by Carolyn Hart
Saulter faced the audience. “STAY PUT.” The stentorian bellow brought an instant of silence. “This is an order of the law.”
Annie watched Samuel carefully as he neared the stage. His steps faltered. Despite the horizontal music stands, the general’s body could clearly be seen by anyone approaching the stage from the west. Samuel’s face sagged in shock. “Chief, what happened to him? What happened?”
Saulter’s answer was short and brutal. “Looks like he was shot.”
“Not me.” Samuel trembled. “Please. It wasn’t me. I found—”
“That’ll do, Samuel.” Saulter directed him to a wooden bench east of the stage. “We’ll talk later. You stay here.” Saulter beckoned to Billy Cameron. “Watch him. No talking. With anybody.” Samuel slumped on the bench, his eyes huge with fear.
Annie was halfway back to the stage, walking quietly behind the chief, when Max loomed up beside her. “Hey, what’s happened? I heard Hatch had a heart attack.”
“He was shot. He’s dead.” Annie pointed back at the bench and Samuel. “Samuel had a gun over there in the willows.”
“Samuel?” Max’s voice rose in shock.
“Yes. He—”
“Annie! Max!” Ned Fisher’s voice was high and reedy.
They hurried to the stage. Henny stood with her hands clenched, scanning the restive audience. Ned and Edith waited at the bottom of the stage-right steps. Edith held several yellow legal pads. Although Ned was pale and his eyes occasionally flicked toward the stage and the general’s body, he spoke calmly. “We need your help to get names and addresses and locate where everyone is sitting.”
Edith handed each of them a pad and sheets of nickel-size round stickers, red, yellow and blue. “When you get the names, give each person a sticker to show the police. That way, they can get out of the lot.”
Annie’s section started halfway back on the west side. Annie got her spiel down pat. “There has been an apparent homicide. If you saw anything which might be helpful to the police, please contact Chief Saulter’s office tomorrow.”
“I don’t see why I have to give you my name.” A forty-ish redhead glared at Annie.
“This is simply to help clear the area, ma’am. Anyone who does not wish to give their name, and receive a sticker permitting them to leave, may remain and speak personally with the police officers. However, it is estimated that it will be at least two hours before an officer—”
“Oh,” the woman huffed. “All right. All right.” But she leaned forward and whispered, “This won’t get out, will it? I mean, my husband—” She broke off uncomfortably.
Annie was reassuring. “Oh, no, ma’am. This is confidential information.”
As Annie made her way slowly up the rows, respondees fading quickly away, she stopped a couple of times to note the progress of the crime-scene investigation—photography, measuring, filming. Several sheriff’s deputies arrived to assist Saulter and his officers. It was shortly after eleven when an ambulance backed up to the stage and the general’s body was removed.
By the time she’d written down sixty-eight names—
“That’s K-R-Y-Z-Y-N-S-K-I…”
Annie had met an engineer from Poland, a ballerina from Savannah, an interested policeman from Afghanistan, and a chef from Tahiti, as well as an entire softball team from Columbia and a convention of eye surgeons and their spouses from Indianapolis. It was almost midnight when she finished her segment and wearily walked toward the stage. Max joined her, his legal pad under one arm. “From a demographic standpoint,” he said, “this was fascinating. For the progress of justice, I think it was a waste of time.” The last was spoken softly as they joined Edith, Ned and Henny, a disconsolate group bunched on the stage-left steps. Annie spotted Miss Dora sitting in a camp chair, hands clasped on her cane, her wrinkled face remote and thoughtful. Samuel hunched on the bench, his arms around his knees. Billy Cameron stood guard. Samuel’s parents stood a few feet away. May’s round face looked stricken. She clung to Luther’s arm. The festival ground was empty except for discarded cups and hot-dog wrappers and popcorn boxes.
Ned gathered up the address lists. He was walking up to the chief when Saulter beckoned to Billy Cameron. “Time to go.”
Luther Kinnon bolted forward. “Where are you taking Samuel?”
“Jail. He’s a material witness.” Saulter’s voice wasn’t hostile, but it was firm and clipped.
Max gave Annie’s arm a squeeze, then joined Saulter and Samuel’s dad. “Chief, I’ll arrange for a lawyer for Samuel. I’m advising him to defer answering questions until the lawyer arrives.”
