Yankee Doodle Dead

by Carolyn Hart

  Annie temporized. “I’ve been meaning to come and see you. I’ve worked with Sharon on some community projects.”

  “Sharon is so good to us. When Jonathan retired, she asked us to come and live on the island so we could be close to her and the children.” She nodded briskly at the photographs atop a baby grand piano, many of two fresh-faced blond girls playing tennis or horseback riding. “But now both the girls are out of college. We’re going to move to Scottsdale. I can play even more golf there. I’m thrilled. It’s so wonderful of Jonathan to think of it. He knows how much my golf means to me. And Jonathan can fly as much as he wants, Much better weather. We’re hoping Sharon might move her store there. Sharon and her dad are so close. It’s hard when there is a divorce.” Emily looked toward a wall of pictures, a young Sharon in a wedding dress. “Charles upset us so much at the time. But he seemed to love Sharon. I don’t know what went wrong for them. Their marriage faded. That’s what it did. It started out bright and strong and it faded.”

  Annie had vaguely known that Sharon Gibson was divorced and had two daughters. And she recalled Sharon’s mentioning her parents’ retirement on the island. It was, she had said, a very good fit because many retired military settled on Broward’s Rock. But now it looked as if they were ready to move on to another retirement area.

  “Sharon loves having you here.” Annie was sure she did.

  She and Emily Wentworth both spoke at once.

  “Hope you can come—”

  “You know all about mysteries—”

  They stopped. “Please,” Annie said.

  “Oh, well, perhaps you don’t want to talk about it.” Emily fingered the jaunty silver pin in the shape of a golf ball on her blouse. “That shooting last night.” Her bright green eyes appraised Annie. “I’ve never been involved—oh, I don’t suppose someone like you would say simply being there was involvement—but I’ve never been so close to something so—oh, it’s wrong to say it was exciting. But it was. The way that man fell so suddenly and then people streaming onto the stage and that brisk policeman. So intense. The sheriff? It was all so surprising. Perhaps I shouldn’t be so interested.” Her laugh was self-deprecating. “But I’ve always loved mysteries and I never expected to be this close to one. I apologize if he—the man who was shot—was a great friend of yours. But I don’t suppose anyone knows as much about murder as you do and if you don’t mind talking about it…”

  Emily Wentworth was a mystery reader. She was ripe for the plucking. Annie repressed a jubilant Speak Your Mind: Talk about it? Hot damn, let’s get to it.

  And, of course, Emily Wentworth was quite right. No one in the island knew as much about murder as she did. Except, of course, Henny Brawley. But she wouldn’t think about that now. And certainly she wouldn’t think about it here.

  “Oh, that’s all right, Mrs. Wentworth.” Annie perched on the edge of her chair, a just-us-girls smile on her face. “I don’t mind talking about it at all. I didn’t know General Hatch well at all. Probably you and your husband knew him much better.”

  Her hostess looked at her blankly. “We didn’t know him personally at all. Of course, Jonathan is on the library board, so he must have known him. But he never mentioned him to me.”

  “That’s how I met him,” Annie said chummily. “I suppose Jonathan told you all about the troubles on the board.”

  For an instant, Emily Wentworth looked embarrassed. “Oh, I suppose he told me some things about the board. He’d mentioned there was some controversy, but I’m afraid I didn’t pay much attention. The stock market’s been just fascinating and I’ve spent a lot of time buying and selling. And been quite successful.” A pleased smile. “But what happened? Tell me about it.”

  Oh, oh. Jonathan Wentworth attended that last library board meeting where Henny’s troops had rallied, where Miss Dora prevailed, where Hatch made it clear there would be a reckoning next week. And if Wentworth told his wife, she hadn’t listened.

  Was it simply that he was a quintessential male: How was your day? Fine. Who was there? Bunch of women. What happened? Nothing special.

  Or was it something else entirely?

  And how could Emily Wentworth say so positively that she and her husband didn’t know General Hatch at all, yet Jonathan Wentworth had warned Henny about the peril of angering Hatch? Obviously, Wentworth’s wife didn’t know anything about the general, and she was waiting for Annie to bring her up-to-date on the general and the library board.

  It was time to be as adroit and careful as Kay Mitchell’s Chief Inspector John Morrissey.

