Buck Burger—he’d pawed Sydney at the party. So what else was new? Buck would paw any woman who let him. It might not have meant anything more than that. But Annie would have bet her first edition ($100 approx.) of Jim Thompson’s Cropper’s Cabin, Paperback Original Lion Book 108, that Buck knew Sydney damn well. She tapped the sheet with her pen. Buck was going to be a real challenge. Sure, his reddish face radiated geniality, but the warmth never reached his swamp-green eyes. As a flamboyant former criminal lawyer he had the edge, but she relished the prospect of going head to head.
Billye Burger—a very rich woman, who flaunted wealth as Sydney had paraded sexuality. From Billye’s white-gold hair to her red lizardskin high heels, from starburst diamonds to Hal Ferman originals, she was the epitome of the finest money can buy. Annie had no idea what kind of woman existed beneath the facade. Or whether she knew her husband was a womanizer.
Dorcas Atwater—Annie drew an oblong, dotted in wildly flared eyes and a droopy mouth, added straggly hair. And a rowboat. And tried to quell the creepy feeling that wreathed in her mind like London fog on a Jack-the-Ripper night. Dorcas hated Sydney. Why?
The phone rang.
“Hello.”
“The bottom line is—” Henny paused.
Annie wasn’t sure what was expected. Henny’s voice had a smart-ass tone, and only an actress of her abilities could have invested four words with such a California nuance.
“Yeah?”
“I’m on the case, and I can’t be bought off. You can’t trust anybody.”
Of course, Henny, as was her custom, was exhibiting various investigative personae. This one was for sure a resident of the Golden Gate state. Problem was, Annie didn’t have any idea who was on stage at the moment. California teemed with fictional sleuths from Ross Macdonald’s aloof L.A. observer, Lew Archer, to Marcia Muller’s first-of-her-kind woman private eye, San Franciscan Sharon McCone.
“Uh—Jacob Asch?” Annie guessed.
“Not even close. Paul Marston, of course.”
Annie’s hand tightened on the receiver. She wished it were Henny’s neck.
But she might as well get it over with. “First novel?” she said sourly.
“Sure. The Bottom Line Is Murder by Robert Eversz.” A sly chuckle. “So sorry you are missing so many good books.”
Sure, she was sorry.
“All right, Henny. Spit it out.”
“Sure. The bottom line is that Sydney bed-hopped. I hit pay dirt at the club. I talked to Nicky Quentin, the tennis pro. It took some work, actually he’s rather gallant, doesn’t like to talk about his ladies, but he did finally admit, when I promised to be the soul of discretion, that he had a fling with her shortly before she married Howard. Nicky said, ‘You know, she really was beautiful and basically kind of plain-vanilla nice, but she stuck to you like glue. And she was so sappy, always wanting everything to be so romantic. That’s okay for a little while, but it gets old fast. Thank God, with Sydney, there was always some other guy out there, hot for her body. Which was—’ Then he turned bright red.” Henny added, a trifle put out, “Funny how young men always assume older women don’t know anything about sex. Why, I could tell him—but no point in destroying his illusions. I wonder if it could be the same kind of situation as the victim in so many of Leslie Ford’s books.”
Annie processed that suggestion. “Hmm, I don’t think so. Ford’s seductive victims were stronger characters than Sydney.”
“Annie, that’s brilliant!”
Although it was always agreeable to be admired, Annie was a little uncertain as to her worthiness, at least in regard to this particular judgment. As a matter of fact, she’d thrown the remark out without a lot of thought. It was more of an automatic response.
But Henny was excited. “That cuts to the core of the matter. Just like Allison Moffit.”
Annie didn’t say a word.
“Such a strong personality.”
“Don’t know her.” Annie dropped the words as if she were casting out spoiled food from the refrigerator. (That seemed to happen to her too often. Could she help it if she forgot mundane things like the survival time for tomatoes?)
