Yankee Doodle Dead

by Carolyn Hart

  When Max finished, Annie said tensely, “I don’t know what worries me the most, what happened when the Oldhams got together last night or the way Henny’s acting. Max, Henny has to be afraid for Jonathan Wentworth. Why else won’t she help investigate?”

  “But she said Jonathan was good ‘through and through,’” Max quoted Annie.

  Annie lifted her hands in bewilderment. “I know. None of it makes sense. But she’s scared. I know she is. And Jonathan was furious that I came to his house.” Annie peered through the gloom at her watch. “It’s after two. I think I’ll try to catch him. I want to know why he warned Henny, why he said Hatch was dangerous. I’ll try Sharon’s shop.”

  Max spread dill sauce on his flounder. “If he was mad that you came to the house, he’s probably not going to talk to you, Annie.”

  “He’ll talk to me.” She pulled her cell phone from her purse, called information, punched in the number of Sharon’s store. “If he’s not there, I’ll try—”

  “Gifts for Everyone.” Jonathan Wentworth’s voice was immediately recognizable, crisp, pleasant, with a cadence that reminded Annie of a college roommate from Southern California.

  “Jonathan, Annie Darling.”

  The slightest hesitation. “Yes, Annie. What can I do for you?”

  The cell phone crackled. Another storm must be coming. Annie spoke loudly, clearly, distinctly. “Help me solve Bud Hatch’s murder.”

  Was there a quick breath? Almost immediately, he said firmly, “That’s a matter for the proper authorities. If that’s all—”

  Annie held tight to the phone. Henny had been so angry. Jonathan said he wanted to protect her. “Why did you warn Henny that Hatch was dangerous, tell her she mustn’t cross him?”

  Nothing. Not a breath. Only the crackle of static.

  Henny and Jonathan, Gail and Bud. But it should have been Emily and Jonathan, Ruth and Bud.

  It was Annie who drew her breath in sharply. “Did Hatch threaten to tell Emily about you and Henny? Is that why you warned Henny? Did you shoot Hatch to keep him—”

  A click. No static. No connection.

  Annie pushed “end,” looked across the table.

  Max sipped his beer and nodded. “It could be, Annie. It could well be.”

  “Poor Henny.” Annie pushed away her plate. If that was the solution, the heartbreak for Henny—“But she’s going to be all alone anyway,” Annie said obscurely. “The Wentworths are moving. Maybe that’s why. Maybe Wentworth was going to try and get his wife away before she found out about Henny. Oh, Max, I’ll have to ask Henny. Love—it can mess everything up. And sometimes i don’t think I know who loves who. When I talked to Ruth Hatch, she went on and on about how demanding Bud was. But right at the last, she looked at their wedding picture and there were tears in her eyes. Do you get it?”

  Max traced a circle on his frosted beer mug. “Their marriage could have started off great. But maybe they didn’t turn out to be the people they thought they were.”

  “She seemed like a nice lady. And maybe she really loved him. But anyway, she has an alibi.”

  Max quirked an eyebrow.

  “Pamela Potts. Than which none could be more certain.” Annie shook her head. “Dammit, I’m going to be nice about Pamela. I really, truly am. Anyway, Mrs. Hatch is in the clear. But I’m confused.” Annie splayed her fingers through her mop of curly blond hair. “She said he would want to be remembered as a guy who always did his best. But I remember him as a first-class jerk, brusque and rude and generally a pompous ass and a bully who thought women were second-class citizens. That was his best?”

  “Bud could be a great guy.” Max crunched into his dill pickle. “Clever. And he was a hell of a golfer.” A tone of awe. “He birdied the thirteenth hole three times and he only lived here a couple of months.”

  Max was also an excellent golfer. Except for number 13 at the Broward’s Rock Golf and Country Club. His best recent round was a bogey on the par-five hole.

  “You have to remember who Bud was, Annie.” Max’s tone was thoughtful, considering, not judgmental. “He was a military man and he never saw a shade of gray that he liked. That doesn’t mean he was a bad guy or always wrong, but he saw the world a certain way. If you were a regular guy, if you agreed with him, lived like he lived, believed like he did, you were great. No problem. But if you didn’t buy his program, watch out.”

