Yankee Doodle Dead

by Carolyn Hart

  Laurel was right behind her. She gripped Annie’s elbow, maneuvering her toward the sunroom. “Let’s have some iced tea, Annie. With fresh mint from the garden. It will do us both good.”

  It was almost like dusk outside, presaging the storm, leaching the soft honey color from the sanded hemlock walls and shiny pecan floor. When they were settled at the lace-white wooden table, frosted glasses in hand, they eyed each other with knowledge like two aged chess masters.

  Annie made the opening gambit. “Love,” she proclaimed airily, “ah, how love can motivate us. In fact, I suppose Bill said it best, ‘We that are true lovers run into strange capers.’ ”

  Laurel placed her hand atop Annie’s. “Annie, dear Annie. And it is in that same scene that he writes so cogently, cutting ever to the heart of truth, ‘If you remember’st not the slightest folly that ever love did make thee run into, thou hast not lov’d.’ ”

  There was a tender silence. On Laurel’s part.

  Annie felt the first twinge of panic. Surely Laurel hadn’t been involved with Bud Hatch!

  Annie forgot all her fine resolutions about tact, circumspection, and indirection, blurting, “Oh, God, Laurel, what the hell did you steal from Hatch? Love letters? Photographs?” A bright red stained her cheeks. Could she actually have asked Max’s mother that question?

  “ ‘The wounds invisible that love’s keen arrows make,’ ” Laurel intoned softly.

  Annie took a huge gulp to the tea, welcoming the infusion of caffeine, and desperately tried to think. “Look, Laurel, you simply have to tell me all about it. I don’t care what happened. I mean, I understand that—” She faltered, regrouped. “Sometimes things happen,” she continued lamely, “but whatever happened, tell me. I won’t tell Max. The thing about it is, all hell’s going to break loose Monday. The circuit solicitor will either charge Samuel with the murder or start looking at everything about Bud Hatch. And there’s a police report about the break-in at the library, so Saulter’s going to come after you.”

  Laurel folded her arms, a vision of angelic determination. “I have nothing to say. One can’t be jailed simply because one was there!” But there was the beginning of worry in her Alpine-lake-blue eyes.

  Halting steps came from the hallway to the bedrooms.

  Annie jerked around.

  Gail Oldham held out a trembling hand toward Laurel. “I can’t let them put you in jail.” Her red hair was tangled and dull, her freckled face splotchy and puffy. She still wore the too-large worn khakis from last night’s festival.

  Laurel surged to her feet. “Oh my dear, I’d hoped you were resting. Don’t worry. It will all come right.”

  The neurons connected: Laurel. Shakespeare. Love. Lovelorn, i.e., Gail.

  Annie looked from one to the other. “What did Hatch have?”

  Laurel spread her hand toward a chair. “Please, Gail. Come join us.” She looked at Annie. “Poor dear. She rode her bicycle here, seeking my help.” Laurel made it sound like crossing the Pyrenees barefoot in a blizzard. “As you know, I always try to help those in love, though love can often take us down dark and dangerous paths. ‘The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together.’ ”

  Gail clung to the back of a chair. “I’ll tell the police I took the letters. It won’t matter now, will it? Since he’s dead? And they were my letters. He had no right to threaten me with them.”

  Annie felt a double-dip chill. Gail was wholly focused on her own misery. Hatch’s crumpled body was nothing more than a convenience to her. And she was setting herself up as a prize suspect.

  “You and Bud Hatch.” Annie’s tone was bemused.

  Gail’s face turned an ugly shade of red. “I didn’t mean anything. I really didn’t. It’s just—Bud could be so charming. And he was so nice to me. At first, I ran into him by accident. Then I realized he was making an effort to meet me. We had coffee. And we walked on the beach. And we started meeting sometimes in the evening. We walked on the beach in the moonlight.”

  “I thought you and David—” Annie broke off. She didn’t know what to say or how to say it.

