White Elephant Dead

by Carolyn G. Hart

  Annie looked past the brightly lit van at the road leading to King Snake Park. The spill of light from the spotlight illuminated a swath of the road. The cheery hellos were coming from that direction. Annie knew Emma was amazing and her latest car was a pink Rolls-Royce but unless it came equipped with wings, Annie didn’t see how Emma had driven from her house on the marsh side of the island over the golf course, which abutted the park, and chugged across the admittedly shallow but very wet lagoon.

  Search volunteers split into a V and here came Emma in a golf cart. Oh, of course. Emma’s elegant home overlooked the ninth green. The fourteenth hole ran along the other side of the King Snake Lagoon. Smart Emma. She’d figured that the narrow road into the park would be choked with vehicles.

  Annie ran to greet her. Emma scared the hell out of her sometimes, but if she ever had to man a barricade, she’d definitely pick Emma as her leader. Max was dear and sexy and swashbucklingly brave, but Emma was tough.

  Emma switched off the cart, climbed majestically out, her clear plastic raincoat flapping. Emma was always majestic, tall, broad-shouldered and athletic. She was still golfing though she was now in her late seventies. Her blunt face would have been a natural for a Mount Rushmore of mystery authors, perhaps featuring Emma, John D. MacDonald, Erle Stanley Gardner, and E. C. Bentley, square-jawed all. However, even an accomplished sculptor might find it difficult to re-create Emma’s hair. Emma, in fact, seemed to find it difficult to re-create her hair, which ranged from varicolored spikes to tight white ringlets to a bluish pompadour possibly inspired by childhood memories of Marie Antoinette. Currently, she was sporting bronze ringlets bright as a new penny. Emma’s hair was no match for the multihued caftans which were her dress of choice. Tonight’s glowed beneath the clear plastic, an improbable mixture of lime and purple. Her cornflower-blue eyes swiftly scanned the scene. “Good show, Annie. Good people. They’ll find Henny. Now tell me what’s happened.”

  Annie was not celebrated for brevity, though she disputed Henny’s calumny that she was as verbose and diffuse in speaking as the amiable narrator of Torrey Chanslor’s Amanda and Lutie Beagle mysteries. But not tonight, not with Kathryn Girard brutally murdered, Henny missing, and Emma Clyde’s pale blue eyes watching her like Agatha observing an unwary and succulent rough-wing swallow innocently nesting along the eaves of Death on Demand. Annie started with Henny’s phone call, described their search and Laurel’s report that Serena Harris spotted Henny’s old car turning onto Marsh Tacky Road shortly after six. She concluded, “and that idiot cop thinks Henny bashed Kathryn, then disappeared. Isn’t that crazy?”

  Emma didn’t answer directly. Instead, her brilliant blue eyes settled thoughtfully on Henny’s car. “A one-lane road. Both cars facing the park. So Henny turned in after the van. She was looking for the van. She saw it turn into this road and followed.”

  Annie waited expectantly.

  “The driver of the van had to know there was a car behind it.” Emma’s cool voice was uninflected, but the sudden picture in Annie’s mind was disturbing.

  Annie looked at the old Dodge, pictured it driving along Laughing Gull or Red-Tailed Hawk and Henny spotting the vagrant van. How like Henny to give chase. She must have been puzzled indeed when the van turned off on Marsh Tacky Road.

  “The driver of the van could not afford to be seen.” Emma’s gaze was distant, measuring. Was this how she looked when plotting her Marigold Rembrandt stories? “Why? The back of the van contained Kathryn Girard’s body. The driver turns off—” Emma held up a hand. “Wait a minute. The van turned in here to leave the body, that has to be how it happened. And now there’s a car behind it. Can you imagine the murderer’s panic? A car following, a car stopping behind the van. What to do?”

  But Annie was thinking of Henny, not a murderer, picturing Henny climbing out of her car and walking toward the van, unwittingly marching into danger.

  “Turn off the van headlights. Of course. Immediately.” Emma’s head swiveled toward the van so clearly visible in the flood of light from the spotlight. “Yes, look. The headlights are off. But Henny left her lights on”—a blunt hand pointed toward the black Dodge—“so she was clearly visible as she came up the road. Now the murderer had to work fast, slide across the seat, jump out the passenger door. That put the van between the murderer and Henny. Grab up something—a rock, a branch—and slip around the back of the van. When Henny walked past, the murderer attacked.” She stopped, nodding.

