Yankee Doodle Dead

by Carolyn Hart

  “I don’t know,” she called after him.

  Fisher stopped midway down the stairs, as if he’d run into a wall.

  But Hatch, his face dangerously red, jolted to a stop in front of Fisher. The general shouted, “See anybody?”

  It clicked like a roulette ball landing on black. The geezer.

  Annie stared at him. “The vase? Did it fall?”

  Hatch looked past Fisher, glared at her. “Pennies fall from heaven, little lady. Not vases. Somebody pushed it and it damn near got me. Seen anybody?” His eyes glistened. He looked from Annie to the director.

  Hatch was, Annie realized abruptly, having a hell of a time. Probably the most fun since he’d commanded troops.

  He jerked his head impatiently when neither replied. “Check out this floor,” he barked. “Fisher, you take the front rooms. Annie, you take the back.” And Hatch was running up the stairs to the third floor.

  Annie was halfway down the hall, banging back doors and poking her head into empty rooms when she realized she’d responded automatically to the note of authority.

  Hey, wait a minute! She wasn’t in Bud Hatch’s army. Then she moved on down the hall. Okay, no matter how much she didn’t like the general, she didn’t approve of people shoving vases off the library portico. It could be dangerous to people’s health.

  What if Edith had been leaving at the same time? But Edith would leave by the back door. It was closest to the staff lot. Where was Edith?

  Annie ran to the end of the hall, peered down toward the staff lot. Edith was opening the door to a shabby VW and ignoring the occasional burst of sound from the library. The general, of course, issuing more orders. He’d probably enrolled everyone he saw in his posse of searchers, right along with Annie and Ned. Edith gunned her car backward, then took off in a flurry of gray dust.

  Annie turned around. She caught sight of a door closing. And realized Ned Fisher was nowhere to be seen.

  Slowly, cautiously, she eased up the hallway, stepping lightly on the polished wooden floor.

  LADIES.

  Someone was in the women’s rest room. Not Edith Cummings. Surely not Ned Fisher. Why didn’t the occupant come out to see what all the fuss was about? Unless there was a reason to hide. On the other hand, the person who’d pushed the vase certainly wasn’t waiting around to be discovered. Anyone who knew how to get to the roof would also be familiar with both the front and back stairways.

  Annie looked up and down the hall. Ned Fisher had to be nearby. She could shout for help if necessary. Annie grabbed the heavy, old-fashioned knob and opened the door.

  There were a single washstand and doors to two stalls. One door was ajar, the other closed. Annie peered. No feet. Why was the door closed? “Well, nobody here,” she said loudly. She scuffed to the door, opened it, walked in place, shut it firmly, all the while watching the closed stall. And waited.

  Navy tennis shoes dropped lightly to the floor of the stall. The door opened.

  Annie stared into startled, vividly blue eyes.

  A blue ball cap perched atop Laurel’s spun-gold hair. She looked jaunty in a navy T-shirt and slacks. In quick order, surprise, chagrin, and a soupçon of irritation flickered across her lovely face, followed by profound, unmistakable disappointment, the kindly but sad condemnation of one reluctantly discovering unexpected perfidy.

  “Annie, dear Annie, don’t you think subterfuge is perhaps a quality one should abhor?” A soft tsk, then Laurel, soft-footed as a cat burglar in the sneakers, sped toward the door.

  Annie was so shocked, she couldn’t reply. After all, she wasn’t the one who’d perched on a toilet seat.

  Laurel pulled the door open.

  Annie caught up with her in the hallway. “Laurel,” she hissed, “what are you—”

  Laurel slipped her arm through that of her daughter-in-law. “The library has an absolutely wonderful collection of South Carolina poets. Had I but known that, I would have been tempted to include some local scribes on the fans. But dear William came to me first. And he did write so much.” A sweet laugh. “But perhaps next—”

  Far down the hall, Bud Hatch burst out of an office. “We’ve had a burglary, too. I’m going to call the police.” He dashed down the main stairs.

  “A burglary!” Annie exclaimed.

  “A burglary,” Laurel echoed brightly.

  Annie swung toward her mother-in-law.

  Laurel gave her a sweet smile. “So many exciting events at the local library.”

