Yankee Doodle Dead

by Carolyn Hart

  Sharon fingered the bar-code tag on the towel, but her eyes never left Annie’s face.

  Annie opened her purse, found her credit card.

  Sharon made out the ticket. “I thought Samuel was arrested Friday night.” Her voice was sharp.

  Annie fingered a miniature plastic lighthouse key chain. “The chief released him to his parents. He has to stay at their house, not leave the island. Samuel’s trying to remember every little thing about the shooting. He heard someone in the willows laugh. And he thinks there was a second person there, someone who whispered.”

  Sharon swiped the credit card through the machine. “But they found him with the gun, didn’t they?”

  Was there anyone on the island who didn’t know that? Annie explained patiently, “He was coming down the path. Someone threw the gun right in front of him.”

  Sharon handed Annie the sales slip to sign. “I suppose he had to say something. Why are you so sure he’s innocent?” She put the towel in a sack.

  Annie wasn’t sure. But she wasn’t sure of Samuel’s guilt either. She didn’t answer directly. “Do you know Miss Dora?”

  “Yes, I do.” Sharon pointed to three watercolors mounted at the end of the ceramics aisle.

  Of course, of course. How had Annie imagined Miss Dora would miss this shop as a likely spot for her art?

  “Miss Dora’s known the Kinnons a long time. And their family. Samuel was driving Miss Dora around the island. Miss Dora says no way did he do it.” That was putting the old lady’s certainty in the vernacular, but she didn’t think Miss Dora would mind. “Anyway, she’s set up a meeting at Death on Demand. With me and Max. And Max’s secretary. We’ll work all night if we have to,” she said grandly. “Max and I have been talking to people, picking up lots of interesting stuff. Miss Dora’s putting together personal information about everyone involved.” Annie dropped her copy of the sales slip in her purse.

  Sharon closed the register. “And who is involved?” She made an effort to speak casually, but her tone was tight, the words carefully formed.

  Annie skirted the question. “We’re checking out the members of the library board.”

  “The library board. Why, that seems silly to me. None of that would matter enough to cause someone to shoot him.” Sharon’s tone was derisive, but one hand clenched into a fist.

  Annie shivered and pulled the towel out of the sack and wrapped the soft terry cloth around her shoulders. “Has Miss Dora talked to you?”

  “No.” Sharon’s tone was crisp. “I’m not involved with the library. Or the festival. I simply had a booth there.”

  Annie looked at her curiously. Touchy, touchy. “But your family’s known the Hatches for a long time, haven’t they?”

  Sharon moved out from the counter, looked toward the card section. “Are you finding everything you need?”

  The plump woman with a sun-burned nose and rain-damp sun dress nodded.

  “Your family—” Annie began.

  Sharon faced her. “My family and Bud Hatch? No longer than anyone on the island has known him.”

  Annie looked puzzled. “Someone told me they went back a long way.”

  “Someone’s wrong. My dad’s probably known him for a couple of months. Whenever Hatch joined the library board. And my mother never met the man.” The answer was smooth and quick, glib. So why were Sharon’s eyes intense and worried?

  “Oh. Well. ” Annie reached the front door.

  Sharon stood in the aisle, watching her leave. Willing her to leave?

  Annie stepped onto the boardwalk. But she knew Desiree wouldn’t give up. She looked back. “Then it must be you who knew him well.”

  “Wrong again, Annie.” Sharon sounded utterly confident. “He came in the shop once to buy a birthday present for his wife. Picked out a silver charm. A butterfly. Said his wife was crazy about monarchs.”

  Annie waved good night, but as she walked toward her store she wondered about Sharon Gibson. Why, if she didn’t know Bud Hatch, did Sharon remember that single encounter with him so clearly? How many silver charms had she sold this year?

  Annie pushed a damp sprig of hair under her bandanna and finished her third piece of barbecued-chicken pizza, which sounded heavy but was on a delectable light crust with a piquant Chinese sauce. Water chestnuts, too. Mmm. And even though her shirt and shorts were crumpled from the gym bag, they were a great change from her sodden blouse and skirt. She’d turned down the air-conditioning when she arrived. The dry clothes and food plus a steaming cup of caffé latte and Ingrid’s note about the day’s fabulous receipts (oh, how merchants in resorts love rain) combined to lift her spirits, but she was still a little miffed.

