Yankee Doodle Dead

by Carolyn Hart

  Annie got it. “People,” she cried. “You want to prohibit people.”

  “Give the lady a silver dollar. Although if I had a silver dollar, I’d use it to buy a drink. Okay, a quarter of a drink. If Alan Greenspan wants to get serious about inflation, why doesn’t he address the cost of a drink?” She peered down at them forlornly. “No whiskey? None at all? Maybe a beer tucked in your cooler, frost beading the can?”

  Annie rattled the program.

  “Jeez, you don’t get a silver dollar. You get a merit badge. And you can wear it in your hair. Guaranteed to get attention.” Edith peered through the dusk. “Those Chinese lanterns don’t give a lot of light, do they? I can’t see a damn thing.”

  Pastel-colored lanterns swayed in a faint breeze. They were strung in trees around the periphery of the festival ground. The lanterns were a lovely idea, but as Edith accurately observed, they gave very little illumination. The dusky gloom of the festival field was emphasized by two big spotlights beaming up toward the corners of the bandstand. Those brilliant swaths of light threw the bandstand into sharp relief. A bedraggled Ned Fisher stood at the top of the stage-right steps as the band thundered to a climax. Annie’s foot kept time and she whistled “Stars and Stripes Forever.”

  “Sometimes I think Fitzgerald had the right idea. Just carry a silver flask wherever—” Edith poked her head forward to survey sprawled groups on beach blankets. “Hey, Annie, Max. Have you seen Pamela?”

  Annie swatted. Damn that mosquito. And she had on so much repellent she was surprised her clothes didn’t simply slide right off. “Pamela Potts?”

  “You got it. Our own dear amoeba brain. Have you seen her?” Edith swiveled to look behind.

  “Pamela Potts…” Max’s tone was musing. He had a great memory for women. That he didn’t place the name immediately should have alerted him.

  Annie picked up the plastic bottle of repellent, sloshed some in her hand. “First you want gin, then you want Pamela.”

  “Pamela may not be my choice for amiga of the month, but she always carries a little vial of vodka in her purse.” Edith had now turned 180 degrees. “She has to be here somewhere. She gave her all for the festival and Lord knows she wouldn’t miss a minute.”

  “Pamela carries vodka in her purse?” Annie stared up at Edith in shocked surprise.

  Edith snorted. “Sweet little Annie. And no doubt you believe in yellow brick roads and assorted childhood fantasies. Did you realize The Wizard of Oz was actually written as a sophisticated economic allegory?” She sighed. “I see that you did not. Ah, there’s more to life than appears on the surface, dear Annie. Did you think that vacant glow in Pamela’s baby blues was nature’s—

  “Mom, hey Mom.” A bony twelve-year-old with a mop of black hair cut in the latest modified bowl fashion skidded to a stop beside the blanket. “Hey Mom, can I have—”

  “Whoa, Ken.” Edith’s voice lost its sardonic curl. “Say hello to Mr. and Mrs. Darling.”

  “Hi, Mrs. Darling. Hi, Mr. Darling.” Ken tugged impatiently on his mother’s arm. “Please, Mom, they’ve got a place roped off for kids to do firecrackers. Please, can I have some more money?”

  Edith dug a ten out of her pocket. As Ken raced off, she called after him, “Be careful.”

  But he was lost in the crowd milling near the bandstand.

  “Come on, Edith,” Annie urged. “Sit down and relax. We don’t have any whiskey. How about some chocolate?”

  The librarian sank onto the quilt, her hand outthrust.

  Annie rustled in the picnic hamper and found a candy bar. “Here. This will give you some energy.”

  “I need more than energy. Not even a pound of endorphins will answer.” Edith unwrapped the bar, took a big bite. “Had I but known,” she intoned, “I would have called in sick today, taken a plane to Rio (God, wouldn’t it be nice to be that rich!), planned a new career. Do you suppose I could color my parachute pink and become a nuclear physicist or an arctic explorer? But no, I know the answer. I am, at least until that bastard gets me fired, a librarian in this island paradise. Which could be a paradise if it didn’t have any people. Which brings us right back where we started.” She wrapped her arms around her knees. “And the hell of it is, I’m scared.” The last sentence was hard to hear. Edith’s voice was uncharacteristically subdued and altogether lacked her usual dry, wry tone.