  “Laurel—” Annie’s tone was intense.

  “I must be off, my dear. So many miles to travel. That sort of thing. But remember: ‘What is love? ’Tis not hereafter; Present mirth hath present laughter.’ ”

  “Laurel—”

  Her mother-in-law was nimbly skipping down the hallway, intent on reaching the central stairs.

  Annie stood irresolute. But she couldn’t lasso Laurel, insist that she remain. And certainly she couldn’t tell Bud Hatch that Laurel was hidden in the ladies’ room after the vase fell. After—face it—the vase was pushed.

  Not Laurel. Laurel was spacey, Laurel was…well, different…yes, that was undeniable. At least no one denied it but Max. Annie was willing to accept that everyone had a few illusions that had to be indulged. But Laurel wouldn’t push a huge vase off a roof and endanger anyone’s life. And, as far as Annie knew, Laurel wasn’t even acquainted with Bud Hatch. Though Bud had managed to make himself known the length and breadth of the island in his short time here.

  But why had Laurel been hiding? And what had been stolen?

  Annie darted up the hall. Yes, this was the office Bud Hatch had departed, announcing a burglary. She stepped inside. Oh, of course. This was the room with small private cabinets for all members of the library board. She’d never used hers. She glanced at the bronze nameplates. The top plate read: “Henny Brawley.” Annie scanned the other names, including her own. All of the panels were closed except one. Its wooden door hung askew, revealing a messy heap of papers.

  Annie stepped closer and stumbled. She looked down at the chisel she’d tripped on, then back at the open storage space. Gouge marks showed at the edge of the panel.

  She reached up, tugged on Henny’s panel. It didn’t budge. Annie used her elbow—she hadn’t read crime fiction her entire life to go around planting her fingerprints on a burglary site—and wasn’t surprised to find Brig. Gen. (ret.) Charlton Hatch’s name on the prized-open panel.

  Only Hatch’s space had been invaded.

  Annie heard the faraway rumble of Hatch’s deep voice. She scooted back into the hall.

  A prized-open locker. A tumbling vase. Laurel in the ladies’ room. There couldn’t be a connection. But Annie was already halfway up the stairs to the third floor. It wasn’t that she harbored any idea that Laurel had been responsible for the launch of the vase. No, not a single shred of reasoning would lead her to that conclusion. But, she thought grimly, she’d better take a look.

  The door to the roof was open. It was a small opening, perhaps four feet tall, three feet wide, intended obviously for the access of repairmen, not for general traffic.

  Heat radiated from the tarred roof, even though the sun was beginning to slide low on the horizon. It had been a long, hot day. Annie felt as if she were dancing across a sizzling skillet. She ducked around a huge chimney.

  The second vase from the south was gone. Even in the dim light, Annie could see bright, fresh scars amid crumbly pieces of stone on the pedestal. Something had been jammed beneath the vase.

  She thought of the chisel in the office with the cabinets for board members. But surely a chisel wasn’t long enough to use to lever the urn free. She came close, looked at the streaks. Maybe an inch wide.

  Careful not to touch the parapet, she looked over. A long way down. It would be easy to look over the parapet and see anyone coming out of the library. Once again she saw the broken shards of pottery scattered on the oyster shells.

  If the vase had connected sq
uarely, it would surely have killed a passerby. But Annie, whose mind was filled with ingenious means of murder, shook her head. Whoever pushed the vase intended to scare Hatch. But not to kill him. It would take enormous luck—if that was the right word—for the container to hit a target.

  A siren rose and fell. Dust boiled up on the curving gray road.

  Annie dashed to the other end of the roof.

  The police car wheeled into the lot. Out climbed the gentle, good-humored giant Billy Cameron, who’d been promoted to sergeant when the Broward’s Rock force was expanded to include two more officers in addition to the chief.

  Hatch pounded down the back steps two at a time. Ned Fisher was right behind him.

  Hatch waited for Billy. “Took you long enough.” Hatch glanced at his watch. “Nine minutes thirty-two seconds.”

  “Yes, sir,” Billy said smoothly. “What’s the problem here?”

  “Attempted murder. Burglary.” Hatch was looking sharply around the lot. “Where’s Samuel?”

