Yankee Doodle Dead

by Carolyn Hart

  A firefly glistened near the pittosporum hedge. Annie loved fireflies. But tonight she didn’t announce the cheerful glow to Max. She rested in the crook of his arm and looked up at the blaze of stars. Occasionally he pushed his foot against the flagstone and the wooden swing moved back and forth. Moonlight turned the pool water a light jade. Cicadas rasped like rusted hinges. In the thick tangle of woods near the lagoon, a great horned owl gave its mournful cry.

  “Max?” She clasped his hand in hers.

  “Hmm?” He rested his chin against her head.

  “Don’t you wish we could be like The Saint?” Leslie Charteris’s gallant protagonist Simon Templar was known as The Saint.

  In his years with Annie, Max had learned much about mysteries, from arch criminal Dr. Fu Manchu to gentleman adventurer Bulldog Drummond. He took The Saint in stride. But he’d also learned caution. “Well, The Saint’s quite a guy.”

  Annie sat up very straight. “You know how he talked about ‘blipping the ungodly over the beezer’? I just wish—”

  “Annie”—Max pulled her back into the circle of his arm—“that’s fiction. We can’t go around bashing Hatch. And you wouldn’t want to. Not really.”

  “Well,” she said grudgingly, “I know. I don’t even like to squash palmetto bugs.” It still intrigued her that South Carolinians had given roaches—huge, waddling, aggressive roaches—such an attractive name. “But Hatch is making so many people miserable.”

  Max didn’t reply. He shifted in the swing.

  “Max?” They had been married long enough that Annie picked up on nonverbal cues.

  “Yeah.” His voice was worried. “It’s a mess. It’s certainly better than when Samuel was missing. Thank God Miss Dora told him to come to me. But I didn’t tell you what Samuel said after we got out of Chief Saulter’s office.”

  “I thought that went really well?” She peered at him in the soft darkness.

  “Oh, it did. It did. Samuel made a good impression on the chief. I think that’s all straightened out. Of course, somebody pushed that vase over—”

  Annie had a fleeting memory of Laurel in the library ladies’ room.

  “—but the chief has an open mind. Yeah, that went fine. I had the feeling Samuel has his own ideas about who might have done it. But he knows what it’s like to be accused of something he didn’t do, so he’s not going to throw somebody else’s name out. That’s okay. And he seemed absolutely convincing when he said he didn’t shove the vase. That isn’t what worries me. I took Samuel home and when he got out of the car—”

  Faraway lightning crackled in clouds banked up to the south. A storm was moving up the coast toward Broward’s Rock.

  “—he said, ‘Somebody’s gonna kill that man, for sure.’ ”

  Chapter 5

  Annie stood at the edge of the festival ground looking for Henny. Everyone was in motion, a swarm of purposeful, peeling faces and tanned arms and legs crisscrossing the dusty ground. Men’s deep voices and women’s high voices made a human counterpoint to birdsongs and the chittering of insects and the rustle of palm fronds. Occasional rat-a-tat-tats came from every direction—beneath the bandstand, behind the food trailers, near the lagoon. Lady Fingers, of course. Annie sometimes wondered if Southern children were born with a packet of the tiny firecrackers clutched firmly in one hand. Every holiday called forth the minuscule explosions. The sounds melded into a dull, cheerful roar. Certainly the library could already count this venture a success. It looked as if everybody in town plus hordes of tourists were milling happily around the festival area.

  But Annie’s sense of disquiet on Henny’s behalf wasn’t assuaged. No matter how gloriously the festival succeeded, the library board would meet next week and clearly the general intended trouble. Henny needed to know she had Annie’s support. Annie shaded her eyes. Was that Henny over there by the lemonade stand?

  A sticking, tearing, crunchy sound erupted behind her. Annie swung around.

  Samuel Kinnon leaned close to one of the redbud trees that lined the east side of the festival ground.

  Annie moved close. “Hi, Samuel. Velcro?”

  Samuel paused in his effort to loop a two-inch band of Velcro around the trunk of a redbud. “Hi, Mrs. Darling.” His broad face eased into an impish smile. “I asked Miss Dora why we didn’t just bang a nail and hang the drawings. She acted like I wanted to drive a stake into Bambi’s heart.”

  At Annie’s clear lack of comprehension, Samuel added, “Living things. Trees, too.” He was deft, the Velcro circle quickly complete. Then a plastic-covered sketch with Velcro taped to its back was pressed in place.