“As you say.” Saulter motioned for Samuel to precede him.
May Kinnon began to sob. “Samuel. Samuel…”
He twisted to look back. “It’s all right, Mom. I didn’t do it, Mom.”
Max used his cell phone to call a Chastain criminal lawyer, Johnny Joe Jenkins. Luther and May listened to Max’s every word.
“…so that’s the situation, Johnny Joe. We’ll count on you.” Max clicked “end.”
“We’ll go to the jail.” Luther’s voice shook.
Max reached out, caught his arm. “Jenkins will see to Samuel. We need to talk.”
Miss Dora stumped wearily toward them. “Luther, May, I suggest we meet at your house.”
The wood-paneled game room was crowded. May Kinnon huddled in a walnut rocking chair, fear glistening in her dark eyes. A petite woman with smooth chocolate skin and a soft voice, she twisted a handkerchief tighter and tighter until it was an ugly rope in her fingers. “Can that lawyer get Samuel out of jail tonight?”
Annie glanced at the grandfather clock. It was almost one o’clock in the morning.
Max’s face furrowed. “I don’t think so. The chief took Samuel in for questioning as a material witness. Tomorrow Saulter will talk to the circuit solicitor, Brice Posey, and if Posey thinks there’s enough evidence, they’ll charge Samuel with murder.”
May Kinnon buried her face in her hands. Her husband stood by the rocking chair, his face hard and angry. “Samuel didn’t do it.”
Max shoved a hand through his thick blond hair. “The circuit solicitor will look at the facts: Hatch caused Samuel to lose his job. Hatch believed Samuel shoved the vase off the library. Samuel said somebody was going to kill the general. Saulter found Samuel holding a gun only a few feet from where the general was shot.”
What Max didn’t say, Annie knew. Ballistic tests would confirm whether the gun that Samuel had held was the murder weapon. A gunshot residue test could prove whether Samuel had recently fired a gun. If either test came back positive, Samuel could be a candidate for a first-degree murder charge. Conviction could result in death by lethal injection.
“Samuel found the gun,” Luther Kinnon insisted.
A brisk throat-clearing. “The situation is very clear.” The raspy voice exuded confidence. “We must clear Samuel.”
They all looked at Miss Dora.
She stood in the center of the Kinnons’s game room, her wizened face determined. She was such an old woman. Her parchment face was pale and fatigued, her black dress dusty, but her dark eyes burned with an anger that mirrored Luther Kinnon’s. “We will clear Samuel.”
It was a call to arms.
Annie poked the papaya. Was it ripe enough? It was streaked with orange and yellow, so maybe…She sliced it open, gouged out the seeds, peeled the skin. Hmm. Good. She opened a screened door to the patio. “Do you want some papaya?”
Max sat at a glass-topped table near the pool. “No, thanks. I’ve already fixed a bowl of strawberries. The coffee’s ready. And I heated the cinnamon rolls.”
Annie paused by the breakfast table to touch his cheek.
He turned his lips to kiss her hand, but he didn’t look up from the yellow legal pad.
Annie slipped into her chair. Yes, no-see-ums swirled, but it was too lovely to stay inside. Meadowlarks warbled. Bobwhites sang to each other. An osprey circled over the lagoon, then, in a rush of wings
, hurtled down. Annie was glad she wasn’t a catfish or menhaden swimming near the surface. But everybody had to have breakfast.
She lifted her spoon, put it down slowly, papaya still intact. “What do you suppose Samuel’s getting for breakfast?” She suddenly didn’t have much appetite.
Max looked up swiftly. “Annie, we’ll do our best. Come on and eat. We’ve got a lot to do. I’m working on a plan.” He tapped his pen on the table.
Of course he was. That was what Miss Dora had instructed the night before. Annie remembered only too clearly the orders she had received: “Gossip, missy, get all the gossip.”
The cordless phone rang. Annie scooped up the receiver.
The raspy voice was brisk. “Good morning, missy.”
Why was she not surprised? “Good morning, Miss Dora.” Annie sat up straight.
“Is Maxwell available?”
For an instant, Annie bristled. Then, recalling Miss Dora’s purely feminist pronouncements Wednesday at Death on Demand, Annie said pleasantly, “Yes. Here he is.” She thrust the receiver at her husband.