  Gail’s hands fell to the table. They lay limp and upturned, defenseless, defeated. “David travels so much.” Her voice was dull. “I was lonely. Sometimes he’s gone for two or three weeks at a time.” She stared at the shiny white tabletop. “And things went”—the ugly red stained her face again—“farther than I intended. Then I realized I didn’t want to go on. I hated myself. I told Bud I wouldn’t see him again.” She lifted a hand to claw at her throat as if breath were hard to find. “He was angry. He insisted I was going to meet him. He said”—the sheen of tears glistened in her eyes—“I had to meet him as long as he wanted me to. If I didn’t, he would send David some notes I’d written.” Her face puckered like a child too tired to cry. “Those notes—I couldn’t explain them to David. I had to get them back. But I didn’t know how.” Her eyes flickered toward Annie. “I came to your house. I thought maybe Max—but I wasn’t thinking straight. I couldn’t tell Max about the letters either. I couldn’t do that. I was so upset and I came to your house and you weren’t there. And I just broke down.”

  “I found the poor child sobbing her heart out.” Laurel smoothed back a golden curl. “Of course I offered to help.” A pert smile. “ ‘Flat burglary as ever was committed.’ ”

  Annie kept a straight and unapproving face, though she would have loved to reply, “ ‘A good heart’s worth gold,’ ” but Laurel definitely did not need encouragement.

  “And,” Laurel said firmly, “All’s Well That Ends Well. Although we don’t want to be too specific, the letters were in the drawer at the library. They were retrieved and no longer exist. So, you see, dear Gail is rid of the worry of David ever learning of this sad episode and, fortunately, Gail disposed of the letters before the general was shot, so she clearly had no motive.”

  Annie applauded Laurel’s kind heart. But, at some point, she would have to explain to her mother-in-law that breaking into private property wasn’t permissible, no matter how well-intentioned. Furthermore, Laurel might believe the matter of the letters was settled and perhaps it was, but Hatch’s threat to inform David about his affair with Gail was definitely still on the table.

  Gail had a motive despite regaining the letters.

  Laurel didn’t know that.

  And Gail didn’t know Annie had overseen the encounter between Gail and Bud in the forest preserve.

  Laurel popped to her feet, brought back a glass for Gail. Laurel’s insouciant smile was in full force. “Now that we have that situation”—it made the theft of the letters sound like an unimportant, almost forgotten episode in a distant past—“clarified, dear Gail can relax. Gail had arrived just a moment before you did, Annie.” Laurel looked expectantly at her newly revealed guest.

  “David’s not home.” Three bleak words. Frightened eyes widened. “He wasn’t there when I got home last night. I fell asleep on the couch. But he never came. This morning I rode my bike all over the island. I went to all his favorite places, the old lighthouse, the Abney Gardens, Trent Beach. I can’t find him.” Gail’s hands clenched. “I shouldn’t have come here. But you’d been so kind. I though maybe you could help.”

  “When did you last see David?” Annie tried to keep her voice casual. She felt about as casual as Bulldog Drummond noting a damsel in distress.

  Gail spread fingers against her cheeks. “Yesterday afternoon.” She spoke dully. An eyelid flickered with a tic.

  Annie scarcely breathed. Yes, it was in the afternoon that Gail and Bud quarreled. And David watched.

  “I don’t know what got into him.” Gail’s face creased in pain. “I’d just gotten back on stage.” She spread a hand to indicate the khakis. “And he came up to me and said we were leaving. Right that minute. I told him I couldn’t. I had to play my role. And I was going to—oh, it doesn’t matter now.”

  Annie thought that it mattered. Gail was going to stay and talk to Bud Hatch, plead w
ith him one more time not to destroy her marriage. Did he turn her down? But where could she have found a gun? Nowhere. That would mean she had brought a gun with her. Then why didn’t she shoot him when they were in the forest preserve?

  “I had to stay,” she mumbled. “I thought David would understand. My role in the festival and everything…” Her voice trailed off. “I’d never seen him so angry. His face was a gray white, like he was dead. He said if I didn’t come then, I never needed to come. And he turned and walked away. I called after him. But he kept on going.” Tears rolled down her cheeks. “I went in the library several times and called home. He never answered. Then it was time for the fireworks.” She looked at Laurel. “I almost asked you for a ride then. David and I came together and I didn’t have a way home.”

  Why hadn’t she? Hatch was emceeing the program. He wouldn’t be available until it ended. Why had she stayed? Because she had a gun and was prepared to use it?

  “Then someone shot Bud. I couldn’t believe it. And it took so long before they let us leave. It was awful.” She slumped in her chair.

  Annie agreed. Damned inconvenient. Especially for Bud Hatch.