  “Oh, yes, of course.” Annie tipped her head to one side to view the drawing. It hung with one side lower than the other. Even askew, the charcoal radiated serenity: an aristocratic woman in a silk dress perched on a wooden stool, her sketchbook in her lap.

  Samuel adjusted the Velcro band, righting the picture. “The trunk’s still wet from the rain.”

  Ah, last night’s late rain. It was still humid, but the sun shone from a pastel-blue sky without a single cloud. A perfect day for a festival.

  A festival, Annie realized with a grin, that was going to be treated to a superb display of Miss Dora’s charcoal sketches, despite Bud Hatch’s opposition. Annie was impressed with the method of display. Certainly no one could accuse Miss Dora of damaging the environment. Annie peered closely at the bottom of the painting.

  A raspy voice at her elbow announced, “Miss Alice.” There was reverence in Miss Dora’s tone. “One of Charleston’s great watercolorists, Alice Ravenel Huger Smith. Spanish moss, a rice field at sunrise, the black waters of cypress swamps—no one ever captured the shift of light and shadow with greater felicity.”

  “Yo,” came a brusque shout, “Fisher.”

  Annie’s head jerked. Samuel’s big hands gripped the portfolio of paintings. Only Miss Dora remained oblivious, with a clawlike finger to her cheek, surveying the line of redbuds.

  A temporary arbor wrapped in red-white-and-blue bunting marked the entry to the festival grounds. Bud Hatch strode out of its shadow, his head at an arrogant angle, his hands clasped behind his back.

  Ned Fisher stopped on the third step of the temporary bandstand by the lagoon. From the back, he looked young and vulnerable, a swallowtail coat bunching over his narrow shoulders, garishly striped pants flapping against thin legs, a crisp Uncle Sam hat riding high on his thick hair. Slowly, he turned. His shoulder-length hair, curling under the tall hat, was touched with gold by the sunlight, an odd contrast to the arctic white of the artificial beard. But the costume had no power to re-create Uncle Sam’s clear, sharp visage that beckoned generations of Americans to service. Instead, the fake beard underscored the poignant gentleness of Fisher’s features—a high forehead with deep-set eyes, smooth cheeks, a pleasant mouth. A boyish face. But in the sharp July sunlight Fisher’s face was pale beneath the jaunty hat, a pasty white like a time-bleached figurine unearthed in an attic corner.

  Hatch lifted his arm in a peremptory gesture.

  The library director remained on the third step, staring across the dusty ground. A general hubbub enveloped the festival grounds, trumpets and drums and the occasional squeal of a bagpipe, the clang of metal from food trailers, the flap of canvas awnings at the booths, shouted directions and instructions, the throaty oompah of a lone tuba, the caw of excited blackbirds hoping for crumbs, the rattle of Lady Fingers.

  But Annie felt caught up in a bubble of intense silence that encircled the general and the director. It must have been only a few seconds, but the time stretched like film played out in slow motion.

  Beneath the bulky coat, Fisher’s chest heaved like a swimmer at the end of a race. Then he ducked his head, the tall hat wobbling, and came jerkily down the steps. He crossed the dusty ground to face the general.

  Hatch spoke. Whatever he said, it was short and crisp.

  His face bleak, Fisher listened, nodded once, and turned away. He walked fast
, head down, the tall hat tilting.

  “Somebody”—Samuel’s voice was soft and deep in his throat—“is gonna kill that man.”

  Annie reached out, grabbed his arm. “Don’t, Samuel. Don’t say that! It’s”—she thought of the three witches in Macbeth—“it’s bad luck.”

  “Bad luck!” Samuel glowered. “I’d like to bad-luck him.”

  Miss Dora cleared her throat. “Samuel, I believe we’ll put the Nell Graydon drawing by the sign to the forest preserve. That would please my cousin. She did so love books.”

  Annie glanced at the sketch in Miss Dora’s hands, a sweet-faced woman and a stack of books, the titles clearly legible: Tales of Edisto, Another Jezebel, Tales of Beaufort and Tales of Columbia.

  “One of South Carolina’s finest authors,” Miss Dora said with satisfaction. “Of course, I didn’t put in all of her books, simply my favorites.”