  “Scared?” Max sat up, looked at her through the gloom. “What’s wrong?”

  “I hate scenes. God, how I hate scenes.” Her voice was deep and tight. “I grew up—well, that doesn’t matter. Then I married a jerk who yelled around when anything didn’t suit. So I think I’ve got a phobia. Some people don’t like snakes; I hate scenes. This week’s just been one bloody scene after another and this afternoon—God, it was awful.”

  Annie reached out, touched Edith’s arm. Edith was trembling.

  “What happened?” Annie patted her shoulder.

  “Toby Maguire showed up. Ned’s significant other?”

  “Yes,” Annie said quickly. “We know Toby.”

  “I don’t know what would have happened”—her voice was dull—“if I hadn’t seen him. He’d been drinking. He slammed into the library looking for Ned. Of course, Ned was on the festival field. Toby said he was going to find that son of a bitch—”

  “Ned?” Annie asked, shocked.

  “God, no. The general. Anyway, I got Toby to sit down in my office. I promised I’d bring him something to drink and I ran out to the field and called for Ned over the loudspeaker. But by the time we got back to the library, Toby was halfway to the field, yelling he was going to kill the son of a bitch. Ned had me take over the festival and he maneuvered Toby back to his car and took him home.”

  “Well, that’s all right.” Annie thought it was a hell of a lot less harrowing than the scene she’d witnessed in the forest preserve. “Tomorrow he’ll be hung over but—”

  “No, it’s not all right. Ned sent me over to their place a little while ago. To take Toby some dinner. He wasn’t there. His car wasn’t there. Ned’s scared to death Toby’s going to show up tonight and beat the general into a pulp. Ned wants me to patrol the festival grounds, look out for Toby and come get him quick if Toby shows up.”

  “We’ll help, Edith.” Max was brisk, as if this were the way he usually spent the Fourth of July. “I’ll take the area near the parking lots. Annie can keep an eye on the entry arbor. And you can wander around by the forest preserve. How does that sound?”

  Edith bounced to her feet. “Max, you are a hell of a guy if nobody’s told you that lately.”

  Annie felt fine. She told Max at least once a day.

  The sound system crackled. A trumpet fanfare drowned out the static.

  “Fireworks,” a little girl screamed. “It’s time for the fireworks!”

  “Ooo-ooh.” Cascading fingers of fire flared against the purple-black sky—orange and green, rose and pink, blue and white. Each display surpassed the last. Rockets blossomed like rose petals, hung like the drooping fronds of weeping willows, blazed in crimson puffs each larger than the last. Kids squealed; adults cooed. Bud Hatch kept up a running commentary, but it was easy to filter out his voice. The fireworks dominated the night. The rat-a-tat-tat of Lady Fingers was a steady staccato background to the hiss and crackle of the rockets.

  Annie periodically checked the arbor and wandered a few feet either way along the line of redbuds. Toby Maguire was a very big man. He should be easy to spot. But if Toby wanted to slip in unobserved, certainly he could do so. The crowd moved and shifted restlessly. People wandered toward the food stands and the portable toilets near the parking areas. In the gloom, it was difficult to make out features. And there were always the paths that snaked through the forest preserve.

  She glanced at her watch. Almost nine. The grand finale would be soon. All in all, it had been a good Fourth. Certainly the day had been a great financial success for Death on Demand. And the festival, for all the difficult momen
ts, was a triumph. Henny could surely take pride in it. And maybe the general was enjoying emceeing the fireworks enough that it would put him in a good humor for the board meeting next week.

  And Hercule Poirot would compliment Inspector Japp on his little gray cells.

  But in any event, the festival was a success. Annie leaned against the bole of a redbud and knew she was eager for the grand finale. Then she and Max could go home and enjoy fireworks of their own. A high squeal brought her upright. Surely it was just a malfunction in the sound system. Once again came the piercing, harsh sound. She’d heard that sound yesterday, a piccolo blown in fury.