  Parotti stumped to the table. “Missus wanted me to ask if everything was all right?”

  Annie’s eyes snapped wide. Who said people never changed! To see I-am-Ben-your-waiter materialize right here in beer and barbecue land was astonishing. “Fine. Wonderful. Please give her our compliments.”

  Parotti’s face turned another peculiar shade and Annie realized he was blushing. He ducked his shaggy gray head and headed for the kitchen.

  Max grinned. “Sex,” he said softly, “is a wonderful thing.”

  Annie grinned in return. “Agreed.” Then she sighed. But not always, not when it hurt other people. There was still much to find out about Gail and David Oldham. And Henny Brawley and Jonathan Wentworth.

  Parotti sloshed her glass full of lemonade. Annie quailed. Another whole glass of lemonade and her stomach would be a permanent pucker.

  “Another beer, Max?” He picked up their empty dishes.

  “No, thanks,” Max said regretfully. He looked at his watch. “Coffee?”

  “Sure.” Parotti beamed with pride. “Yeah. We got the regular.” He blinked, obviously concentrating. “That’s the house blend. And we got cappuccino, caffé latte, and espresso.”

  When he brought their orders, Parotti looked a little puzzled at the thimble-sized espresso for Max but admiringly at Annie’s caffé latte, which was topped with a mound of steamed milk sprinkled with chocolate. Annie suspected beer had been his usual breakfast. No doubt he was acquiring a number of new tastes from his bride.

  “Edith Cummings. Let’s not forget her.” Max sipped his espresso. “She asked us to help her look for Toby. And we did. But then she asked Samuel to look, too.”

  The spoon ladling steamed milk stopped halfway to Annie’s mouth. “Max!” Shock lifted her voice.

  “Yeah.” His tone wasn’t happy. “Edith may have played us like a drum. Look at it. Only she and Ned knew Toby might show up drunk and maybe dangerous. But just before somebody shoots Hatch, you and Samuel and I are all looking for him—and absolutely sure to tell this later to the cops.”

  Annie liked the sharp-tongued librarian with her irreverent wit and cocky manner. But Max could be right.

  “That’s important, Max.” She put down her spoon, pulled a small notebook from her purse. She tapped her cheek with the capped pen. “Okay. Let’s figure out where we go from here.”

  They finished up the list as they downed the last of the coffee, Annie writing swiftly:

  1. Where are the Oldhams? Did David come back to the festival after dark?

  2. When did the Wentworth house go up for sale?

  Annie held up her hand, retrieved her cell phone, called a good friend who was a realtor. In a moment she put down the phone. “The house went up for sale in May. Sherry said she’s got a couple of solid prospects, that this is the time of year houses sell. As long as we don’t have a hurricane. I guess Hatch had been on the library board for a couple of months. He could have figured out that Henny and Jonathan were involved.”

  “Why would he threaten to tell Mrs. Wentworth?” Max sounded dubious.

  “Maybe he hadn’t. But maybe Jonathan figured it would happen if Henny gave Hatch any more trouble. Or maybe Hatch had hinted at something like that. I mean, he really was a rat, Max.”

  “Hmm. Do you think it made him that mad that Henny wouldn’t let him run things?” Max looked skeptical.

  Annie remembered Hatch’s flaming face at the library board meeting. “Yes.” She underlined number 2 and set back to work.

  3. Did Samuel hear two people in the willows?

  4. Did the bal
listics report reveal anything important about the gun?

  5. Why did Edith Cummings spread the word that Toby Maguire was mad, drunk, and after Hatch?

  6. Did Toby Maguire shove the vase off the library?

  7. If there were two people in the clump of willows, who could they be?

  Annie mentally appended:

  a. Ned and Toby

  b. Henny and Jonathan

  c. Gail and David.

  For good measure, Annie added:

  8. Where was Sharon Gibson when the shot was fired?

  Without looking toward Max, Annie wrote down:

  9. Where was Laurel?

  “Laurel?” Max’s dark blue eyes were intent.