“Oh, my dear! Such an outstanding new writer. Mary Lou Bennett. Author of Murder Once Done.” A telling pause. When she continued, her accent was suddenly quite Mayfair. “Do read it when you have a moment. And think about what you said. I’ll get back to you soon, of course. There’s so much to be discussed. Really, quite an interesting crime. Ta ta.”
Annie slammed home the receiver, though she did recognize the final reference. Tessa Crichton, Anne Morice’s sleuth. Henny was going to push her too far one of these days. And what was brilliant about Annie’s analysis of Sydney?
Abruptly, she grabbed up her papers. She knew what needed to be done. And there was no putting it off any longer. No matter how difficult she envisioned the encounter.
As the extension number buzzed, Max weighed the options. Should he be a reporter, an insurance agent, an accountant, or a lawyer? This was even more fun than community theater, although, of course, telephone work didn’t afford full scope for his talents. He recalled with pleasure his wonderful rendition of Mortimer Brewster in Arsenic and Old Lace. Now, there was a part. And he got to kiss the pretty girl, too. In fact, he—
“Personnel Records, Adeline Perkins speaking,” a nasal voice announced irritably.
Max warbled the first line of the old barbershop quartet song in his clear tenor, then boomed avuncularly, “My horoscope assured me I should be in contact with a musical soul today and I feel certain that prediction has come true.”
“You some kind of nut?” The nasal whine quivered with apprehension.
“My dear Adeline Perkins, of course not. This is Reginald Van Mackey”—he felt the Van added class—“a member of the Bluffton Men’s Dinner Club and I am calling to obtain information about our esteemed member, General Colville Houghton. I have been directed to you, Miss Perkins, as the sole individual in the Pentagon with the necessary expertise and intelligence to assist me. It is the happy task of my committee to be charged with the responsibility of writing a skit depicting the highlights of General Houghton’s life for presentation at our annual Founders’ Day Dinner.”
Adeline Perkins turned out to be an Aquarius and “the funny thing is my horoscope said I’d receive an unusual communication today!”
Information spewed forth on General Houghton and his career. Max damn near got writer’s cramp.
Carleton Cahill’s blue eyes had all the warmth of twin ice holes in a frozen Minnesota lake. He shoved back a thin lock of darkly blond hair with a shaking hand.
“All women are alike. They lie their goddam heads off. Goddammit, she promised not to tell.” His thin voice shook with anger.
“She didn’t,” Annie replied quietly. Laurel’s reference in her parting words to bitterness and to a promise she’d made was not telling. Not exactly. It took someone of Annie’s subtlety (she refused absolutely to consider the possibility she had a similar thought pattern to Laurel’s) to divine the message: Laurel got the jacket from that bitter young man, Carleton Cahill, but promised not to tell anyone. Actually, it was sweet of the old thing to ask for help. Annie felt flattered.
“Oh, sure.” His mouth twisted sarcastically beneath the scanty mustache. “I suppose a little bird told you.”
“Nobody told me. But she had to get that jacket somewhere. She was caught going away from this house. Who else is there?” And who else was bitter?
“Are you going to the cops?” Fists clenching, he lurched toward her.
Annie realized abruptly that they were very isolated in the enormous Cahill mansion. Would anyone even hear a scream? She looked past Howard Cahill’s angry son. The French windows of the library were closed and the thick green velvet curtains drawn, unlike the night of the murder. Behind her, the heavy oak door rested solidly in its frame.
She stood her ground and stared determinedly up into his flushed face.
>
“I could have told the police. I didn’t. I wanted to talk to you. Look”—Annie spread her hands in a gesture of appeal—“Laurel wants to help your father. We want to help Laurel. Let’s work together.”
He glared down at her, but he looked sullen rather than threatening.
Annie met his gaze calmly.
Slowly his fists relaxed. He turned and paced away from her. “Hell, that’s what she said. I don’t know what to do.” He swung around, a nervous hand plucking at his mustache. “It’s her fault Dad’s still in jail.”