  That was then; this was now. Annie shook her head impatiently. “Miss Dora—”

  “When there is unpleasantness,” Miss Dora said firmly, “gentility will prevail.”

  “Miss Dora, I admire the sentiment.” And she did. “But—”

  “Should we permit a boorish Yankee to destroy the joy of this day?” Miss Dora’s dark eyes challenged Annie and Samuel.

  “No way, Miss Dora.” Samuel’s deep voice boomed.

  Miss Dora looked at Annie.

  A South Carolina woman to the core, Annie wished she had a banner to wave or a picture hat to toss. Lacking props, she simply stood straight and said firmly, “Gentility will prevail.” Definitely a motto with élan.

  Miss Dora’s thin lips curved in an unexpectedly sweet smile. “Good girl.” She looked toward her big helper, “Come, Samuel, we’ve work to do.”

  Annie watched the big young man and the diminutive elderly lady, as always attired in a voluminous black dress, cross the hummocky ground. Samuel’s hand hovered protectively near Miss Dora’s elbow.

  Annie smiled, then glanced at her watch. The program opened at noon with a trumpet fanfare, an official welcome from Henny, a report on library programs from Ned Fisher, a concert by the high school band. Throughout the day, costumed volunteers were reenacting particular historical events in short vignettes repeated every half hour. Annie decided to open her booth after the program. Max was arriving with a calculator and change box soon.

  Annie shifted a jug of iced tea from one hand to the other and headed for the food trailers, continuing to scan the crowd for Henny. It was only wise—not piggy, as some might say—to stock up for the long, hot, hungry afternoon. Much as she loved to sell books—and wouldn’t that paper-back of A. B. Guthrie Jr.’s Murders at Moon Dance thrill some Western fan—she loved to do so in air-conditioned, well-fed comfort. She couldn’t do anything about the muggy heat, but she didn’t have to starve. She picked up a basket of fried clams, a sack of boiled peanuts, and a chef’s salad (for Max). She virtuously resisted cotton candy, but grabbed a couple of Goo Goo Clusters, purely for a late-afternoon energy kick. If Max didn’t want his, well, it wouldn’t do to save it because of the heat. She curved around the south end of the festival ground, admiring the Points of Patriotism and the Gallant Women of South Carolina.

  The historical vignettes were presented on small stages arranged in a semicircle on the south end of the huge empty area behind the library. The booths, selling everything from books to potted plants to quilts to jams and jellies, were tucked between the backs of the stages and the parking areas. The temporary bandstand rose at the opposite end of the long field in front of the lagoon. The fireworks would be shot off after dark from a raft in the middle of the lagoon. Food stands lined the front of the forest preserve to the west. This left plenty of room between the stages to the south and the bandstand and lagoon to the north for families to spread out picnic blankets or set up folding chairs for the concert and, after dark, the pièce de résistance, the culmination, the finale: fireworks to rival the Braves winning a World Series.

  Annie’s mind felt like a patchwork quilt, gaily decorated with smidges of vivid history, before she had walked even halfway around the semicircle of low stages where volunteers in period dress recalled danger and combat: the Yemassee Indian uprising in 1715, the Revolutionary War, the War of 1812, the War Between the States, World War I, World War II, Vietnam. Woven through and around the battles and the marches were the stories of South Carolina women—daughters, wives, mothers, widows, teachers, authors, nurses in peace and war, doctors, abolitionists, couriers, naturalists, preservationists, artists, musicians, farmers, sculptors, athletes…

  It was easy to forget that every act depicted in a history book was the result of human effort and emotion and that those long-ago men and women laughed and cried, loved and lost, and each of them once knew the feel of a hot July sun on living skin.

  Annie paused at the tableau honoring Lieutenant Juanita Redmond, Army nurse on Bataan and Corregidor in World War II and later acting chief of the Air Force Nurses Corps. Lieutenant Redmond, her red hair curling from beneath her helmet, her khaki uniform stained and dirty, knelt by a wounded soldier in dusty Malinta Tunnel on Corregidor.

  Annie almost stepped forward to visit with Gail Oldham, but the look of pain and despair on Gail’s pale freckled face wasn’t simply a festival volunteer’s portrayal of Lieutenant Redmond’s harrowing experiences in the Philippines.

  A trumpet fanfare trilled.

  Gail Oldham stared emptily at the rumpled blanket over a still form on the stretcher.