  After all, Death on Demand was her mystery bookstore. She looked up at the great watercolors for reaffirmation. And at the nifty dump near the coffee bar, featuring detectives with unusual occupations, Lou Jane Temple’s restaurant owner Heaven Lee, David Leitz’s fly fisherman Max Addams, Deborah Valentine’s sculptress Katharine Craig, Norman Partridge’s boxer Jack “Battleaxe” Baddalach and Valerie Wolzien’s contractor Josie Pigeon. It was just a little odd to find her coffee area transformed to a command post with several computer terminals and a printer in place, plus a blackboard with the Scene of the Crime neatly delineated in pink chalk.

  It might be her bookstore, but she was apparently invisible. Nobody said a word to her after murmuring abstracted hellos. Even Agatha, after a surreptitious effort to snag some pizza, had retired to the top of the coffee bar, eyes glittering, tail switching. Max’s secretary Barb was keying rapidly on her computer with occasional dashes to the printer, and Miss Dora was making notes, pince-nez firmly in place. According to Barb, Max was still en route and would arrive with spectacular information.

  Annie’s hand wavered over the pizza box. Four pieces? Certainly that was only reasonable considering the day she’d put in. Spectacular information? Men were so given to exaggeration. Like John Mortimer’s Horace Rumpole. Imagine calling your wife She Who Must Be Obeyed! Max loved the Rumpole books, fancied himself quite as clever as the tongue-in-cheek barrister. That was all well and good, but she was the real detective. She drew back her hand, left the fourth piece of pizza unmoved. “Miss Dora—”

  Miss Dora held up a wizened hand. “Let us marshal our facts until Maxwell arrives.”

  Excuse me, Annie wanted to sputter. Whose store is this? Who’s the real detective here? Okay, we’ll see who has the best information. And she felt she was showing extraordinary character in refusing to utter the Speak Your Mind: Miss Dora, simply being male does not confer the status of detective first class.

  Feeling both noble and squelched, Annie concentrated on the fresh notepad and stack of dossiers at her place. Annie pulled the notepad close, wrote down:

  KEY POINTS

  Samuel heard someone laugh after Hatch was shot. Then a whisper? A second person in the willows?

  Emily Wentworth couldn’t wait to alibi her husband.

  Henny Brawley claimed she looked out and saw Jonathan Wentworth in the audience when Hatch was shot.

  Gail Oldham tried to break off an affair with Hatch.

  David Oldham knew his wife was involved with Hatch. Where was David?

  Toby Maguire would never leave the island, according to Edith Cummings.

  Hatch was going to get Ned Fisher and Edith Cummings fired.

  The phone rang. Barb answered. “Confidential Commissions—”

  Annie bristled.

  “—at Death on Demand. I appreciate your returning my call. We are seeking information…”

  Annie relaxed and tuned Barb out and refused to be jealous when Agatha pointedly (and anyone who thinks cats can’t make points hasn’t lived with one) jumped in Barb’s lap and purred. Loudly.

  Chalk screeched.

  Annie winced.

  Miss Dora stood on a book ladder, modifying the Crime Scene. Screech. Screech. Annie steeled herself. After all, you could get used to anything. And where the hell was Ma
x so this meeting could come to order? And why, continuing sore point, did they have to wait for him? Annie almost spoke, but one look at Miss Dora’s militant carriage and she forbore. Instead, she snatched up a thick folder. Maybe Barb and Miss Dora had winnowed out some fact that would make a difference.

  She riffed through the dossiers, put them in alphabetical order. Henny’s she didn’t need to read. Henny she knew all about. Like the fact that she could shoot off a bottle cap at fifty yards. Not a thought Annie wanted to concentrate on. She put Henny’s dossier down, picked up the next.

  Maybe she didn’t have karma, but could this be an occult hint, right on a par with the jerky revelations of a Ouija board? After all, in a murder case one of the first questions to be considered was that of opportunity. There had to be a reason why Hatch was gunned down at the Fourth of July fireworks display behind the library. Why that night? Why that place? Could the choice of that location have the simplest answer of all, familiarity? No one would be more familiar with the field behind the library than a librarian or the library director. (Except Henny, the co-chair of the festival. Why did every road lead back to Henny?)