Annie felt a rush of anger. What an ungrateful creep! Laurel was doing her best for his father, who was about as stiff-necked and unappreciative as a man could be. And now Carleton was blaming Laurel, for God’s sake!
“Now wait a minute—”
“That circuit solicitor convinced the judge he should keep Dad and Mrs. Roethke in jail because they would have an unparalleled opportunity to collude if they were released.”
It had a ring of authenticity. Who but Posey would talk in terms of an unparalleled opportunity to collude?
Annie didn’t care. She sprang to Laurel’s defense. “Look, Laurel wouldn’t be in jail at all if she hadn’t tried to get rid of that jacket. And I know damn well she got it from you. And you’re going to tell me what happened. Where did you get it?”
He dropped into a chair, his long arms and legs askew, his narrow face drooping almost to his chest. “Oh Jesus—”
Annie gasped. “Oh my God, it was you. I heard you!”
He looked up with tortured eyes. “I found Sydney. God, it was awful. So much blood. So much blood. And the jacket was lying there beside her on the steps. And the mace—” He shook his head, as if to drive away a hideous memory. “Anybody could have taken it.” The plea in his voice couldn’t override the dull despair. “During the party. The armor’s been in the front hall ever since the house was built. The mace could be picked right up. It wasn’t attached to anything.”
The mace.
Annie remembered it only too clearly, remembered the heavy metal club studded with spikes atop the solid wood handle.
The metal had darkened with age.
And blood? Old blood turns black.
Now fresh blood stained it.
No wonder Sydney’s cranial bones shattered and broke.
“The mace.” Annie’s voice was so dry her throat hurt as she forced out the words. “It wasn’t there when I found her.”
Carleton didn’t respond. His eyes reflected remembered horror. But he didn’t have to answer. She understood now. His cry at the sight of the dead woman and his father’s bloodied jacket and the mace. He must have decided instantly on his course, grabbing up the jacket, gripping the handle of the weapon, and fleeing into the shadows as Annie approached.
“You made the noise in the bushes,” she figured out loud. “When I ran, you threw the mace in the lagoon.”
No answer.
“Have they found it yet?”
This time he looked at her and shook his head. “If you tell them”—life and anger surged again in his voice—“I’ll say you lied.”
“What did you do when I ran away?”
“I lit out for the house. All I could think about was getting rid of the jacket. I was afraid if I tossed it with the mace that it would come loose in the water. Maybe even float. I didn’t think I had much time. I knew the police would come soon.”
“You ran into the house?”
“I had to find a place for the jacket. Dad didn’t stand a chance if they found it.”
“Where did you hide it?”
For an instant, triumph glittered in his eyes. “Think they’re so goddam smart. The Buddha in the east wing is hollow. I stuffed it inside.”
Actually, Annie didn’t think the inability of the police to find the jacket indicated stupidity on the part of the searchers. The house was crammed with artwork and antiques. But she didn’t say so to Carleton.
He looked at Annie imploringly. “That Mrs. Roethke—she doesn’t think Dad did it.”
“But you’re afraid he did,” Annie surmised.
“No.” It was explosive, angry, and painfully uncertain. “God, no. But he—” Carleton licked his lips and looked up at the oil paintings over the mantel. Annie followed his gaze.
Two paintings: Howard astride a horse, a polo mallet held high, every sinew and muscle focused on the play, and a gentle-faced woman with soft brown hair and kind blue eyes playing a piano.
The first Mrs. Cahill?
Carleton’s eyes, shiny with sudden tears, clung to the woman’s portrait. “That’s my mother.” His face hardened. “How could Dad have married her after Mom? Mom and Dad were crazy about each other. They were so happy. Dad cried when she died. The only time I ever saw him cry.”
Poor Sydney, Annie thought abruptly. How difficult it must have been to follow in the quiet footsteps of a genuinely mourned first wife and to be met with such unrelenting hostility from Howard’s son.
And Howard had shed no tears for Sydney. Yet, that night at the general’s house, Annie had seen such turmoil and agony in Howard’s eyes.