  “Sir?” Billy looked at him inquiringly.

  “Samuel Kinnon,” Hatch snapped. “Smart-mouth kid. Send out an APB.”

  “Samuel Kinnon?” Billy was a good, serious cop and he knew every man, woman, and child who lived on Broward’s Rock. “What did Samuel do?”

  Hatch slammed a fist into a palm. “Some craven fool shoved over a vase from the roof. Damn near killed me. It would be the kind of thing Samuel’d do.”

  “Oh, I doubt that, General.” Ned Fisher’s tone was conciliatory. “Samuel’s a fine young man. Did you see him on the roof?”

  Billy held up a big hand. “If we could start at the beginning.” He looked at Hatch. “All right, mister.”

  “General. General Hatch.” It was a stand-up-and-salute voice.

  “Yes, sir.” Billy nodded. “First, I need to know what’s happened.”

  “I’ll show you.” Hatch headed for the front of the library.

  Billy followed. Ned Fisher took a deep breath and trotted after them.

  Annie decided it might be as well if she quitted the roof. No law said she couldn’t be up here, but even good-humored Billy Cameron might wonder why she was there. Annie wanted to avoid any mention of Laurel’s presence. And quick departure.

  Annie hurried down to the second floor and ducked into the room where she’d held her committee meeting, tucked the foods and her papers into her book bag. As she came out, she heard the general’s crisp voice down the hall in the office with the prized-open panel.

  Annie stepped out into the hall. She walked very quietly. If anyone happened to look out and wonder, she was on her way to the main stairs. But she could hear every word being said.

  “…these are compartments for the use of our library board members.” Ned Fisher spoke briskly.

  “Are they kept locked?” Billy Cameron asked.

  Annie edged close enough to peer into the office.

  “Yes. This affords the board members a place to keep confidential material.” Fisher stood with his arms folded, staring at the cabinet.

  “What would that be?” Billy sounded puzzled.

  “Oh, personnel matters. Library minutes. That kind of thing.” The director stepped to the cabinet, tugged on several of the lockers. “The rest of them seem to be all right.”

  Billy bent to look at the broken panel. “So this one belongs to you, General?” Billy asked.

  “That’s right. And someone’s broken in.” Hatch was impatient.

  “Can you tell me if anything is missing, sir?” Billy wasn’t going to be rushed.

  Hatch pawed through the heap of papers. “Doesn’t appear to be.” But his face was dangerously red, his eyes abstracted.

  “Nothing taken?” Billy repeated, watching Hatch closely.

  Hatch shook his head. “It doesn’t matter whether anything’s missing. No one has the right to break into my private files.”

  “It doesn’t make sense,” Fisher exclaimed. “There’s nothing that sensitive in library matters.”

  Annie left them wrangling. The general was furious. Why should he care, if nothing had been disturbed? That was easy to answer. He had an idea why someone would nose around in his private compartment and he didn’t like it at all. Something was gone, all right, but it wasn’t anything he was willing to describe. Annie quirked an eyebrow. So what did the old martinet keep there? Girly mags? Smutty videos? Locations of cockfights? Hmm.

  When she reached the main stairwell, Annie stopped and frowned. A faint memory teased her mind. She hesitated, then, turning, ran quickly back to the women’s rest room. She opened the door, stepped inside, closed the door, and looked at it fully, looked directly as she had not when she closed it earlier and waited to see if someone hid in one of the stalls.

  The charcoal drawing wasn’t quite straight, as if it had been placed there hurriedly. Again the strokes of charcoal gave life and movement. A young woman with dark curls and a pale face ducked inside a military tent. Her dress was travel-crumpled. A patriot general looked at her keenly. Beneath the drawing, thick black spidery handwriting proclaimed: Emily Geiger brings word to General Sumter from General Greene after a death-daring ride across Tory country.

  Hatch had forbidden Miss Dora to post her drawings of South Carolina heroines in the library. But this was one place in the library off limits to the general. Annie grinned. Then her smile faded. When had Miss Dora been here? But even if she’d been at the library when the vase fell, certainly tiny Miss Dora wasn’t strong enough to have leveraged it loose.

