Motherhood Is Murder

by Carolyn Hart

  “In charge?” Was there a hint of panic in Ginger’s high voice?

  “Quite so.” Laurel knew that it was up to her to help corral the murderer of Jay Hammond and she had every intention of doing so. Laurel glanced at her clock. A quarter to one. “I presume your dear mother is helping you in the shop now?” There should have been ample time for Mimi to return.

  “Yes. She’s here.” There was a world of relief in Ginger’s tone.

  “May I have a word with her?” Laurel doodled hands pulling on a leg.

  There was a moment’s pause while the phone was shifted. “Yes?” Mimi sounded like a housewife with a swimming pool infested by piranhas.

  Poor dear. With a few swift strokes, Laurel transformed her doodle of hands into sharp-toothed fish. “This morning, when you came out onto the porch, did you hear a car leaving?” Mimi had rushed to the front porch from the kitchen after hearing the sound of the shot.

  “A car.” Her voice was guarded. “No. I didn’t hear anything. There weren’t any cars in the drive except—”

  “Quite so,” Laurel interrupted. No car was proof to Laurel her hypothesis was correct: the murderer knew Hammond intended to come to the cottage and was in place awaiting his arrival. Moreover, the murderer walked, jogged, or rode a bike.

  A deep breath. “Laurel, what—”

  Laurel interrupted. “I wish I could join you and Ginger and Teddy at your picnic.” Laurel considered the time carefully. “I know you will enjoy yourselves at Blackbeard’s Beach.” It was the most popular beach on the island. “I believe you said you’d be there—” her tone was emphatic “—from one to three. Be sure and rent an umbrella and chairs.” That would be a nice record of their presence. “Have a lovely afternoon. More anon.”

  As she clicked off the phone, Laurel considered Jay Hammond’s possession of the matchbook. He didn’t smoke. He didn’t collect mementos. Laurel capped her pen, used it to turn about the matchbook that had fallen from Hammond’s pocket. She held the matchbook down with a scrap of the handkerchief, used the pen to flip open the cover.

  On the inside of the cover in small neat printing was a list of cities and dates:

  Hartford 3/18/00

  Richmond 2/22/00

  Sparta 8/19/00

  NYC 6/8/01

  Laurel was enchanted. What a fascinating development. The matchbook in his pocket had been unexplained, was still unexplained, but the enigmatic list suggested the matchbook might be important indeed. What could be the meaning of the list? What linked those cities? Quickly, she added the cities and dates to her list and ended with a string of question marks. As she hurried upstairs, the names repeated themselves in her mind like the call of a train conductor: Hartford, Richmond, Sparta, New York. But they weren’t in order down the coast. Or up. And the cities were dissimilar in size.

  She spoke aloud, her husky voice rising as she chanted the names: Hartford, Richmond, Sparta, New York. It was a cheerful accompaniment to her preparations. There was no need to change from her peach silk blouse and slacks. However, she slipped out of her sandals and put on crew socks and sturdy boaters. She pulled her hair into a ponytail.

  Into a brown grocery sack, she placed a short black wig, a pair of racing goggles, a purple and cerise caftan, and a pair of ubiquitous gardening gloves. She’d worn the wig in a local theater presentation of Auntie Mame. The goggles had belonged to her late husband, Buddy. Dear Buddy, so dashing, such a superb race car driver. The caftan had been left at her pool one afternoon by island mystery author Emma Clyde. She wondered with a dash of amusement if Emma would approve? Possibly. Possibly not. She might consider it a tribute. After all, her famous detective Marigold Rembrandt had donned a similar disguise in Emma’s most recent book, Whodunit. Ah yes, “whodunit” certainly was the question of the day.

  Downstairs, she returned to the terrace room, carefully wrapped the Hammond matchbook in a Kleenex, tucked it her purse. In the kitchen, she retrieved a bag of Fritos, two boxes of Kleenex, a box of Kellogg’s Raisin Bran, three packages of Jell-o, and a bag of marshmallows and tossed them atop her accoutrements in the paper sack, an improvement upon Emma, who had not had the forethought to provide Marigold with an easy manner of discarding her disguise. Perhaps it was all to the good that Emma would never know of the unauthorized use of her caftan. Emma was not fond of criticisms of her plots.