  The dossiers contained bare-bones biographical facts and quotes from friends or former associates.

  EDITH BELL CUMMINGS: Thirty-seven. Divorced. Born Columbia, South Carolina. Parents Grace McCoy Bell and John Mark Bell, still living in Columbia. Father assistant manager local department store. Salutatorian high school class. Editor school newspaper. BA, MLS University of South Carolina. Librarian Huntington Beach, California; Fort Worth, Texas; and Boise, Idaho, before accepting post as research librarian Lucy Kinkaid Memorial Library 1992. Married Gerald Cummings, health club aerobics instructor 1983, divorced 1986; one son, Kenneth Bell, born 1985. Enjoys performing in community theater. Collects thimbles. Active in son’s school activities.

  Mae Lou Windom, high school journalism teacher: “Smart as a whip. But with a deep streak of anger. Not a happy home life. Her parents don’t get along, never had much time for her. John drinks too much and Grace whines. Edith makes a lot of jokes to hide what she’s feeling.”

  Gerry Cummings, ex-husband: “Bitch, bitch, bitch. I didn’t work hard enough. I wasn’t serious. I didn’t come home on time. And always digging at me, then laughing—like that made it all right. I went on a road trip on my bike and the bitch put sand in the gas tank. I lost power going around a hairpin curve near Big Bear. I could’ve been killed. That’s a joke?”

  George Nunley, previous boss: “We hated to lose Edith. Always lightening up the place—and energy? She’s one in a thousand.”

  Christy Porter, Ken’s home-room teacher: “If all the mothers made the effort Edith does, we’d have a happier world. He’s a great kid. Some of it is him. A lot of it is coming to school wrapped in love.”

  Edith Cummings was fun, if you liked pointed remarks and acerbic comments. Annie usually did. But maybe her ex-husband knew her best and maybe the real Edith could be ugly when angered. Sand in a gas tank. How about loosening a vase to topple from a roof? Annie scrawled VASE in all caps by Edith’s name.

  NED HARRIS FISHER: Forty. Bachelor. Born Wichita, Kansas. Mother Janine Phillips Fisher, librarian; father Michael Theodore Fisher, oil and gas landman, killed in a car wreck when Ned was five. BA University of Kansas; MLS University of Chicago. Librarian Champaign, Illinois; Albuquerque, New Mexico; New Orleans, Louisiana. Grows roses. Gourmet cook specializing in Pacific Rim cuisine. Shares home with local artist Toby Maguire.

  Mother: “Ned works so hard and he’s always tried to make a difference for students from disadvantaged backgrounds. He knows what it’s like to grow up without a father. How would I sum up Ned? Oh, that’s easy. He’s a mother’s dream, honest and kind and good. Truly good.”

  Jack Macklin, co-worker in New Orleans: “Not my kind of guy. Prissy. Don’t suppose he’s ever been to a ball game. Shoot a gun? Hell, he’d probably faint.”

  William McKinney, previous boss: “Faults? It’s hard to come up with any. I suppose his greatest weakness is that he isn’t tough enough. Sometimes an administrator has to fire people, make decisions that will irritate people. That’s hard for Ned. He always wants to please.”

  Jessica Tucker, chief nurse Broward’s Rock Rehabilitation Clinic: “I see it all. People who don’t give a damn if their husband or brother or mother lives. Or dies. But when Toby Maguire was seriously injured in a motorcycle crash, Ned was there for him. He helped him recuperate. He helped him learn to walk again. That’s the kind of devotion we’d all like to have from a loved one.”

  Agatha jumped up on the table, green eyes glowing. Annie reached out, stroked the silky fur. Everybody needs love, including cats. A powerful, urgent, consuming need. What would Ned do to stay on Broward’s Rock with Toby?

  SHARON WENTWORTH GIBSON: Forty-six. Divorced. Born Honolulu, Hawaii. Father Captain (ret.) Jonathan Edward Wentworth; mother Emily Elizabeth Anderson Wentworth. Attended University of Southern California. Dropped out in 1969 to marry Charles William Gibson, an anti-war leader who later completed his degrees and taught American Colonial history at the University of Tennessee. Two children: Stacey and Julia. Divorced 1986. Spotty employment as a florist, office temp, assistant boutique manager. Used divorce settlement to purchase shop on Broward’s Rock in 1986. Opened Gifts for Everyone September 1986. Capt. Wentworth and his wife moved to Broward’s Rock December 1986.