Annie noted that Max sat up very straight, too. Annie trotted into the kitchen, picked up the other cordless phone. Back on the patio, she settled into her chair, then clicked the phone on.
“…assume you have machinery in place to obtain detailed personal information about all those involved.”
Max glanced at his watch. “I’ll call my secretary at nine. She knows how to conduct that kind of investigation.”
“I will be happy to speak with Miss Barbara. With your authorization. I’m presently at the telephone on the boardwalk outside your office. I can get to work immediately. We have a great deal of information to collect.”
Max winked at Annie. “That’s great, Miss Dora. If you don’t mind being in charge at the office, I’ll conduct some investigations around the island today. You’ll find the key to the front door under the second flowerpot.”
The thump of Miss Dora’s cane on the wooden walkway sounded hollowly over the phones. A rustling sound. “Ah, very good. Here it is. I’ll call Miss Barbara first.” A click as she hung up the receiver.
Max clicked his phone off, looked at it pensively. “I wish I could hear Miss Dora informing Barb that she needs to come to work at eight o’clock on a holiday weekend.”
Annie clicked off her own cordless. “I’ll bet you fifty that Barb is there in fifteen minutes.”
Max laughed. “So you think Miss Dora is not to be with-stood?” He nodded in agreement. “It’s okay. I’ll give Barb a bonus. And a week off.”
The gate at the side of the house squeaked. Annie had been intending to oil it for several weeks. Footsteps clicked on the flagstones. Frank Saulter came around the pittosporum shrub. He stopped at the edge of the patio. “Hi, Annie, Max. Got a minute?”
Annie squelched a Speak Your Mind: Heck no, Chief, it’s Saturday morning and we have to catch the next rowboat out of the lagoon.
Max rose. The men shook hands. “Come have some coffee.”
“Thanks, I’d like that.” Saulter’s faded-brown eyes were bloodshot and he moved tiredly, slumping into the wicker chair. He punched the cushion higher behind him, leaned back.
Annie brought a cup. Dorothy L. nosed through her cat door. Unlike Agatha, Dorothy L. adored company. She sped across the flagstones and leaped to the chief’s lap. She pushed her front paws against his chest and began to knead.
Saulter smoothed her short white fur. “Nice cat.” He reached for the coffee cup, drank. “Good coffee.”
Annie wanted to explode with questions, but she’d known Frank Saulter for a long time. He was the chief of police when she first came to the island. He had been a good friend of her Uncle Ambrose. Frank Saulter was not a man to be hurried.
They drank their coffee in silence for a moment, then Saulter cleared his throat. “Miss Dora’s second cousin was my grandmother’s third husband.”
They digested that in silence. It didn’t need amplification. In the South, it doesn’t matter how much money you have or what you do for a living. The first and only questions is always, “Who are your people?”
“Sharp old lady.” His voice was subdued.
Annie squelched another Speak Your Mind: And she’s got your number, hasn’t she, old buddy?
Saulter stroked Dorothy L. and a buzz-saw purr competed with the whir of the no-see-ums. Annie absently checked to be sure her neck was still greasy with bug repellent.
The chief stared down at the plump cat and spoke as if to her. “Hard for kids to pay for college these days. A police record could queer any scholarship, maybe keep him from enrolling this fall.”
Max nodded. Annie nodded.
“Of course”—and Saulter stared out at the lagoon, his eyes following a group of white ibis as they moved delicately near the shore, curved beaks flashing down for unwary crayfish and frogs—“I can’t comment about an ongoing investigation.”
Annie opened her mouth. Max kicked her under the table.
“Thing about it is, an officer of the law has the option of releasing a suspect into the custody of his parents. Seemed the thing to do when there was no substantial gunshot residue on his hands.” He reached up, rubbed his bony nose. “A little bit. Lab said it could have come from picking the gun up, like Samuel said. Or from firecrackers. He said he’d blown off a few.”
“I guess if we call the Kinnon house,” Max said carefully, “Samuel will be home.”