  Laurel’s dark blue eyes glowed with empathy. “My dear, I feel simply dreadful. I had no idea David wasn’t there when I took you home. And you didn’t seem to want me to stay…” Laurel’s voice was full of regret.

  “So you took Gail home. Were you together when Bud was shot?” But Annie watched Gail, not Laurel.

  “I wasn’t with anybody.” Gail’s voice was dull. “I wasn’t paying any attention to anything. The fireworks were so loud. I’d taken my blanket over by the trees behind the library. I just wanted it all to end.”

  David Oldham left the festival in mid-afternoon, but Gail was still there when Hatch died. Of course, David could have returned.

  “Well”—Laurel was brisk—“we’ll simply have to find David.” She popped up, picked up the phone from the shining oak counter.

  Gail looked hopeful.

  Annie was following her own train of thought. “Do you and David have any guns?”

  “Guns?” Gail spoke as if in an unknown language.

  Laurel held the telephone, looked at Annie in surprise.

  “Guns.” Annie’s gaze was direct and somber.

  “No.” Gail’s voice was sharp. “Why do you ask?” Her face flattened with shock. She shoved back her chair, jumped to her feet. “Are you talking about the gun used to shoot Bud? That’s crazy. They found that boy with the gun. They arrested him. That doesn’t have anything to do with me and David.”

  “Samuel found the gun. He heard someone in the willows. A whisper. And after Bud fell, a laugh.” Annie was on her feet, too. She felt the same uneasy prickle down her spine that chilled her when Max repeated Samuel’s words.

  “But they arrested Samuel.” Gail talked so fast the words ran together. “He’s the one who was causing trouble at that place where the kids meet. Bud said he was obnoxious. He shot Bud because he lost his job.”

  “The police don’t think so.” Annie took great satisfaction in that statement. And it was true. Gail, whom she’d thought she liked, was so caught up in her own unhappiness—unhappiness she’d brought about—that she hadn’t spared any thought about Bud Hatch’s murder.

  “What do they think?” Gail’s gaze was wild and frightened.

  “They’re looking at everything, everybody.” Annie willed it to be true. If she and Max could manage it, that’s exactly what would happen.

  “Not David.” It was a strangled cry. “He didn’t come home because he’s mad at me. Not because—oh God, not because of Bud. David left hours before that happened.”

  Laurel came around the table. “Don’t be upset, Gail. You mustn’t worry. David didn’t know about you and Bud.”

  Annie hoped it wasn’t cruel, but it was time to speak. She took no pleasure in the words. “He knew, Gail. David knew.”

  Max pressed the doorbell. No answer.

  “Stay!” The crisp call came from the other side of a huge, sweet-smelling pittosporum hedge.

  Max walked toward the gate.

  “Stay.” A command with an edge of irritation.

  Max knocked on the wooden gate.

  In a moment, it swung in. Anthea Kerry was as tall as Max, lean, rawboned with sharp cheeks, a pointed chin, and, at the moment, a disgruntled expression. Her ragged work shirt hung loose over khaki shorts. She stood with her faded red sneakers wide apart, a confident, no-nonsense stance.

  A blond cocker wriggled his rump and lunged for Max.

  “Down!”

  The cocker’s big brown eyes slid away from his mistress. His head hunkered, then he flopped on his back, tangling his leash and quivering with excitement.

  “Max, you’re hopeless. Get up.” She jerked the leash.

  Max could have sworn the dog hid his eyes behind a shaggy paw before rolling to his feet. Then he stood stiff and straight, as gorgeous a stay as Susan Conant’s Holly Winter might achieve with one of her magnificent malamutes. Max was not a mystery reader on Annie’s level, but he collected mysteries with dogs.

  “Yes, what can I do for you? More, I hope, that I’m doing for this cretinous animal.” Anthea Kerry’s tone was sharp, but she patted Max’s head (the dog’s) as she unsnapped the leash. “You’re Annie Darling’s husband, aren’t you? A better-trained Max than this one, I hope.”

  Max grinned. “Very well trained, ma’am. And you can be very helpful to me. I want to find out all I can about Samuel Kinnon and General Hatch. And General Hatch and anybody else you know about.”

  A floppy green canvas sunhat shadowed her bony face. “I won’t be quoted?”

  “Not publicly.” Max stood as straight and tall as his canine counterpart.