  “Why did she burgle Hatch’s locker at the Whalebranch Club? And his drawer at the library? It has to mean something.” Annie said the last with more confidence than she felt. Perhaps Laurel was engaged in a peculiar treasure hunt. Or Hatch possessed a Shakespeare folio. With Laurel, anything was not only possible but likely. Shakespeare…Neurons tried to connect in Annie’s mind…

  “I’ll talk to her.” Max put the list in his pocket.

  Max’s comment blew the connection, but Annie clung firmly to a tantalizing wisp. Shakespeare…“That’s okay,” she said firmly. “I’ll do the honors. Your mother and I”—she paused, juggled her words—“have so much rapport.”

  “Well.” Her handsome husband was clearly reluctant. Didn’t he think Annie had Laurel’s best interests at heart? “If you think that’s best.” He checked the bill in Parotti’s huge scrawl and put down a sum that included a hefty tip.

  Max held the door for Annie. They stepped out into sultry air. Dark thunderclouds obscured the sky, hid the mainland from view. Whitecaps tipped the waves.

  She smiled up at him. “I’ll be happy to take care of it, Max.” Magnanimity was an important quality in a successful marriage. Besides, Laurel could always fox Max. And Laurel’s place was on the way to Edith Cummings’s house. Yes, she’d have a little talk with Laurel. But first, there was a tough visit to make. She glanced at the lowering sky, pushed down the accelerator. She’d have to hurry to get there before the second storm broke.

  Chapter 9

  Max waved good-bye to Annie. As her Volvo sped away, he picked up his cell phone. Damn near burned his fingers. He balanced it near the air conditioning, waited a minute, tried the number. He knew it by heart now. For the first time that day, a live voice answered.

  “Johnny Joe here.” The voice was thick as honey but loud enough to be heard—always—on the very last row.

  Max held the phone a little farther from his ear. “Johnny Joe, this is Max Darling. We met at the Chastain Guest Day Tournament last—”

  “Sure. You referred Samuel Kinnon to me. Appreciate that. Got him released to his parents. I—”

  Voices in the background. The receiver was muffled. Then: “Sorry. Got to pick up my daughter at softball practice.”

  Max spoke fast. “A couple of points I want to check with you. Do you have any time this afternoon we could visit? I’m looking around over here for Samuel’s family. I know it’s Saturday but—”

  A crashing noise. Jenkins boomed, “Ted, take that hockey stick out on the driveway.”

  Max held the phone even a little farther away.

  “Max? Yeah. I’ve got some stuff that might help. Talked to a—”

  More booming noises drowned out Jenkins’s words.

  “—on the gun. Good cooperation from Saulter. Okay. I pick Susie up at three. How about meeting me in my office at four?”

  Max thought fast. The ferry left at three. Get to Chastain. Catch the five-o’clock ferry back. Plenty of time to get to Death on Demand as per Miss Dora’s instructions.

  “I’ll be there. Thanks, Johnny Joe.”

  And plenty of time to make another stop before the ferry left. Max glanced out at the bay. Choppy. Ben Parotti loved taking the ferry across in rough weather.

  Annie parked beside Henny’s old Dodge. She forced herself to jump out immediately and walk fast to the stairs. If she paused, she wouldn’t have the courage to continue, just as she’d forced herself to call and confront Jonathan Wentworth. He’d hung up on her. But she was going to talk to Henny face-to-face.

  She knocked, called out. But she didn’t find Henny until she walked around the porch to the back.

  Henny stood with her hands on the worn railing, staring at water and sky that merged in tones of gray. Even the rippling cordgrass had lost its bright sheen, looked dull in the leaden air. She’d changed clothes. A faded denim shirt hung loose over white jeans. The freshening breeze stirred her silver-streaked dark hair. She half-turned, her bony face empty of expression.

  Annie looked into bleak brown eyes. “Henny, it’s no use fighting me. I know you. If I didn’t know you so well, maybe I’d never have figured out you were protecting Jonathan.”

  “Protecting him, yes. And myself.” Her words were sharp. “But only from Emily learning about us. Can’t you see that, Annie? Jonathan’s no killer. My God”—her voice broke—“he’s so decent. Look at me, Annie. I promise you, Jonathan did not kill Bud. So leave us alone. Leave him alone.” She reached out, gripped Annie’s arm, her fingers tight. “When Bud Hatch fell, when someone shot him, I looked out—I was standing near the stage—and I saw Jonathan in the crowd, watching the fireworks. I saw him, I tell you! Now leave him alone. Leave me alone.”

