by Carolyn Hart
Max skidded to a stop, poured out his story.
Saulter shrugged. “Next time I need a deputy, I’ll call on you. A good piece of work. But it’s not proof of anything. Maybe he’s got a girlfriend at the inn.” Saulter held up a thumb, sighted to the window and began to walk toward the house.
Max kept step. “Okay, Frank, tell me one thing. Was the gun used to shoot at Samuel a .45 like the one that killed Hatch?”
“Don’t suppose that’s a state secret. Yeah. A pal in ballistics took a look early this morning. A .45 slug. So?” He looked back toward the live oak, shook his head a little in disbelief. “Hell of a long way to shoot. No wonder the killer didn’t get Samuel.”
Max stepped in his way. “Frank, stop for a minute. Listen to me. That shot”—Max swung his arm from the tree to the window—“that shot proves just what I’m thinking. Only a super shot would even try it. Or somebody really stupid. But we’re not dealing with a stupid murderer. We’re dealing with a crafty, careful, methodical murderer who’s a very, very good shot. And who’s a top shot? Who has medals for shooting?” He answered his own question. “Captain Wentworth, that’s who. And Frank, I’ll tell you something else. I read a bunch of stuff about everybody involved in the case this morning, finished it just before I started out hunting for the bike. And you know who among all those people could easily have .45 revolvers lying around? Right the first time, Captain Wentworth. His wife’s dad died in the invasion of France. Don’t you know his effects came home? There could easily be a .45 in them, maybe a couple of them. Or how about Emily Wentworth’s brother, another career officer. She’d be sure to have his gun. I tell you, Frank—”
Frank’s cell phone squawked. He listened and abruptly his body tensed, he leaned forward like a man ready to race. “For Christ’s sake! Where are you?” Saulter wheeled, broke into a run. “Yeah. I’m on my way.” He windmilled his arm. “It’s Annie. Come on!”
The front and back cockpits were open, the sliding canopy pulled back. The propeller blades whirred, slowly at first, each blade distinct in the sunlight, then blurring as the engine picked up speed. The sea-blue Grumman TBF Avenger taxied up the runway, leaving behind two other World War II vintage airplanes, a red-and-yellow-nosed P51 Mustang and a white-tailed Bell P-39D.
Annie slowed her car to a stop, flung open the door and ran to the wire-mesh fence. Henny clung to the railing next to a white sign with bright red letters: “Confederate Air Force, Broward’s Rock, S.C.”
The roar of the engine was so loud Annie had to shout. “Henny, where are they going? They can’t get away!”
Both the pilot and his passenger wore flying helmets and goggles.
Cars squealed into the lot behind them. Footsteps pounded. Max thudded to a stop beside Annie. Frank yanked open a gate, ran out onto the runway, waving his arms.
The Avenger rattled down the runway, faster, faster, the roar of the engine like the rumble of an avalanche, inhuman, unstoppable.
At the last minute, Saulter flung himself out of the way.
The heavy blue plane lifted up, and then it was aloft, curving away to the east. A hand waved farewell from the forward cockpit.
Annie slipped an arm around Henny’s shoulders. The engine’s roar dulled, fading finally to silence, broken only by the sound of Henny’s quiet sobs.
“Paper’s here!” Ingrid came down the center aisle, waving the folded Island Gazette.
Annie snatched it from her, spread it open on the coffee bar. Ingrid pressed close, reading over her shoulder.
The top headlines in the Monday afternoon issue of the Island Gazette trumpeted the news:
LOST BOATER FOUND ADRIFT AT SEA
PLANE CRASH KILLS ISLAND COUPLE
The ocean off Broward’s Rock was the scene of both life-and-death dramas Sunday as Coast Guard planes rescued islander David Oldham from his drifting speedboat and watched in helpless horror as islanders Jonathan and Emily Wentworth crashed in Wentworth’s World War II Grumman TBF Avenger.
Coast Guard Lt. Milton Farriday said Oldham was boating Saturday when he was caught by a storm and swept far out to sea. Farriday said Oldham reported the motorboat ran out of fuel but stayed afloat despite waves cresting at nine to twelve feet. Oldham was suffering from sunburn and dehydration but was resting comfortably at Municipal Hospital Sunday evening, according to his wife Gail. “He’s going to be fine,” Mrs. Oldham told the Gazette. “We are so lucky.”