  Annie shook her head impatiently. The vase wasn’t her responsibility. Nor was Miss Dora. As for Laurel, Annie intended to have a heart-to-heart talk with her mother-in-law as soon as possible. They had many things to discuss and Shakespeare wasn’t even on the list. She was undecided whether to start with breaking and entering, absconding with private property, or pilferage.

  “Now, Annie.” Max shoved a hand through his thick blond hair. “That’s absurd.”

  Annie poured chocolate syrup over the vanilla ice cream. Dear chocolate syrup. Zero grams of fat. She looked at Max. “Zero grams of fat. Do you want some?”

  “No, thanks.” He shook his head impatiently. “It doesn’t mean a thing that Mother was in the rest room.”

  “Hiding in the rest room.” Annie said it pleasantly but firmly.

  “Well, I’m sure she’ll have a good reason.” Max’s face was getting its bulldog look.

  “Why don’t you call and ask her?” Annie plopped on a wicker couch beneath the ceiling fan. Of course their house was air-conditioned, but for the summer in the Low Country one could not have too many methods of cooling. She spooned a smooth dark dollop of chocolate syrup. She’d get to the ice cream in a minute.

  Max paced in front of the couch. “Of course she had a good reason.”

  Annie wondered if he heard the plaintive tone in his voice.

  “I’ll call her.” He strode to the telephone.

  Annie edged a smidgeon of ice cream on the tip of the spoon, dipped the whole into the syrup. She closed her eyes and swallowed. And listened.

  “Hi, Mother.” Max’s tone was hearty.

  Annie knew he was worried. Otherwise, he would have called her Laurel.

  “…did you realize there was a robbery at the library this evening?”

  The spoon moved rhythmically.

  “Annie said the general was really angry even though he said nothing was missing.” Max held the phone away from his ear.

  Annie heard a silver peal of amusement.

  “What’s so funny, Mother?” he demanded crisply. He nodded quickly. “That’s right. Annie heard the general talking to the police.” A pause. “Yes, he called the police. What? No, I don’t suppose they can do anything about it if the general doesn’t say what was taken. But whoever did it could still be arrested for vandalism. Or breaking and entering. Now if you have any idea what—”

  Max listened, frowning. Slowly, he hung up the phone. He looked at Anni
e, his dark blue eyes full of concern. “Do you know what she said?” He rubbed his cheek. “She said, ‘If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.’ Annie, what in the world does that mean?”

  It meant, Annie felt certain, that General Hatch could whistle for his lost property. Whatever it was.

  A Speak Your Mind tempted: At the best of times, your mother has the criminal instincts of a cat burglar. Instead, she smiled sweetly. “Laurel is very poetic.” She spooned a tiny sliver of ice cream floating in syrup. Be interesting to know what had been taken. But it probably didn’t really matter. Be interesting to see how the old geezer behaved at the board meeting in the morning. Annie was sure of one thing only. As soon as the meeting was past, she intended to dismiss Brig. Gen. (ret.) Charlton (Bud) Hatch from her thoughts. Absolutely. Completely.

  She concentrated on her last spoonful of chocolate.

  Chapter 3

  Max waggled his new putter. Hmm. A nice weight. He took the proper stance, sighted from the ball to the hole to the ball. Click. The ball headed straight for the cup. At the last instant, the pebbled white sphere curved left.

  “I can’t believe it!” He stared at the artificial putting green. But actually, as with all golfers, he could believe it. The perennial question tantalized him: Why did anyone play a game where one day your shots flew straight and true down the fairway and the next they hooked or sliced or simply died? Why endure the torture, frustration and misery called golf?

  Max’s secretary stuck her head in the doorway. “Did you call me?” A statuesque blonde, she favored multifloral shifts dominated by bright red hibiscus. Thick hair puffed in what Annie assured him was called a beehive hairdo.

  Max glared at the putter. “No. I’m thinking about taking up dominoes.” He turned and grinned at Barb’s cheerful, inquiring face. “Do you think dominoes are as unpredictable as golf balls?”

  Barb said consolingly, “Did you read your horoscope this morning? It said, ‘Adventure and success are yours for the taking.’ ” Her brown eyes were earnest.