  Laurel hurried back to the den. She paused only long enough to pick up the scooter, carefully folded, that had been placed with the other gifts intended for the children and their spouses. Of course there were presents for everyone. The boys—she thought fondly of her sons-in-law as the boys—obviously were not mothers, but they were sons of their mothers and by marrying her daughters were sons indeed to her and thereby part of her circle of motherhood. Her thoughts were warm, if a bit inchoate. In any event, she planned to wrap the gifts and speed them to their destinations in time for Mother’s Day, but how fortunate she’d not yet done so. Ah, the scooter. With talk of a transit strike in New York, it would be both a practical and whimsical solution for Ed’s commute from the Upper East Side to his midtown law firm. The scooter would surely lift Ed out of himself, add a spark to his commute, perhaps open his eyes to his surroundings. Dear Ed, so immersed in the Wall Street Journal, so inured to the beauties of Manhattan. Even better, her choice of the scooter as a gift now seemed utterly serendipitous. The availability of this swift mode of transportation would make her planned foray to the parking lot of the Women’s Club simply a breeze.

  Annie Darling clutched her husband’s arm.

  The Maserati might have swerved into a palmetto but for Max’s iron grip of the wheel.

  “Max, look!” She pointed past the line of parked cars in the lot behind the Sea Side Inn.

  Max expected nothing less than a hippopotamus or a tidal wave to have provoked such an outburst from his wife. He braked, peered ahead. “What? Where?”

  “Laurel’s convertible. There. Hidden behind the Dumpster. Max, what can she be doing here?” Annie scrunched down in the seat as if escaping detection.

  Max grinned. “She knows my car, sweetheart.”

  Annie straightened, looked frantically around. “Of all the days for her to be here. Maybe we’d better turn around, come back later.”

  “Oh, we’re already here.” Max turned into a slot with empty spaces on either side. A man can’t be too careful when his car is a Maserati. “All you have to do is act casual if we see her. She won’t know why we’re here.”

  “She’ll ask,” Annie said darkly. “Or she’ll start murmuring about auras and tell me I’m exuding purple for conspiracy. And I’ve worked so hard to keep this a surprise. What if we run into her inside?” Annie was out of the car and scuttling across the lot to the side entrance.

  Max laughed as they stepped into the inn. “We’ll invite her to have lunch with us. And we won’t talk to Freddie until later.”

  To Annie’s relief, there was no sign of Laurel downstairs in the polished oak foyer with the old-fashioned rag rugs or in the coffee shop or in Freddie Whipple’s office.

  Max got right down to business. “I want to reconfirm our reservations for this weekend, Freddie. Three doubles with adjoining rooms for children. They’re in my name but they are for my sisters and their husbands and children.”

  Freddie had camellia-smooth skin, dark hair in a bun, sharp eyes, and a determined smile. She sat behind her desk, clicked on the computer. “Everything’s set.”

  Annie heard footsteps in the hallway. She listened, then relaxed. She’d know Laurel’s step anywhere. “Freddie, I’m going to put together some welcome baskets with books and chocolates and fruit. I’ll bring them over Saturday morning.”

  Max looked toward the open door. His voice dropped, just in case. Keeping the luncheon a surprise for Laurel meant a lot to Annie. “They fly in on Saturday. Can your van pick them up at the airport? We want them to slip them onto the island without Mother knowing.”

  Annie clapped her h
ands. “A Mother’s Day surprise.” She’d started talking to the girls right after Christmas. It had required planning and logistics worthy of a military campaign, but everything had fallen into place and everyone was coming.

  “Of course.” Freddie made some keystrokes. “All set.” She stood. “For the luncheon, I’ve reserved the Snowy Egret room upstairs. Let me show you.”

  As they followed her into the main foyer and up the wide central stairway, Annie kept a lookout for Laurel. Maybe she was visiting a friend at the inn.

  Upstairs, Freddie detoured to show them the verandah. “We’ve screened it in and now we have a lovely tearoom. We’ll have a very special menu for the Mother’s Day brunch. Everything will be available to be served in your private dining room. Or we can devise a special selection of dishes.”

  They stood at the entrance. Annie scanned the tearoom. No Laurel.