Wentworth, a retired Navy captain, was a longtime member and pilot in the Confederate Air Force. He and his wife Emily left the island about ten o’clock Sunday morning. Search planes seeking Oldham witnessed the unexplained crash of the blue torpedo bomber about twenty minutes after takeoff. Lt. Farriday said the Avenger began to climb and was lost to view for several moments until it plummeted straight down into the sea.
Joshua Marshall, a resident of Broward’s Rock who flies a P51 Mustang in the Confederate Air Force, expressed surprise. Marshall said, “The Avenger’s oxygen tank wasn’t pressurized. Jonathan was an exceptionally able pilot. I have to believe there was some kind of malfunction or perhaps he was taken ill. Of course, when the plane went over twelve thousand feet both the pilot and passenger would suffer from oxygen deprivation.” Marshall explained that a pilot suffering from asphyxia loses consciousness. “Or at the very least becomes disoriented and is unable to control the plane.”
The Coast Guard said only broken remnants of the warplane survived and there was no trace of either Wentworth or his wife.
Capt. (ret.) Wentworth retired to Broward’s Rock after a distinguished career in the…
Annie didn’t bother to follow the story to an inside page. Instead, she read a small notice at the bottom of the page:
CASE CLOSED
Police Chief Frank Saulter announced Sunday the close of his investigation into the July 4 shooting death of Brig. Gen. (ret.) Charlton (Bud) Hatch and the July 5 assault on recent high school graduate and well-known island athlete Samuel Kinnon. Saulter explained that information received indicated the guilt of island resident Capt. (ret.) Jonathan Wentworth. Wentworth and his wife Emily died in a plane crash Sunday. Saulter declined further comment.
Annie stared at the paper. Images whirled in her mind—David Oldham battling to live, a pilot and his passenger, Henny clinging to the fence, Saulter’s laconic face. She wanted to say, “Hey, wait a minute. Hey…”
Two weeks passed. The recently delayed meeting of the library board was rescheduled. There were two new members, Pamela Potts and Laurel Roethke. Annie couldn’t decide whether Henny had lost her mind or was seeking unusual input into the board proceedings. But the new duo had added cheer to the gathering. Gail Oldham beamed at Laurel when she came in. Laurel, of course, had the bon mot. She whispered to Gail (but loud enough for Annie to hear), “ ‘I am sure care’s an enemy to life.’ ”
Henny was pale and wore perhaps a bit more blush than usual. Her brown eyes were somber, but the board’s business was pleasantly, efficiently conducted. There was no mention of the July 4 festival, other than an accounting by the treasurer of sums dispersed, profit made.
When the meeting ended, Annie waited out in the hall for Henny.
Gail and Laurel walked past her, Gail chattering, “I’m so excited. David’s found a new job, right here on the island…”
Miss Dora’s cane thumped loudly. “Ah, missy. The library is planning some new exhibits, so I must move my drawings. I’ll come by the store later this afternoon.”
Annie wished for the courage to bellow a Speak Your Mind: Why don’t you take up hang gliding, Miss Dora? Over the Grand Canyon?
Instead, she sorted through the space in the store. Okay, okay. She could take down the end cap on the classic mystery display, put up at least two of Miss Dora’s charcoal drawings.
Henny stepped out into the hall. Through the open door, Annie could see Ned Fisher and Edith Cummings in a deep discussion.
Henny’s cream linen blazer was set off by a crimson
scarf that matched her skirt. She ducked her head, tried to step around Annie.
Annie blocked the way. “Henny, I’m about to go crazy. I’ve got to talk to you. About Jonathan.”
Henny’s head jerked up. Her dark eyes were intent. “About Jonathan?”
“Yes.” Annie was exasperated. At the same time, she was reluctant to cause pain. But, dammit, it just wasn’t right. “It’s not right! And you know it’s not.”
“It’s too late for justice, Annie. And it’s what Jonathan wanted.” Henny’s eyes glistened with tears.