“Oh, for pity’s sake,” Annie exploded. “How could we all be so dumb!” But Laurel wasn’t dumb. She’d understood from the very first.
Carleton stared at her blankly.
She suppressed an urge to shake his slumped shoulders. “Don’t you see?” she demanded. “That’s why your father didn’t admit to Laurel’s alibi. He must have seen you running up the path from the gazebo, something clutched in your arms. And your face was probably a mess. You were upset, in a panic. He knows Sydney headed down that way. So he goes down to the gazebo and finds her. For God’s sake, Carleton, your dad thinks you killed Sydney!”
The young man’s eyebrows rose and his mouth half opened. A cartoonist couldn’t have broad-brushed a more classic expression of amazement. Then Carleton’s face brightened. “Sure, that must be what happened! God, I’ve got to talk to him. That damn lawyer’s got to get him out of jail.” He hurried to the desk. “I’ll call him right now.”
“Wait a minute,” Annie urged. “You’d better be careful what you say.”
He flipped through the phone book, picked up the receiver. “How’s that?” He was impatient to make his call. “It can’t get worse than it is right now.”
“Sure it can. Posey’s not going to believe a word you have to say.” Annie watched Carleton with clear, cold eyes. She wasn’t sure she would believe a word he—or his father—had to say. Carleton’s spirited defense of Howard could be a murderer’s crafty smoke screen. After all, he had been under no compulsion to tell Laurel about the jacket. But, once he had and once he foisted it off on her, it was quite likely that events would unfold as they had, with Laurel under arrest and even more evidence piled up against Howard.
Bitterness.
Laurel had stressed that, in her parting words.
She was right.
Carleton was bitter as hell. Just how angry was he with the father who had, in the son’s mind, betrayed his beloved mother’s memory?
Carleton slowly replaced the receiver, brushed back a lock of fine hair with a nervous hand. “You don’t think the prosecutor will understand?”
“Think about it,” she said crisply.
Any fool could figure Posey’s reasoning. Howard Cahill’s second wife was a tramp. So much of one, in fact, that she even dallied in an alcove during a party in their own home. Howard told her after the party that he intended to file for divorce. Posey would claim that Howard’s stated intention to arrange a divorce was fake, that he was a man consumed with jealousy, a man who had already decided that his wife must die, sending the fake valentine and secreting the mace within the gazebo. As for Laurel’s alibi, Posey would dismiss it out of hand. Obviously, Laurel and Howard were attracted to one another, providing yet another motive for Sydney’s murder. Posey might even think the flirtation with Laurel was contrived to hide Howard’s murderous passion over his
wife’s betrayal.
Therefore, if Carleton admitted to finding Sydney dead with the jacket and mace beside her, he would only reinforce Posey’s conviction that Howard was the murderer he sought.
Eagerness and hope seeped out of Carleton’s face. He clawed again at his mustache. “Well, what in God’s name am I going to do?”
“The only hope is for us to find Sydney’s killer.”
“That’s crazy. That’s silly.”
“No. It’s necessary. And you can help.”
“Me?” He stared at her incredulously. “What am I supposed to do? Look for fingerprints? Hunt for clues?”
“No, your job is very simple. Tell me everything you know about Sydney.”
Max sensed he was close to a mother lode of succulent details on the dark side of General Colville Houghton’s life. But how to pry it loose? Melba Crawford’s snippy rejoinders to his inquiries about the man whom her husband had served as adjutant indicated there was no love lost between Mrs. Crawford and the general. But her answers, so far, had been circumspect, even though suggestive.
Speaking very low, almost in a whisper, Max said, “Now I can tell, Mrs. Crawford, that you are a woman of the world. Sophisticated. Savvy. Deserving of respect. You know and I know that sometimes a reporter has to use background information. No attribution.” He emphasized the last. “I know you’d like to see the truth revealed about the general. Especially since he and your husband were in the same class at West Point and your husband never got his star. Which I am sure, from what everyone has told me, that he richly deserved.”
Deadly Valentine Page 12