  Max gestured toward the tables. “This is really nice. If you aren’t already fully booked for the tearoom maybe we ought to have our table out here. Ma loves crowds.”

  Freddie was enthusiastic. “We can accommodate you. The buffet will be over there—” She gestured toward the screened in pillars. “We’ll set up the buffet overlooking the forest. Some of the appetizers will be baked stuffed clams, crab cakes, Roquefort stuffed shrimp, scallops in black bean sauce. The main courses will include lamb and Beef Wellington and turkey…”

  Max listened intently. He was the chef in the family. Annie loved food, but her interest was in consuming, not preparation. She wandered across the verandah to look out at the woods. A raccoon loped toward the parking lot. What was the attraction of asphalt over the forest? Oh, of course, garbage, a raccoon’s fast food. Her eyes followed the scavenger to the Dumpster. Her gaze froze when it reached the yellow convertible. Somehow she’d expected it to be gone since they’d not spotted Laurel in the inn. But the car was still there.

  Maybe in the years since she discovered Nancy Drew and the enchantment of the secret in the old clock or the brass-bound trunk, she’d read too many mysteries. Maybe she saw a mystery where none existed.

  But Annie knew better. The selection of that parking space was deliberate and could only have been made with an eye to secrecy. The fact that Laurel had hidden her car meant she was up to something. Where was she? What was she doing? A sudden breeze rattled the palmetto fronds, stirred the ferns in the hanging pots, touched Annie with the chill from the dimness of the woods.

  Laurel pushed with her left foot, balanced on the scooter with her right. Definitely this was a cunning device, easy to steer, swift, silent. Had it not been for the weight of the wig, which had an unfortunate tendency to slip forward and the tendency of the billowy caftan (Emma was a large woman) to flap, she might have enjoyed her swoop through the woods.

  It was precisely one o’clock when she reached the parking lot behind the Women’s Club. Jay Hammond’s van—and sadly for him, Jay Hammond’s body—was parked at the very farthest point from the club. This portion of the lot was a dogleg and not within sight of the clubhouse. It was, in fact, only a few feet from the bike path.

  Laurel slipped within the tendrils of a weeping willow. She waited a good five minutes, watching and listening. She was so quiet a mother deer and her fawn stepped daintily past her. A cardinal chittered, an owl hooted, an occasional rustle marked the passage of unseen wood denizens. No cars, no voices, no people.

  Laurel folded up the scooter. At the very end of the path, she placed it beneath a pine tree, covered it with slippery brown needles, marked the spot with a pyramid of cones. She pulled on the garden gloves and slipped across the pavement. The van was unlocked, the keys hanging in the ignition. She moved to the back, opened the door and placed the matchbook on the palm of one rigid hand. She nodded in satisfaction as she climbed into the driver’s seat. Not even the most doddering of policemen could fail to wonder about the list on the inside cover of the matchbook and, thankfully, the Broward’s Rock police department was staffed with careful, thorough, honest detectives. She started the engine, backed, turned.

  She headed out of the Women’s Club lot onto a narrow dirt road. Her tense shoulders relaxed when she reached Sand Dollar Road, the island’s main north–south artery. Traffic was heavy, the onset of the tourist crush which began in mid-May, peaked on the Fourth of July, and ended after the long Labor Day weekend. Although Laurel had a true islander’s mixed emotions about tourists—they were good for the economy but caused long lines at the island’s sole full-service grocery—today she welcomed each and every underdressed, sunburned body jammed into vehicles ranging from pickups to Suburbans. Who would notice the movement of one van?

  She drove sedately to Bay Street, with its mix of residential and commercial structures. She passed the island bakery and modest old homes set far back on dusty lots, drowsing in the shade of live oak trees. She glanced to her right at the Sea Side Inn. She passed the thick grove of pines and turned into the drive to Raffles.

  Laurel felt a flush of triumph. It was a huge satisfaction to bring the van with Hammond’s body to the place which she believed to be inextricably linked to his death. It was at Raffles that he announced his intention of visiting Cypress Cottage this morning. It was at Raffles that he picked up a match folder, a most intriguing match folder. Now—or as quickly as she could manage it—the investigation into his murder would begin at Raffles.