  Max reached the Island Bakery, then, without warning, swung onto Bay Street. The car behind him blared its outrage. Max gave a jaunty wave. But he didn’t feel jaunty. He didn’t want to worry Annie. She was already upset enough. But her search of the Oldhams’s house concerned him. He often teased Annie about her tendency to jump to conclusions based on her feelings, but he knew from experience that Annie’s intuition was usually on target. As she’d often told him, she didn’t like raw apples but she and Ariadne Oliver, Agatha Christie’s scatty sleuth, had a great deal in common: a woman’s intuition.

  He pulled into the drive, behind the black Jeep. It took only a moment to knock, then duck inside and confirm Annie’s report. The house was empty and it did have an air of hurried departure, of lives askew.

  In his car, Max picked up his cell phone.

  Frank Saulter answered. “Saulter here.”

  “Frank, Annie and I will have more for you tonight. But I suggest you talk to Gail and David Oldham. Here’s the deal…”

  Laurel’s jaunty silver convertible was in its accustomed spot. The top was in place. And there was no equally jaunty Model A Ford next to it. That beautifully maintained old car belonged to Laurel’s beau, Howard Cahill. Cahill had once been a neighbor to Annie and Max, but had moved after the murder of his wife in the Cahill summerhouse. Howard and Laurel were close. Annie wondered why they didn’t marry, but some questions she couldn’t ask. Besides, wasn’t Howard gone this month, to Tahiti on a vacation with his son? Annie never dropped in on Laurel unannounced when Howard’s car was in the drive.

  Annie enjoyed Laurel’s house, which was new but had the flavor of the Low Country, built high on stuccoed arches with Palladian windows and a screened-in porch. Everything about the pink stucco house exuded light and space and exuberant vitality.

  Annie ran lightly up the broad steps and rang the bell. Thunder rumbled to the south.

  She didn’t exactly hear anything, but she sensed movement within. To say she was immediately wary and suspicious would be absolutely accurate. Years of dealing with Laurel had honed Annie’s intuitive abilities.

  She knocked sharply. Oh, how tempting was a Speak Your Mind: I know you’re in there. Come out with your ill-gotten booty.

  Ill-gotten booty. So, okay, Laurel was no thief. But she’d been into the general’s locker at the Whalebranch Club and his drawer at the library. Annie wasn’t going to leave until she knew why.

  The door opened. Laurel beamed. In her soft pink linen camp shirt and ice white linen slacks, she epitomized the charm of summer. She didn’t l
ook the least bit hot.

  Annie surreptitiously plucked at her blouse, the better to separate the damp cloth from her skin.

  “Annie, my sweet. How good of you to breeze by, if only for a moment. I know your time is of the essence”—a tinkling laugh—“and certainly my rediscovery of dear William brings home to me most strongly the importance of love in our lives, and you and dear Maxwell epitomize in my mind that exquisite phrase, ‘Sweet lovers love the spring,’ so I am glad you came by. Although I know it isn’t spring, but the full-fruited season of summer—ah, the Boys of Summer. Indeed, that phrase has always delighted me.”

  Annie was sure Laurel had always enjoyed the Boys of Summer, though she wouldn’t put it quite so baldly to Max.

  The husky voice resonated with philosophical import. “Such ramifications, if you will.”

  Annie wouldn’t.

  “But I know you must rush”—the door began to close—“you must fly home to celebrate love.”

  Annie thrust out her foot, blocked the door. She beamed in return, though Laurel’s smile now had a slightly set expression. Annie wanted to pronounce in an equally husky voice this Speak Your Mind: Put a sock in it, Laurel. Instead, she murmured a tad throatily—she was dying of thirst—“I know you want to be up-to-date on the search for the general’s murderer.”

  Annie maintained her bright, eager smile though her eyes were gauging Laurel’s internal struggle. A billboard announcing “Get Rid of Annie” versus “Find Out What She Knows” couldn’t have made Laurel’s quandary clearer.

  The door swung open.

  Annie skipped inside, smiling sweetly. She glanced into the living room, shadowy and untenanted.