane mingled with a hoarse commentary. “There’s adequate space. Some of the books can be put away until the festival’s over.”

  Annie’s eagerness abruptly flagged, but she managed to keep her smile squarely on her face. “Miss Dora, how lovely that you could come over today.” Living on the mainland seemed no deterrent to frequent island visits by Miss Dora. Annie wondered if the old lady traveled to the ferry in a horse-drawn carriage. It would be fitting.

  Miss Dora was arrayed in her usual voluminous folds of black drapery that would have been perfectly appropriate at Queen Victoria’s funeral. Annie always pictured a frayed leather chest in a dusky corner of an attic, chock-full of diminutive dresses in black bombazine.

  Her shaggy silvery hair unfazed by the soggy summer air, Miss Dora lifted her ebony cane to point toward the back of the room. She swept past Annie, her shoes pattering against the shining floor, making a soft flutter like bat wings lifting from a cave at sunset.