  Annie headed across the festival ground toward the bandstand. She couldn’t be sure. It was hard to pinpoint any particular sound among the pop of firecrackers, the boom of fireworks, children’s excited yips, adults’ exclamations, the occasional beat of a tom-tom. She threaded her way around blankets. “Sorry. Excuse me.” She jolted to a stop, almost turned to go and find Max. He’d taken the job of patrolling the parking lots because it was the most likely spot to intercept Toby Maguire. But, if Annie was right, if that was Toby blowing his piccolo, spewing out anger and despair, Max hadn’t spotted him.

  The savage squeal came again. Now Annie was certain it came from the dark area west of the bandstand. She hurried forward. That anguished howl of music was very close to the bandstand and Bud Hatch. Ned Fisher had to be nearby. He could snare Toby. Annie wove her way among blankets like a crazed roadrunner in a video game. She was breathing hard by the time she reached the base of the stage. The wild, high cry of the piccolo pierced the night. She looked toward the forest preserve and a clump of willows perhaps fifteen to twenty feet away.

  Boom. Boom. Boom.

  “…dedicate this final round of fireworks to the gallant soldiers who have kept America safe from—” Hatch’s words ended in a gurgle.

  Annie’s gaze jerked back to the bandstand. Hatch lurched to his left. He doubled up, sank slowly to the stage. Stars erupted. Gold and silver and green and orange burst in tendrils of brightness across the sky, bright and shiny and vivid. Hatch’s crumpled body lay motionless.

  Chapter 6

  “He’s down. The general’s fallen.” An anxious cry.

  “Somebody do something.” A brusque shout.

  “What’s happening?” A high, querulous demand.

  “Down in front.” A raspberry yell of irritation.

  The crowd behind Annie moved like a live creature, sensing drama.

  Most of the viewers, seated across the broad grassy expanse, saw the general sprawled on the stage. They could not see, as did Annie standing only feet from the stage, the scarlet edge of blood seeping from beneath his body.

  Edith Cummings jolted to a stop beside Annie. “Oh my God, that’s blood! What happened?” Edith grabbed Annie’s arm, clinging like a castaway to a lifeline.

  Running feet rattled the stage-right steps. Chief Saulter grabbed up the microphone. “Police Chief Frank Saulter here. Remain calm.” His sallow, bony face was untroubled, which Annie considered a high-class piece of acting. Saulter’s tone was matter-of-fact. “General Hatch has been taken ill. Is there a physician in the audience? Please assist us. Everyone must remain in place so that emergency equipment may reach the stage without delay. Sergeant Cameron, Officers Tyndall and Pirelli report immediately.”

  Those three, Annie knew, comprised Chief Saulter’s force. She wasn’t surprised they were in attendance tonight. Chief Saulter took his duties seriously and this was a large gathering.

  Fireworks spangled the sky, a flowing blue cascade simulating a waterfall, enormous white stars, a rippling American flag. Whorls of blossoming color and deep, heavy booms punctuated Saulter’s calm announcement. The fireworks were launched from a floating platform in the middle of the lagoon. Those in charge couldn’t see the front of the bandstand, and the display continued as scheduled. The restiveness of the crowd eased, the viewers reassured as the fireworks blossomed.

  Blood spread in irregular rivulets, slowly, bright red lines on the stage. Henny Brawley rushed up the steps, her face pinched and pale. A stocky man loped past her. “Dr. Riordan.” The rotund doctor, festive in a Hawaiian shirt and pink shorts, knelt by the general. A surprisingly adept pudgy hand picked up a flaccid arm, held the wrist.

  Saulter thrust the microphone into Henny’s hand. “Keep the audience calm.” He turned away and reached the steps in two strides.

  Billy Cameron met him at the base. “Ambulance en route. Lou’s standing by at the exit to the parking lot. Ed’s on the path by the forest preserve.”

  “Good work, Billy. You’re in charge here. I’ll take this end of the path.” The chief pulled a flashlight from his belt and unsnapped his holster. He aimed the beam of the flashlight at the dusty gray path and kept one hand on the butt of his gun as he walked swiftly toward the weeping willows. The pastel lanterns cast tiny splotches of light across the path.

  Edith Cummings clutched her throat. “Oh my God, where’s Ken?” She whirled away, hurrying past the bandstand. “Ken? Ken?”

