Every guest close by turned to look.
The couple embracing in the darkness of the alcove jerked apart.
No masks.
Even in the dim light, Annie could see the smear of lipstick on George Graham’s face.
Sydney Cahill, her eyes enormous with shock, fumbled to pull up the portion of her dress that had slipped to reveal one breast.
Howard Cahill stood only a few feet away.
Conversations stopped.
The orchestra came to the end of a medley from “Phantom of the Opera,” and an awkward, tense silence ensued.
Howard, his face devoid of expression, turned away.
The general thumped his silver-tipped cane on the floor. “What kind of man are you?” he called after Howard contemptuously.
Howard kept on walking.
Every eye followed him.
“Maestro,” a husky voice called, “it’s time for a finale. ‘When the Saints Go Marching In,’ if you please!” Laurel ran lightly to Howard, stood on tiptoe and whispered in his ear, then lifted a sweeping hand to encourage the orchestra. “Everyone now, all together, form one long line.” She placed Howard’s hands on her hips and began to lead a high-stepping march to the infectious, irresistible blast of music.
Annie was caught up in the growing line. The old, familiar chant sounded as the line of dancers snaked about the floor.
It was a hell of an end to a hell of a party.
Six
AS MAX UNLOCKED the front door and stood aside for Annie and Laurel to enter, Laurel paused and beamed at them. “I might just run back. For a moment. Dear Howard. If he ponders Saint Bernard, I know it will be a comfort.”
Max’s hand shot out with incredible speed. “Tomorrow, sweetheart. It’s late now. Past midnight.”
Annie had a vision of an enormous dog, which she knew revealed a depth of ignorance, but she couldn’t resist. “Saint Bernard?”
“Not, of course, any resemblance in personality at all. Between Bernard and Howard. Bernard, of course, was such a driven man. Given over to scourging and really so hard on his monks. Very little food. But he faced discouragements with such bravery. You see, the Second Crusade was a disaster. And it was Bernard who had rallied the West to besiege Damascus. I do feel Howard must accept defeat and rise above it. Though not withdrawing from society, as Bernard did. Bernard was quite opposed to light-mindedness. But then,” and she laughed lightly, “we don’t want Howard to be a saint, merely to be inspired.”
“Not tonight,” Max repeated firmly, still gripping his mother’s elbow.
Laurel shot him a flashing sapphire glance, but Max had his stubborn look. Annie agreed entirely.
It wasn’t all that easy, of course. They made several trips to the kitchen (“A little fruit before bedtime. So good for mental lightness”), shared a final glass of wine, agreed that it had indeed been a delightful party (so many thoroughly nice people), and promised not to give Laurel a thought in the morning (“Just do your regular thing, my dears. Whatever it is.”) before Laurel was finally settled in the pink and gold suite.
In their own room, Max closed the door, looked at Annie and said simply—“God.”
She nodded, not sure whether it was a prayer, a plea, or a benediction.
She was opening her mouth, ready to rehash the night (and how could she tactfully suggest to Max that his mother should be caged?), when she saw the package in the middle of their king-size bed.
“Oh, Max. Max!”
He grinned happily.
Annie could demolish a wrapped package faster than Spenser could pump iron.
“Oh, Max!” She stared down at the lovely pin, a two-inch ivory dagger with a jeweled hilt and a ruby at its tip. “Max, it’s lovely!”
“Just a little memento for Valentine’s. Can’t say love isn’t celebrated in mysteries. How about Patricia Wentworth’s The Ivory Dagger? Love always wins out.”
Her eyes misted. Dear Max. How much trouble he must have gone to. And obviously he had consulted Ingrid. No way would he have known about Patricia Wentworth and her prim sleuth, Miss Silver, who was so adept at righting an upside-down world for lovelorn couples. His taste ran more to Jeremiah F. Healy’s John Francis Cuddy or Nicholas Freeling’s Henri Castang.
What a jewel of a present.
What a thoughtful lover.
She stepped into his arms and their true Valentine celebration began.