  “Oh, there was a disagreement about the festival, how it should be produced. And where some artwork should be placed.” Annie carefully didn’t mention names. “And Hatch wasn’t happy with the library director and some of the staff, things like that. Your husband hadn’t mentioned it?”

  Emily poured fresh coffee and gave her a rueful smile. “He may have. But Jonathan has so many activities. I don’t hear everything he says.”

  Sunlight slanted in through old glass panes, bringing life to the muted colors of the Japanese tapestry. But the room, despite its crisp cleanliness, didn’t have a lived-in look. Maybe that’s why Jonathan said little to his wife. Maybe she hadn’t been listening for years.

  Emily offered seconds on the brownies.

  Annie accepted and loved that sweet chocolate rush.

  Emily sipped from her cup, leaned forward eagerly. “What do you think happened?” Her eyes glistened with avid interest.

  Annie couldn’t resist showing off just a little bit. After all, she’d seen more than most who were there and quickly figured out what happened. “The person who shot him was standing in that clump of willows to the west of the bandstand.”

  Emily Wentworth’s eyes widened. “Why, we were sitting quite near there!” She pressed her lips together. “And we left. Immediately. I told Jonathan we should stay. That’s what the official asked us to do, but Jonathan said we hadn’t seen anything and there was no reason to stay. And really, I know him so well after all these years. He’s always so protective. I suppose he thought there might still be some danger. He insisted.”

  “Jonathan was with you when the shot was fired?” Annie kept her face bright and interested.

  Emily Wentworth gave her a quick, surprised look.

  For an instant, Annie was afraid her question was too direct.

  But Emily’s answer was calm. And definite. “Oh, didn’t I tell you? I reached out, clutched his arm. I suppose I must have gasped. And Jonathan always takes such good care of me. He wouldn’t even take time to pick up our blanket. He said it was old and didn’t matter. He just wanted to get me home.” She looked past Annie. “Oh, Jonathan, come in. Such a nice surprise. Look who’s come to see me.”

  Annie’s eyes jerked toward the hallway. She’d not heard a door or a footstep.

  Jonathan Wentworth walked into the room and it suddenly seemed much smaller. He was a tall, thin man, a very handsome man with his short white hair and bronzed face and bright blue eyes. Annie had a sudden memory of a picture of Jimmy Stewart in his World War II pilot uniform. It was the wrinkled tan flight suit with occasional smudges of carbon and the highly polished ankle-high brown leather boots. He carried an old-fashioned brown cloth flying helmet in one hand. “Hello, Annie.” His manner was impeccable, but his eyes were cool and wary.

  But he’d been beside his wife when the shots rang out. Hadn’t he?

  The husband and wife exchanged a measured glance.

  Or was mystery reader Emily Wentworth giving her husband an alibi?

  That undercurrents rippled beneath the social surface was clear to Annie. But what they signified she had no idea.

  Wentworth stood in the doorway, filling it. “Hate to break up a tea party. But don’t you remember, Emily? You promised Sharon you’d help unpack some things in the store. I gave up on flying. It’s too stormy. So I thought I’d help you.”

  There was an instant’s silence, broken by E
mily’s musical laughter. “Jonathan, you treat me like a glass figurine.” She stood, lithe and swift, held out a hand to Annie. “Come, my dear, we’re being shushed. Nice women don’t talk about murder. Maybe Sharon will indulge me. I’ll have to ask what she saw.”

  Annie was on her feet. She wondered that the trilling woman didn’t sense her husband’s tense determination. It was certainly evident to Annie as Wentworth held open the front door, took his wife’s elbow.

  Annie went down the steps in front of them. If it wasn’t a bum’s rush, it came close.

  Emily was still chattering. “I can go to the shop for a little while, but I’m playing bridge at two.”

  Wentworth held the car door for his wife.

  Annie climbed into her car.

  Emily gave her a friendly wave, then looked at her husband. Her bright red lips spread in a smile. Though the car windows were closed, Annie knew she’d given a peal of laughter. But Jonathan Wentworth’s face might have been chipped out of stone.

  Max walked swiftly along the dusty gray path, skirting occasional marshy spots. Loblolly pines closed overhead. The thick canopy shut out the sun, but not the heat. Sweat beaded his face, rolled down his back and legs. No-see-ums swirled around him. Wet ferns seemed to reach out and grab him, and soon he was not only hot but damp. He decided that Toby Maguire was a better man than he if he marched through this muck every day to his studio. Why didn’t he work on the screened-in porch behind the house he shared with Ned?