“That’s why Jonathan took her with him, isn’t it? She’s the one who shot Hatch. You looked out at the audience just before Hatch was shot and you did see Jonathan. But you didn’t see her. And that’s why it happened at the festival. It was Jimmy’s birthday. Besides, she knew there were problems with the library board. I’m sure Jonathan hadn’t told her who Hatch was, but he talked about a new board member who was causing trouble. Jonathan doubted that she’d ever make the connection, she was so absorbed in golf and bridge. Even so, he planned for them to move to Scottsdale. But she must have seen Hatch’s name and picture in the Island Gazette. She planned the murder to occur where a lot of suspects would be present. The festival was a perfect opportunity. The fireworks would hide the sound of the gunshot. Saulter said he was drilled. She took the .45 and stood in the willows and shot him. She’d sent Jonathan to get colas. He waited on her, always. She would never have been the one to go to the refreshment stand. The next day I found their blanket where they’d left it and the cardboard carrier with two full drinks, still capped. Full drinks, never touched. He came back to the blanket with the drinks and she was gone. When Hatch fell, Jonathan must have known and he hurried to the trees and found her. And she laughed. Then Samuel was under suspicion. So Jonathan set out to wound him to divert the attention of the police.”
“It’s an interesting theory,” Henny said quietly. “But Jonathan confessed. The case is closed, Annie.”
She pushed past Annie, walked away, her carriage straight, her head high.
Annie almost called after her, then stood silent. Henny was right. A good man died to protect his wife. Case closed.
She was still standing there when Ned and Edith came out the door. Edith caroled, “Annie, I’m going to drop by Death on Demand this afternoon. Has anyone named the mysteries portrayed in the watercolors? If not, I want my free book.”
Before Annie could answer, Ned rattled off the titles, “The Dutchman by Maan Meyers, Hearts and Bones by Margaret Lawrence, Seneca Falls Inheritance by Miriam Grace Monfredo, The Strange Files of Fremont Jones by Dianne Day, and Blood and Thunder by Max Allan Collins.” He bowed, grinned at them both. “I’ll be by after work, Annie.” He squinted in thought. “I’ll take a free copy of Eater of Souls by Lynda S. Robinson.” With an easy wave, he trotted down the hall toward his office.
For once, Edith Cummings was speechless.
About the Author
An accomplished master of mystery, CAROLYN HART is the author of ten Death on Demand novels which have won mulitple Agatha, Anthony and Macavity Awards. She is also the creator of the highly praised Henrie O Series. One of the founders of Sisters in Crime, Mrs. Hart lives in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma.
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Praise for CAROLYN HART and YANKEE DOODLE DEAD
“Hart’s strong suit is characterization; the people romping through her pages come vividly alive. And the Darlings are appealing co-protagonists, reminiscent of the fictional ‘Mr. and Mrs. North.’”
Cleveland Plain Dealer
“Carolyn Hart embodies the spirit of Agatha Christie more than any other contemporary writer. With her energy, ingenuity, and sparkling sense of humor, Hart writes stories that Dame Agatha herself would have loved.”
Dean James, author of By a Woman’s Hand
“Hart creates lively, sympathetic characters and interesting locales and maintains a snappy pace.”
Booklist
“The local characters are appealing, as is the small-town atmosphere.”
Kirkus Reviews
“One of the most charming and intelligent teams in fiction.”
Mostly Murder
“Hart has a light touch with her characters, a fresh heroine in Annie, and a delightfully different setting.”
Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine
“The Darling duo is as winning as ever…”
The Baltimore Sun
“Tantalizing…Keeps the reader guessing all the way.”
The Denver Post
Books by Carolyn Hart
Henrie O
DEAD MAN’S ISLAND
SCANDAL IN FAIR HAVEN
DEATH IN LOVERS’ LANE
DEATH IN PARADISE
DEATH ON THE RIVER WALK
RESORT TO MURDER
Death on Demand
DEATH ON DEMAND
DESIGN FOR MURDER
SOMETHING WICKED
HONEYMOON WITH MURDER
A LITTLE CLASS ON MURDER
DEADLY VALENTINE
THE CHRISTIE CAPER
SOUTHERN GHOST
MINT JULEP MURDER
YANKEE DOODLE DEAD
WHITE ELEPHANT DEAD
SUGARPLUM DEAD
APRIL FOOL DEAD
ENGAGED TO DIE
MURDER WALKS THE PLANK
DEATH OF THE PARTY
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
YANKEE DOODLE DEAD. Copyright © 1998 by Carolyn G. Hart. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition © MARCH 2007 ISBN: 9780061844966
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