Annie smiled sleepily and touched once again the ivory pin, firmly attached to the yoke of her soft cotton nightshirt. (That, too, had been a gift from Max. He visited rather often at the shop next door to Death on Demand and seemed intrigued by the assorted stock at Lingerie for Loving Ladies, often bringing her a gaily wrapped package. She did so enjoy packages, though some of his choices seemed impractical to an extreme. Flimsy.)
A lovely end to a day that had begun—Her eyes snapped open. Oh yes, what a beginning. But all’s well that ends—Annie lifted her head and looked toward the open French windows and the balcony that overlooked their patio. She and Max enjoyed the cool night air and the sounds that drifted from the lagoon and the thick stand of yellow pines that separated the properties. Sometimes the noise could be piercing. Winter is the hootiest season for owls. Since female owls have a higher tone than the males, it was possible to tell when romance—or acrimony—was in swing. Their pines were home to a courting pair of Florida barred owls whose avian conversation was a mixture of hoos, cackles, barks, chortles, and aws. They were, in fact, hooting away, but there was nothing in their repertoire which sounded like the slap of tennis shoes against stone.
The luminous dial of the bedside radio clock read 12:50 A.M.
Slipping out of bed, Annie hurried to the open windows and stepped out onto the balcony. In the faint moonlight, the pool was a dark octagon. Water burbled softly in the spa. Nothing moved the length of the stone patio, but shrubbery quivered where a path entered the woods, though there was not a breath of wind. As Annie watched, the foliage ceased to move.
Oh, damn.
Laurel, of course.
As to where she was headed and why, Annie preferred not to speculate. But Annie knew she had to go after her mother-in-law. It wasn’t safe to roam about in the woods at night. Not, of course, for the same reason that one avoided solitary wanderings on night-shrouded city streets. Laurel would understand those dangers. But was she prepared to meet a hungry, perhaps irritable and love-starved raccoon? Or, worse yet, a gray fox out courting? Or a predatory wild boar? Male boars could weigh as much as four hundred pounds and their razor-sharp tusks could be lethal.
Stepping back into the bedroom, Annie glanced at her sleeping mate. She didn’t want to wake Max and tell him that Laurel was on the loose. In more ways, she thought primly, than one. It would be better by far if she could retrieve her mother-in-law and perhaps suggest that it was a little unseemly to seek out a married man in the middle of the night, no matter how noble her intent.
It did take time before she could set out in pursuit, even though she hurried. She slipped off her nightgown, pulled on a sweatshirt and pants and a pair of Reeboks. Downstairs, she stopped in momentary confusion. Where had they put the flashlight? In her treehouse, its customary spot was atop stacked, seldom-used blankets in the closet next to the bathroom. The new house had three bathrooms on the second floor and two on the ground floor and—Oh, of course. The kitchen pantry. Retrieving it, she carefully skirted her way across the room, still not quite sure where everything was. As expected, she found an open French window by the patio. Outside, she shivered in the cool, damp air, then headed for the pines.
It was very dark. An occasional shaft of moonlight pierced the canopies of the trees. Every few feet, a dim light burned on a tree trunk, courtesy of the Scarlet King Homeowners Association since the path around the lagoon was considered property in common. That made it possible to follow the path but also made the woods beyond seem even darker and more threatening. Annie almost turned on the flash, then decided t
o wait. It would be better if she could spot Laurel before she advertised her own presence. When the path forked, Annie turned right without hesitation, heading toward the Cahill property.
A sudden hoo-ooo at her shoulder made her jump convulsively. Another owl. That brought to mind other denizens of the forest who were about at night. Like cougars, who could measure nine feet from nose to tip of tail. Annie broke into a careful trot, hoping she didn’t stumble over a vagrant tree limb. She tried hard not to think about cougars. Or bobcats. Or skunks.
“Oh, Jesus.” It was a man’s voice, hoarse and shaken.
Annie froze. She strained to see through the darkness, but there was nothing but shifting shadows. Motionless, she listened hard.
Ragged breathing.
Oh Lord, where was Laurel and what in the hell was going on?
Annie was afraid to go ahead and determined not to go back alone. Was Laurel all right? She cautiously edged ahead. Through the trees, she saw a gleam of light and heard running footsteps.