  When the path plunged out of the pines, Max understood. An old, weathered shack stood on pilings and faced the ocean. A skylight had been cut into the steeply pitched roof. Max heard the boom of the surf, smelled the tangy odor of seaweed and fish, and watched the flutter of the sea oats. Someday too soon, whoever owned this patch of land would be able to sell it for a huge sum for an oceanfront home. But Broward’s Rock still had beachfront views that could be enjoyed even if you weren’t a millionaire. He shaded his eyes to look out at the gray-green water, stirred up from the morning storm. A tree trunk bobbed offshore. Watching the ocean was exhilarating, endlessly fascinating, always awesome, well worth being mugged by no-see-ums.

  Max wished he were deep-sea fishing. He climbed rickety wooden steps that squeaked underfoot. The door was propped open.

  Toby Maguire stood in front of a canvas daubed with green and blue and splashes of silver, one man’s view of a white-capped ocean and Wedgwood-blue sky.

  He had to have heard Max approaching. But he continued to paint. He was so big, the canvas looked small, the room cramped. Only the vast expanse of ocean was larger than the man painting it. The unscreened window was wide open, the shutters folded back. The room smelled like paint and turpentine, pungent and nose-wrinkling, overlaid with the fresh, wild, rich-with-life scent of the sea.

  “Mr. Maguire.” Max scanned the room. No telephone. If there was a cell phone, it wasn’t in sight. Good.

  The artist tilted his head, made a soft brush stroke. “Private property.” His voice was hoarse and rough, like a rarely used winch on a well.

  “Would you rather talk to the police?” Max stepped inside.

  Maguire slowly turned. “Get out.” Bloodshot brown eyes glared from beneath a shock of silver-streaked black hair drawn back into a ponytail. His face bulged like potatoes in a sack—a broad forehead, lumpy cheeks. An oddly neat flaming-red beard contrasted jarringly with his hair and tapered to a sharp point beneath his chin. He held a brush in one massive hand, the palette in the other. Paint stained his faded red polo shirt and ragged denim cutoffs, had spattered down on worn leather sandals.

  “Will you give me two minutes?” Max’s tone was quiet and pleasant.

  “Why should I?” Toby’s voice was as deep as the growl of a brown bear disturbed in his lair.

  Max was short and crisp. “So a teenage kid won’t go to jail for a murder he didn’t commit.”

  Maguire put the palette on an upended crate, poked the brush in a jar. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, lit one. All the while he ignored Max. He walked out onto the porch overlooking the ocean.

  Max followed.

  The tangy breeze rippled the sea oats, buoyed a skimming cadre of pelicans, tugged at their clothes.

  Maguire didn’t look at him. “How do you know he didn’t kill the bastard?”

  Succinct, bald and unvarnished, there was no artifice to the question.

  Max answered honestly, “I don’t know it. He could have. But so could you. Or Ned. Or a bunch of other people. Only difference is, Samuel’s going to jail Monday whether he did it or not.”

  Smoke curled from the edge of Maguire’s mouth. “Ned never shot a gun in his life. City boy. Raised by a librarian mother. Nice woman. Babied him. Thinks I encourage him to do wild things. Scuba. Rock climbing.” He faced Max. His red beard shone like molten lava. “But not guns. I got enough of guns a long time ago.”

  “So I understand.” Max didn’t pursue it. He waited. This man would say what he wanted to say and nothing more.

  “I was a good shot. It would take a good shot. Somebody pinged the old bastard from the willows, right?” Maguire took a final drag from the cigarette, ground it underfoot. “That’s what Ned told me. Said they caught the kid near there with the gun in his hand.”

  “That’s right. Did you hear the shots? See anybody there?” Max slipped the questions in.

  His lumpy face untroubled, Maguire shrugged his massive shoulders. He reached up to scratch at his beard. “Who the hell knows? I was bombed, plastered, skunked. I don’t remember a damn thing till I woke up this morning with a head that felt like rats were gnawing on it. You’ll have to ask Ned. He says I was blowing my piccolo like a banshee and he got me on my feet and to the car and that’s when somebody took the old devil out.” Those big shoulders moved again in a faintly mocking slouch. “Sorry I can’t help you.” He moved back into his studio, ponderously as a bear, and picked up his palette. Max was dismissed.