  “My, my. Butter wouldn’t melt, would it? You are a bonny lad, as my old Scot grandmother used to say. Hell, come on in. This Max”—she pointed toward the prancing, eager dog—“isn’t any fun at all. Maybe you’ll be better.”

  She squinted at the sky. “Going to rain again. But it may not come for while. I like that smell, fresh and dusky. Let’s stay in the yard, if you don’t mind.” She put the cocker in his run, then insisted on bringing huge goblets of iced tea with slices of lemon and lime. They sat in weathered gray wooden chairs beneath the spreading limbs of a magnolia. Sweet white blossoms nestled among the huge glossy green leaves. A male cardinal, a shiny crimson, lighted on a bird-bath and cocked his head toward them. The backyard was overgrown—tall swatches of cane, untrimmed jasmine, pines crowded close together. The dog run was well-kept.

  She followed his gaze. “Pretty much a mess. I don’t have a lot of time, and gardening is work.” She glanced at his hands. “You don’t garden.”

  “No. Actually, the Kinnons take care of our place.” Max welcomed the refreshing tea. Annie was right. Beer on a hot day just made you hotter. “You fired Samuel.”

  Her slate-blue eyes met his directly. “You got that one right. Look, it wasn’t a moment I recall with pleasure, but I learned a long time ago you can’t buck the system.” A sardonic shrug. “Or yes, you can if you don’t mind losing your job. Nobody likes whistle-blowers. And actually I didn’t have a whistle to blow. Samuel smarted off to the general. The general was on the board and he was getting to know everybody on the island with deep pockets. Yes, I could have nobly told the general I wouldn’t fire Samuel. The result: Samuel and I would both have lost our jobs. I didn’t think a summer job for Samuel was quite that big a deal. I make a difference on this island for some kids who don’t have any place to go and nobody at home to give a damn. I learned how to handle people like General Hatch a long time ago when I was an NCO. I’d just gotten the general to agree to a fund-raiser so we can offer breakfast and lunch at the Haven. Ended up thinking it was his idea. Of course he did. I planned it that way.” She picked out the lime, sucked it, made a face. “Hatch was okay. Full of himself, but that comes with the territory. Now”—she took a deep drink of the tea, lea
ned back in the chair—”do I think Samuel shot the man? No. Samuel’s got a temper, but I’ve watched him over the years. You know what he does when he gets mad?”

  Max relaxed, too. The chirr of locusts, the beer at lunch, the sodden air combined to make him sleepy despite the shot of espresso and the icy tea. He blinked and tried to listen hard.

  “Plays basketball. Gets a bunch of boys and they rough-house and gibe each other and sweat like pigs, and when they’re done he’s got a smile on his face again. You don’t need to worry about Samuel. Whatever happens to him he can handle.” Anthea pulled off her hat, used it as a fan.

  Max’s sense of comfort fled. “Going to prison for a murder he didn’t commit?”

  She dropped the hat in her lap and sat up, placing her broad hands on her weathered knees. She frowned. “I heard Samuel was at home.”

  Max was once again astounded at the incredible underground dissemination of news in a small community. The story of Hatch’s murder wouldn’t hit the newspaper until tomorrow. But Anthea Kerry knew all about it. She didn’t know everything.

  “He’s home now. But the circuit solicitor will look at the evidence Monday.” Max held her gaze. “I’ve dealt with Brice Posey before. There’s nothing he likes better than an easy case. Man gets kid fired. Man shot. Kid found holding the gun. Set it for trial.”

  Anthea’s bony face set in a harsh mask. She stared down at the scuffed tips of her faded sneakers. “Shit.”

  Max felt as if he’d been jolted by a double espresso. Anthea Kerry knew something. Or thought she did. But she didn’t want to tell him.

  Cicadas whirred like bass fiddles warming up. Distant thunder rumbled like a beer keg rolling down steps.

  “Help one kid, hurt another.” She pleated the brim of her hat. She looked at Max, her cold eyes intent. “You understand I don’t know a damn thing. But you want to know who hated Hatch? Edith Cummings. She’d have shoved him under a train without blinking an eye, been sure she deserved a medal. I heard about that vase falling at the library. Funny thing it happened the day after Hatch announced the new program for the Haven, basic training that would include drill teams, weekend map expeditions, maybe even rappelling eventually. Lots of the kids were excited. I think it would have been real popular.”