In a city when frightened, the best course was to make noise. Scream. Blow a horn. Shrill a whistle. Scare off an attacker.
Annie flicked on the flashlight and yelled as loud as she could.
Her first effort came out as a strangled whisper. Heart thudding, she began to wave the light and jump up and down and, finally, she got it out. “Help! Help! HELP!”
As the beam of the light swung back and forth, she saw she’d come much farther in the darkness than she realized. She had reached the end of the forest path where it gave way to the Cahill gardens and their lovely Victorian gazebo. A small shaft of light pointed from the gazebo.
Annie’s light swept over the gazebo steps.
Her shout died in her throat.
Waveringly, Annie brought the beam back to the steps and focused it on the blood-drenched figure crumpled there.
Seven
THE QUIET WAS ominous, freighted with horror.
Blood glistened obscenely against magnolia-white skin and creamy silk, clung viscously to the diamond-brilliant necklace.
Shakily, Annie took one step forward, then another. She had to see if … But when the light focused fully on that crushed head and what remained of a no longer lovely face, she knew there was no need to hurry. Help would be forever too late for Sydney Cahill.
Shrubbery rustled to her left, toward the lagoon.
Whirling, Annie swung the light in that direction. Was there a darker shadow past that clump of azaleas?
“Who’s there?” Her voice rose in panic.
No answer.
Annie had had enough. Not for her the perilous sleuthing of an Anne Maybury heroine. She bolted toward the path to home, running as fast as she could go.
From the lagoon, she heard a splash.
“Max, wake up! Wake up! Sydney’s dead, and I can’t find Laurel.” She shook him like a terrier with a rat.
He came flailing up from a deep sleep and grabbed her in his arms. “It’s all right,” he said groggily. “Bad dream. Everything’s all right, Annie. I’m here. Just—”
“Max, listen! Something awful’s happened and Laurel isn’t—”
“Did I hear my name?” Laurel stood in the open doorway to their bedroom.
“Oh my God, I was afraid—” Annie sank to the bed in relief, then looked sharply at her mother-in-law. “Where have you been? What have you been doing?”
Laurel looked fetching in soft pink warm-ups and matching pink sneakers. A few pine needles clung to the jacket. She waggled one hand in a delicate, airy gesture and said vaguely, “So helpful sometimes to walk about. Just to breathe in the night air. And so much warmer here in February than in Connecticut. Though the crunch of icy snow has its own charm. Still, a foray at night there can be too frosty. Here, the night air soothes and refreshes. It doesn’t have noxious fumes, of course. That’s merely an old wives’ tale.”
“Laurel,” Annie cried. “You’ve got to tell us where you’ve been. Someone’s killed Sydney.” She turned anxiously toward Max. “At the gazebo. Someone … We have to call Chief Saulter. Oh God, we’ve got to tell Howard!”
Laurel gasped. “Sydney dead? But she was fine when—” A sorrowful shake of her golden head. “What a tragedy. Poor dear girl. Oh, I must go to Howard.”
“Mother, wait a minute.” Beneath its blond stubble of beard, Max’s face tightened with worry. “Where have you been?”
“Round and about. Hither and yon. But that is of no moment.” She took a deep breath and refused to meet his eyes. “My dear, if what Annie says is true, you are wasting time. You must contact the authorities. And I shall go inform Howard.”
“Oh no,” Max said. “That’s the last thing in the world you should do. After the way you and Howard ogled each other at the party tonight, to have the police find the two of you together now would be a disaster.”
Laurel drew herself up to her full five feet two inches. “I find that statement to be beneath contempt. Of course I shall go to Howard. It is my duty. As Saint Scholastica made abundantly clear—that lovely moment in her last meeting with her brother, Saint Benedict, when she called upon God to prevent Benedict from leaving. Benedict felt he could not spend a night absent from his monastery, but almost immediately the most enormous tempest erupted!”
At their noticeable lack of response, Laurel deigned to draw the moral. “Human relationships are so much more important than petty rules of behavior.” She turned on her pink heel and sped toward the stairs.
“Annie, Annie, catch her!” Max yelled as he flung himself toward the closet and clawed for warm-up pants and a top.