  Laurel’s gloved hands tightened on the wheel. So much depended upon the next few minutes. She parked the van in the last slot, near the path that led into the pines. She turned off the motor, pulled out the keys. She surveyed the parking lot. There were only a few empty spaces. Laurel waited until there were no customers coming out. She gave one final careful survey. No one stirred, no joggers, no walkers, no wandering tourists. The van motor was off, the doors closed. Had she forgotten anything? It was important to be certain that the change of site for the body not serve in any way to profit the murderer. She’d placed a moving pad in a loose heap just as she’d found it that morning. The matchbook was not in Hammond’s pocket, but it was there for the police to see. There had been nothing on the porch of Cypress Cottage that would have aided in the investigation. So—

  Laurel pressed the lock button on the electronic key pad. Immediately the horn began to squeal, intermittent shrill beeps. A few weeks ago, she’d inadvertently committed the electronic miscue in her own car. At the time it had been disturbing, but, as she often insisted to family and friends, even the smallest thread in the pattern of our existence has its important role to play.

  Quickly she opened the driver’s door, jumped to the ground. She hurried to the back of the van, pulled open the rear door, then plunged into the woods, the shrill horn continuing its beep-beep-beep. She ran, slipping on pine needles until she reached the bike path. There was no one in sight. She yanked off the wig and the caftan, rolled them into a tight ball as she walked.

  When she reached the Dumpster, she threw the gardening gloves into the receptacle. It took only seconds to place her bundle at the bottom of the grocery sack, assort the kitchen items, and she was in the driver’s seat of her car. Another ten seconds—several of her former husbands would have deemed this an impossible feat—and she’d scrubbed the bright lipstick away to be replaced by her customary pale pink, loosened her hair, and the car was in motion.

  She was driving through the inn’s parking lot, still listening to the penetrating beep of the van’s horn, when she slowed for a pedestrian. On a city street he would not have been noticeable. In the parking lot of a resort hotel on an island, he wasn’t quite…right. Was it the cheap brown suit that attracted her attention? Or the expensive videocam dangling from the strap around his neck? Plenty of tourists carry videocams, but they don’t wear brown suits. She slowed to let him walk in front of her car. She had a good look at his face, a big nose and a tiny brush of a black mustache. She drove a few feet farther, then turned into a parking slot. In her rear view mirror, she watched him enter the side door of the i
nn.

  Laurel would have wagered her yellow convertible that he was the man who’d lost his appetite at Raffles last night. Or hurried out into the night in pursuit of Ginger McIntosh. She didn’t hesitate. She reached the lobby in time to see him climbing the central stairway. She followed. He turned to his left at the top of the stairs. His hand dipped into his pocket and pulled out the electronic key.

  Laurel paused at a door, her back to him, but she kept him in view as he walked a few more paces, stopped at room 214, poked in the card. He never looked behind him.

  She stood in the hallway for a moment, gave a decided nod, and hurried to the stairs. In the lobby, she walked straight to the gift shop and bought a potted lemon geranium. On the gift card envelope, she wrote: Bob Buckley, room 214. On the card, she penned: Missing you. Wiladene.

  As she carried the plant upstairs, she mused about Wiladene. Was she lonely, jealous, well-meaning? By the time Laurel reached room 214, Wiladene was firmly in her mind, a sweet little librarian ready for passion, hungry for love. Poor dear child! Could she get a flight out of Minneapolis today, surprise her beloved Bob? Laurel knocked on the door, a rousing rat-a-tat-tat. Perhaps they’d run away and get married. Was it a second marriage, or…

  The door swung open. He still wore the suit jacket. Was that an odd little bulge near the left sleeve? A small gun, perhaps? That would explain a suit in May on a sea island. “That was quick—” he began. He broke off, fish-gray eyes blinked. His face with the beaked nose and bristly mustache looked like a nineteen-forties movie villain’s.

  Not marriage material, was her immediate thought. She blinked, dismissed her imaginary librarian. Lucky Wiladene, to stay in Minneapolis. Somewhere in her mind the admonition “Focus” blinked like a warning lantern at a precipice.

  Laurel beamed. “This is so lovely and just for you.” She darted past him into the room. “Where shall I put it?” Her gaze swept the room, noted the folders piled on the desk next to the videocam.

  “Wait a minute.” He strode after her. “What is this?” He pointed at the geranium.