  All the way back to the car, Max flailed at gnats. As far as he was concerned, that alibi could be filed under possible, but improbable. Or, as Annie likely would put it, more directly and less elegantly, in a pig’s eye.

  Annie revved up the air conditioning as high as it would go. As she drove toward town, she called Max. No answer. She picked up their messages from home:

  “Annie, Miss Dora.” The raspy voice was confident. “I’m certain that if we follow the great example of Eliza Lucas Pickney, we shall extract the truth just as she successfully boiled the dye from indigo. Her success was predicated upon perseverance. I trust you are persevering in your search for those subtle scraps of information obtained through personal industry. As Eliza was accustomed to enjoying intellectual discourse in Charleston, I suggest we gather for an exchange of ideas, albeit of a less illustrious nature, at six P.M. at your store. Certainly it will be an appropriate location for an exploration of our topic and the coffee area affords more space than Max’s office. Miss Barbara will assist me in conveying there the information we are amassing. Max, of course, will also be in attendance. Until then.”

  A click.

  Subtle scraps of information. Gossip, of course. Annie knew she was failing to meet the standard expected of a South Carolina woman. So far, her gossip retrieval success was zero. And what gave the old harridan the right to take over Death on Demand for her headquarters? But Annie knew she wouldn’t complain. Iced coffee at the ready. And she’d just replenished the cookie jar with peanut-butter cookies. Six o’clock. Mmm. They could order pizza. Miss Dora would not be focused on food, however. Annie wondered how many subtle scraps she could gather before six.

  “Annie, dear. Such a difficult time, of course, for all the library board members.” There was no mistaking Laurel’s husky, effervescent tone. Dammit, how could she always sound like Lauren Bacall on her way to the Stork Club to meet Bogie? “We can take our counsel from dear William: ‘Always the dullness of the fool is the whetstone of the wits.’ I’m sure we will pr
evail over Mr. Posey.” A pause, then, as if in a careless afterthought, Laurel said lightly, “Oh, I happened to have a chat with dear Frank. He seems to have an odd idea that someone we both know”—now the tone was definitely arch—”might have some knowledge about the tip-over of that vase at the library and the purported”—great emphasis—“rifling of that man’s cabinet at the library and locker at that bastion of male dominance.”

  Yep. Someone Annie and Laurel knew very well indeed. Annie grinned, then swerved to miss a raccoon who shot her an outraged and too-intelligent frown. She focused on the road and hoped Frank Saulter had put the fear of the pokey, if not of God, into Max’s free-spirited parent.

  “ ‘…O, how full of briers is this working-day world!’ Au revoir, my dear.”

  A familiar, beloved, wonderful male voice. “Hey, Annie, let’s meet for lunch at one. At Parotti’s. Okay? Leave me a message.”

  Annie immediately felt brighter, happier, warmer, though perhaps the last wasn’t a plus. It was supposed to hit ninety-six. As Henny had once remarked irritably on a steamy July afternoon, “Dear God, and to think tourists are paying for the privilege of enduring this natural sauna. Why don’t they go to Maine?”

  Henny. No message from Henny. Not that Annie expected one. She stopped for Broward Rock’s single light. Gossip. Henny was a trove. She knew everybody, had connections that reached into every abode on the island, whether a mansion or a shack. If Henny were herself she would be the obvious source of information about everyone concerned with Bud Hatch’s murder.

  The light changed. Annie started forward, then unexpectedly wrenched her wheel to the right and pulled into the dusty gray entrance of the oldest cemetery on the island. A horn honked irritably.

  Annie ignored the driver’s rude gesture. Couldn’t a woman change her mind? All right. Gossip. Ingrid? Maybe. Her husband Duane? A better possibility. Vince Ellis? Oh yeah, good idea. She glanced at the car clock. Twenty minutes to noon. Which reminded her. She called, said, “Parotti’s at one and I hope he still makes the best fried-oyster sandwich on the island.” But not Vince right now. As editor of the Island Gazette, he was right on deadline for the Sunday paper and she was sure the newsroom was taut and tense with a murder to cover. The Gazette didn’t publish on Saturdays, which was probably breaking Vince’s heart at this very moment.