Annie obediently started toward the doorway, then stopped. “What do I do when I catch her?”
The wail of a siren drowned out Max’s vigorous response.
The police chief of Broward’s Rock flicked a switch, and three battery-powered lights hummed to life, casting a sickly glow over the gazebo steps and the small group gathered close by. Frank Saulter gave a satisfied grunt and scrambled up from his knees. He directed one more troubled glance at Sydney’s body, her blood-spattered, creamy skin a muddy sulfur in the yellowish light, then cleared his throat and looked into the frowning face of her husband.
“Sorry to ask you to remain here, Mr. Cahill. For right now, I’m the only man here. I’ve got a call in to my assistant, and he should arrive soon. Until then I’ll have to ask you and”—Saulter’s eyes skipped over the gathering—“and everybody else at the scene to stay here.”
“Certainly.” Cahill stood as if at parade rest, feet apart, hands clasped behind his back. He still wore his tuxedo, but his shirt was tieless and open at the throat. He didn’t look toward the gazebo, but stared somberly at his dusty shoes, ignoring them all. Laurel was just close enough to the unmoving—and unmoved?—widower to be grouped with him. Annie longed to shake those pink-clad shoulders until Laurel’s perfect teeth rattled like castanets. Did she deliberately want to attract Saulter’s attention? But it would only underscore Laurel’s proximity to Howard if Annie and Max tried to separate Laurel from him now.
As Saulter rapidly sketched the crime scene, Annie’s eyes were drawn again and again to the sundial and the young man who leaned against it. He stood with his back to the gazebo. Annie recognized him at once—the almost handsome man with a face as lovely and vacuous as Albert Campion’s, the man who had said viciously, “One slut deserves another,” and made Sydney cry. He rubbed his head as if it hurt. No doubt it did, considering how much he had apparently drunk earlier. Occasionally he shot a furtive look toward Howard, then nervously brushed at his thin mustache. Who was he? Why was he here? She shot a glance at her watch. The party had broken up after the raucous march. That was almost two hours ago. He, too, still wore his tuxedo.
As for the other occupant of the clearing, what was he doing here? How did he have the nerve to come onto Howard Cahill’s property after his behavior at the ball? General Houghton’s burning dark eyes devoured the crime scene, returning time and again to S
ydney’s body. His cadaverous face, clipped iron-gray mustache, and balding head with a thick blue vein pulsing in his right temple belonged in a Count Dracula horror flick. A pistol butt stuck out of the right pocket of his tattersall robe. One wrinkled hand rested on the pistol butt, the other on his ebony cane. General Houghton cleared his throat peremptorily.
“Be glad to pitch in, Chief. Came because I heard a cry for help. Can set the time exactly. One oh eight—”
Cry for help. With a shock, Annie realized Houghton was talking about her. She opened her mouth, then closed it. There would be time enough when Saulter took their statements.
“—any event, came prepared.” The general patted the pistol. “Be glad to convoy this party to my residence. Can keep them sequestered until further notice. Rouse my wife. Hospital trained. She can escort ladies to rest facilities, if need be. Won’t permit communication.”
Saulter quickly accepted the offer. “Appreciate it, sir. No need to subject”—he looked at Howard—“everyone to this.” He glanced at each person in turn. “Cooperate with General Houghton. I’ll be along to talk to each of you as soon as possible.”
The general efficiently placed Annie, with her flashlight, at the head of the column, then marched them single file to the lagoon where, at his direction, they turned right. Once again, the path plunged into a thick tangle of greenery, loblolly pines, live oaks, stiff waxey-leaved yaupon holly, water oaks, and clumps of saw palmettos. Annie’s flashlight made a frail assault against the deep darkness. As the pines began to thin, she could see the Houghton house, its ground floor blazing with light. As they neared the steps to the rear piazza, the back door burst open.
“Colville, where—” Eileen Houghton stopped on the top step and began to button her quilted red cotton robe, hiding her buxom figure beneath its shapelessness. Graying blond hair hung straight down to midback. Her pincushion-plump face was bare of makeup. Pale blue eyes widened in amazement.
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