  Annie looked toward the bandstand. Henny climbed the steps, moving swiftly, as always. Her crisp white blouse was a bright contrast to the red and blue stripes of her swirling cotton skirt. Her broad-brimmed straw hat sported a wide red-white-and-blue-striped band. On the stage, she lifted her hat and thrust it high in a jaunty wave.

  Cheers. Shouts. And, of course, the staccato of firecrackers.

  It should have been a moment of triumph for a woman who’d spent countless hours creating a magnificent spectacle for her community. Henny smiled, but it wasn’t her joyous, scintillant, first-jonquil-of-the-spring smile. It was a measured, on-demand, requisite smile.

  Damn Hatch. Annie wished she’d found Henny before the program began. If nothing more, she could have given Henny a hug. Hugs help hearts heal. Over the sea of tiny waving flags—and plenty of Laurel’s fans—Annie tried to catch Henny’s eye. Their gazes connected for an instant. Annie balanced her food and the thermos of tea in the crook of her left arm. She held up her right hand, fingers clenched, thumb up. Henny’s practiced smile widened for an instant, then her glance moved on.

  Kids darted past, scuffing up dust. Mothers called out. Dads instructed. Teenagers sauntered. Tourists took photographs. Annie ducked a wobbling cone of cotton candy and took a step toward the small stage. Gail offered a leaflet to a harried-looking woman herding a gaggle of Brownies. Trust Henny to plan well: a moment of history onstage, a handout for anyone interested in more than a snippet.

  The trumpets sounded again. Gail winced, pressing thin fingers against her temple. Another group stopped by the stage, hiding Gail from view.

  Annie turned away. This wasn’t a good time. Later today she would catch Gail on a break.

  Annie struggled against the flow of the crowd as people streamed toward the bandstand. Reaching the double row of booths, which faced the small stage, Annie stopped in surprise. Booth number 3. Yes, that was hers. Why were all those people thronging around the booth? Then she saw people moving away, clutching plastic bags emblazoned with the Death on Demand dagger. Why, Max must be selling books faster than the Green Hornet gas-gunning bad guys!

  Annie wiggled through the crowd, ducked beneath a flap. She dropped the provisions on a flap of canvas. She slid onto the empty chair by Max and smiled up at an eager customer. “May I help you?”

  Over the loudspeaker, Annie caught snatches of Henny’s welcome, “…great history of the great state…malaria and yellow fever…women who vowed…fastest-growing area in
the United…accord thanks to the members of the library board and to our wonderful volunteers…Points of Patriotism and the Gallant Women of South Carolina…” heard an inaudible murmur that had to be Ned Fisher’s report (the Death on Demand customers really picked up then) and the high school band’s grand beginning with “America, the Beautiful.” Annie sold books and blinked back tears. Why did that song always make her want to cry?

  Later, she snarfed down her cold but still delicious fried clams. She only vaguely heard the mariachi serenade. At one point, there was a blur of blond hair, a sweet smile, and a fan dropped onto the counter. Annie glanced at the quotation: “Fortune brings in some boats that are not steer’d.” Annie frowned, decided to ponder it later. By the time she looked up, Laurel was lost in the crowd. But she couldn’t get into any trouble passing out fans with quotations from Shakespeare. Could she?

  The festival was a bookseller’s paradise. In the past, Max had occasionally made comments about the quiet pleasure involved in selling books, how intellectually stimulating yet relaxing. Exchanging scarcely a word except for frantic inquiries about the whereabouts of titles, they sold an entire set of Harry Kemelman’s Rabbi David Small books, a first edition of Jamaica Inn by Daphne Du Maurier, assorted titles by Mary Higgins Clark, Dick Francis, Dorothy Gilman, and Elizabeth Peters. There were the usual erudite shoppers:

  “I’m shocked you haven’t read Elliott Paul’s Hugger-Mugger in the Louvre!”

  “Hilda Adams certainly wasn’t interested in Inspector Patton romantically.”

  “In New Orleans, I wouldn’t bother with dinner at Antoine’s but I’d definitely have my hair done by Claire Claiborne.”

  “Lisa Saxton’s new baseball mystery series outscores all the competition.”

  “If I could be any woman in a mystery series, I’d pick Selwyn Jepson’s Eve Gill.”

  However, not everyone belonged to the mystery freemasonry. A thin-nosed woman sniffed, “All those books about murder. Don’t you have any literature?”