  Charles Gibson: “We never agreed on anything. I can scarcely blame Sharon for her background. Looking back, I can see how a military family put duty first, even when a war was unconscionable. Or unconscionable to many of us. And when her brother Jimmy was killed, she lost confidence in life. Like Kennedy said, ‘Life isn’t fair.’ But she grew up thinking it should be. Jimmy’s death underscored how puny we all are in trying to control our lives. He was three weeks short of completing his year. Three weeks, the difference between life and death. If you think about it, you can go mad.”

  Marian Kellogg, former boss: “By the book, that’s Sharon. Everything done in order, on time, right. Incredible memory for detail. I’ve never had another employee her equal.”

  Heidi Bristow, next-door neighbor: “Sharon’s so pleasant. I’ve encouraged her to come to the church singles group, but she always begs off. I know she’s lonely. I see her out in her garden on weekends and there’s something so defeated in the set of her shoulders.”

  There hadn’t been a lot of sunshine in Sharon’s life. But she was close to her parents, especially her dad. Why did she almost drop out of the festival?

  SAMUEL JACOB KINNON: Eighteen. Single. Parents Luther Kinnon, landscape gardener and May Kinnon, day-care instructor. Youngest of four children. All-around athlete—football, basketball, baseball, golf. A-minus average. Accepted at Armstrong State College. President “O” Club. Worked part-time all the way through school. Interested in computers. Last job student instructor at the Haven, dismissed according to director because of fund squeeze.

  Maureen Howard, high school counselor: “Everyone loves Samuel. He’s got a grin bigger than a Jurassic dinosaur. He’s nice, really nice. But, of course, nobody’s perfect and Samuel’s had some ups and downs. He can get mad pretty quick. Coach Silvester suspended him from the basketball team for a month because he and Ricky Daniels got into a fight. I’ve worked with Samuel. Maybe part of it is being the youngest in a family and having to tussle to get attention. Maybe it’s just Samuel’s weak link. I know he’s trying.”

  Harry Wileman, best friend: “Man, he’s a cool dude. I’d rather party with Samuel than anybody on the island. And he’s solid, man. If he makes a promise, he’ll do it. Or be there. Whatever it takes.”

  Anthea Kerry, director of the Haven: “I hated to lose Samuel, a really willing worker, and bright, very bright. He’s going to be a big success.”

  Annie tapped her pen on the table. Agatha was delighted. In a moment, the pen was on the floor, Agatha batting it toward the coffee bar, and Annie was sucking on a bright red scra
tch on her thumb. Interesting. The Haven director knew how to keep her mouth shut. But it was too late to help Samuel, wasn’t it?

  TOBIAS HENRY MAGUIRE: Fifty-one. Single. Born in Pontiac, Michigan. Father assembly-line worker, mother homemaker. Five brothers. Outstanding high school athlete; lettering in football, basketball and track (decathlon). Enlisted in Marine Corps 1963. Vietnam 1964. Honorable discharge 1965. Erratic job history: house painter in Oregon, truck driver in California, river-rafting guide in Wyoming, bartender in Georgia, beach rentals South Carolina. Long-time history of alcohol abuse, periodic binges. While in a public treatment program became interested in painting. Primarily self-taught but a voracious reader of art manuals and art history. Has gradually become known as an exceptional Low Country artist, primarily of wildlife. None of his paintings include people. Some of his paintings are carried by one of the prestigious galleries on Hilton Head Island.

  Charlie Maguire, brother: “With Toby, it’s B.V. and A.V., Before Vietnam, After Vietnam. A hard-charging kid, always grinning, you couldn’t put him down, never heard a discouraging word. When he came home from Vietnam, he was like Scarecrow, the stuffing seeping out. He won’t talk about it, gets drunk if you bring it up. I was lucky, missed the draft. To squelch a kid like Toby, man, it had to be bad. He bummed around after he got out of the Marines, couldn’t seem to stay put. But about fifteen years ago, he ended up in South Carolina. I guess it’s got a call on his soul. He’s been close to happy there, as close as he’ll ever get. And he’s got Ned. His painting and Ned, that’s all he cares about. I guess it’s enough.”