Saulter drank more coffee. Dorothy L. kneaded faster. The police chief scratched behind her ears. “Problem is, the circuit solicitor’s going to want to know what evidence I have in the Hatch murder. When he hears it, he’s going to press me to file a murder charge, probably first-degree. He’ll pounce on the trace of explosive material on Samuel’s hands, say he’d got rid of most of it by rubbing his hands on his pants. Or on the bench. Anywhere. Or Posey’ll say Samuel must have worn gloves, got rid of them quick. Now, Posey’s out of town. Gone fishing. Out to the Gulf Stream. He’s partial to bream. Due back Monday.” Saulter finished his coffee.
Annie knew Brice Willard Posey, a circuit solicitor of the great state of South Carolina. Annie and Posey were not fond of one another. Posey and Bud Hatch would have been soul mates—put women in their place, stamp out gays, bully the help, and keep kids like Samuel from being uppity.
Monday. They had until Monday to find Hatch’s murderer. If not, Samuel Kinnon could find more than his chances for college ruined. Samuel Kinnon could be in jail on a charge of first-degree murder.
Saulter massaged his temples. “Tell me about Hatch. Tell me everything you know. Who hated him? Who was afraid of him or mad at him or jealous of him? Why would anybody gun him down? And it damn sure wasn’t a redneck cowboy shooting off a gun to celebrate the Fourth. I talked to the autopsy doc early this morning. He said Hatch was drilled. Two bullets within an inch of each other in the aorta.”
“Shot down in cold blood.” Max drew a big black X on his notepad. “It’s a damn shame. He could be a great guy. Wonderful golfer. Terrific military record. But—” Max broke off.
Saulter’s gaze sharpened.
Max said reluctantly, “Hatch had a way of putting people’s backs up.”
Annie looked at him levelly. One good old boy talking about another?
But Max finally got to it. “He was on the wrong side of the women in town.” He carefully didn’t look toward Annie. “Hatch wanted to take over the Fourth celebration. He and Henny Brawley tangled.”
Annie almost chimed in. She knew a lot more than Max. There was Sharon Gibson’s angry glare Wednesday afternoon at the grocery; Edith Cummings’s fear that Hatch was going to ruin the Haven for her son, and, even worse, get her fired from the library; Ned Fisher and his taut exchange with the general the morning of the festival; the screech of Toby Maguire’s piccolo; Jonathan Wentworth’s warning to Henny at the gazebo; Gail Oldham’s violent anger as she looked up at Hatch; and David Oldham’s blundering departure from the
forest preserve with Hatch’s too-intimate remark burning in his mind. And that didn’t even address Laurel’s odd behavior at the library and in the men’s locker room at the Whalebranch Club. And Miss Dora’s rock-hard determination to have her characoal drawings exhibited.
Annie almost spoke, then stopped. She was in a quandary. She wanted to help Samuel. They had to help Samuel. After all, she’d given her word to Miss Dora that everything was going to be all right. And at the present, everything was about as bad as it could be.
So, Samuel was Number One.
But Annie didn’t want to tell Chief Saulter about these people. Yes, if one of them was guilty, she’d be the first to bring evidence to him. But she didn’t want to reveal their sad, private miseries unless it was absolutely necessary. If one of them was guilty, if she found reason to believe that, she’d go to the chief. That was fair enough, wasn’t it?
“Annie, didn’t you say some of the others on the board were mad at Hatch?” Max was looking at her.
So was the chief.
Annie opened her mouth, shut it, wished she’d paid attention when Laurel urged her to have a mantra. She needed a mantra right now. Or, at the least, she needed a cogent, convincing reply.
She smiled.
Saulter blinked tired eyes. Max looked suddenly alert.
“Yes, definitely.” So she was on the side of the angels. And on Samuel’s side. “But I’m not sure exactly why. There was going to be a board meeting next week. Let me nose around and see what I can find out.”
“Posey gets back Monday,” the chief said quietly. He gave Dorothy L. a final pat and stood. The cat dropped daintily down, paused, jumped on the table, floating up as easily as wind-blown thistle.
“You don’t like papaya, Dorothy L.,” Annie said absently, pushing her away. Annie slowly ate a slice of the succulent fruit. An odd taste but one she loved.
The hinge squeaked on the gate. The chief was gone. And so was her chance to tell him everything she knew.
Dark blue eyes regarded her sternly.
Annie pushed back her chair. “Think I’ll get—”
“Annie.” Sometimes Max was not to be ignored.