  Facts and suppositions ricocheted in Annie’s mind: The general must have been shot, the sound lost in the fireworks. Nothing else could account for his sudden lurch and the blood on the stage. The shot most likely came from the clump of willows to the west of the bandstand. That was the nearest spot offering concealment. A path ran along the edge of the forest preserve. Near the bandstand the path curved around the willows. The chief had to know that whoever shot the general was probably still armed.

  Henny said harshly, “The fireworks conclude tonight’s program. We have a medical emergency here. Please await instructions from the authorities.”

  Ned Fisher rushed up the stage steps, his tall hat wobbling, his baggy Uncle Sam trousers flapping around his ankles. He skidded to a stop, stared down at the general. Fisher began to shake, and his face turned greenish white.

  Billy Cameron hustled to Henny and grabbed the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, remain in place until advised to depart by a police officer. Thank you for your cooperation.” Ignoring the rumble of protest, Billy clicked off the sound. He looked at the doctor crouched by the general, then at the audience. He jerked his head toward Ned. “Give me a hand.” He pointed at a music stand.

  Billy and Ned carried a music stand to the front of the stage and placed it horizontally between the general and the audience. A second stand effectively screened the general and the doctor from view.

  The doctor rose, stepped toward Billy. “He’s dead, officer.” Riordan’s bushy black eyebrows bunched in a tight frown above narrowed eyes. “Massive hemorrhaging. Apparent gunshot wound. Nothing I can do.”

  “Will you stand by, Doctor? Please keep everyone off the stage. We need to secure the area.” At Riordan’s nod, Billy pointed at Ned and Henny. “Round up some people quick. Get everyone’s name and address and where they were in relation to the bandstand when the general was shot.”

  The fireworks steadily increased in intensity, rumbling from the roll of bass drums to the roar of thunder. Four enormous rosettes flowered, red, orange, green, and blue, each larger than the last. A final enormous boom and a silver-and-gold Statue of Liberty glistened in the night sky.

  Lusty cheers echoed from most of the audience. Only those near the bandstand realized the general hadn’t moved and that the flurry of activity on the stage presaged something more than an accident or sudden illness.

  As the hurrahs subsided, Billy Cameron switched the mike on. His voice boomed. “We appreciate your patience. Please do not move from your present location. You will be permitted to leave as soon as a police representative has obtained your name and address.”

  Annie watched the bobbing light from the police chief’s flash. Did a killer wait somewhere in the darkness of the forest preserve, gun in hand? But why would the general’s killer wait to be caught? Reassured, Annie took one tentative step, then another, toward the willow trees, skirting groups of fireworks viewers.


  The beam from Chief Saulter’s flashlight made the shadows behind the saw palmettos even darker, threw jagged, uneven bars across the dusty gray path. Willow fronds rustled. Saulter edged around the willows, abruptly stopped, his posture rigid.

  “Don’t move. Drop that gun.” The chief spoke calmly, but there was an underlying edge of menace.

  “What’s the matter?” The young voice was familiar. “Look, I found—”

  “Drop it. Now.” The command was harsh and swift.

  Annie came close enough to look past the chief. It was the last thing she’d expected to see. Chief Saulter held his gun steady. Clearly visible in the light of the flash was Samuel Kinnon, a handgun dangling from his right hand.

  Samuel let go and the gun thudded on the dusty ground. Samuel slowly held up his hands. “Chief, I found the gun. I found it just a minute ago.” His broad face was strained and frightened. “I picked it up because of all the kids. Why are you pointing a gun at me? What’s happened?”

  Saulter called for Officer Pirelli. As he stood waiting, Samuel repeated over and over, “I just picked it up. I just picked it up.”

  Pirelli strode quickly up to the willows, his eyes carefully scanning the darkness. He was young, couldn’t be more than in his early twenties, but his smooth round face under short black hair had the carefully blank expression of a cop at a crime scene.

  Saulter pointed at the gun. “I’m going to get some deputies to assist us. Stand guard until they arrive, then take it into evidence. Photographs first, then loop a string behind the trigger, place it in a sterile container.” The chief jerked his head at Samuel. “I’m taking you into custody as a material witness.” Reholstering his gun, Saulter walked with Samuel toward the stage.

  The onlookers were restive now, calling out, some standing, beginning to mill about.