  Annie hadn’t quite expected Emma Clyde to pull crimson silk scarves from a top hat à la Daniel Stashower’s magician detective, but this seemed like a pretty lame denouement.

  “Where’s Henny?” Annie couldn’t keep the disappointment from her voice. “How did the murderer get away? How come the van and the car are both still here?”

  Emma ignored Annie. Her bright blue eyes focused on the van, and she spoke in a musing tone. “Henny isn’t here. There’s no trace of her—or her body—close to the van. There would be no reason for the murderer to hide Henny’s body. What would that accomplish? That must mean Henny isn’t dead.”

  Annie threw up her hands. “But what happened? I don’t get it, Emma. Here comes Henny. The driver attacks. Where’s Henny?”

  Emma’s broad mouth curved in a delighted smile. “It can only mean one thing. Something must have alerted Henny. Maybe the murderer jumped at her, but slipped in the mud. Oh, that’s nice. I like that. I’ll use it in a book sometime. Everybody always pictures murderers as quick and efficient. But sometimes shit happens. Right? After all, Kathryn’s just been killed. The murderer turns into a deserted road to leave the van or dump the body and here comes a car. That’s enough to unnerve almost anyone. And the weather’s lousy, the road slick and muddy. The murderer lunges at Henny and skids! Maybe there’s only a glancing blow and Henny probably had on a poncho or was holding an umbrella. Oh yes, that’s nice.”

  Annie watched Emma with widening eyes. Emma was scary, scary, scary.

  Emma continued and her tone was as pleased as Agatha’s purr after an illicit encounter with a cream pitcher left unattended on the coffee bar. “The murderer slips. Henny is struck but not seriously injured. Perhaps the murderer falls down and that gives Henny time to run. The murderer is between Henny and her car so Henny heads out into the forest.”

  Annie swung to look out into the wet night, punctuated by brief blips of light from bouncing flashes. That was when a faint shout went up from the direction of King Snake Lagoon. In a moment, a flare burst high in the air.

  Annie broke into a run.

  Annie clung to a limp, cold hand. There was the barest thread of a pulse. Henny’s skin was cold, so terribly cold. As they waited for the medics, Annie heard the high chatter of the Boy Scout who had found her.

  “…thought it was just an old rag…”

  In the circle of light from another scout’s flash, Henny’s crumpled body looked small and forlorn. She lay on her left side, one arm twisted beneath her, her head jammed against a thick branch that had fallen across the path.

  Behind Annie, a crowd of onlookers parted for medics with a stretcher.

  Annie gave that limp, cold hand a squeeze, and stood to get out of the way.

  A burly medic with a calm face and bright blue eyes gently eased Henny onto the stretcher. He carefully strapped her down to keep her immobile for the trek to the ambulance. “Hypothermia,” his tall, thin partner murmured. They worked together to wrap that still form in wool blankets until only her face was visible, then expertly lifted the stretcher and moved briskly up the path.

  As they passed, Annie saw that Henny’s thin face was bluish with cold. Her eyes were closed. A swollen lump, the skin abraded, looked red and angry near her left temple.

  Annie followed the medics with their fragile cargo. As they reached the road and passed by the searchers who were gathering, called back by the sound of the ambulance siren, Annie waved at friends.

  “What happened?”

  “Is she
hurt?”

  “Is she going to be all right?”

  “Yes. Yes, she’ll be fine.” Annie heard her voice, bold and confident. Inside, she was terribly afraid. That cold, cold hand and the uneven pulse. And Henny was old. She never acted old. She was bright and funny and brave and kind, but she was old. Dammit, who had hurt her! Annie felt the beginning of anger that crackled like a lightning-sparked blaze.

  Max sprinted up to Annie. “What does Henny say—” His flashlight swept the moving stretcher. He broke off.

  Annie grabbed his hand. “Max, I’ll go with Henny. You stay here. Try to talk to Billy and see what’s going on with the investigation. And,” she called back as they reached the ambulance, the red light whirring, “ask Emma to come to the hospital.”

  Annie paced in the emergency waiting room. The door marked ADMITTANCE was closed and no light shone through the pebbled glass. A blond wood counter curved in front of three desks, two computers and a bank of filing cabinets. During the night shift, a clerk logged in patients at the second computer behind the counter. Past the end of the counter, another door led to the cubicles for patients. Metal chairs with red leatherette seats were ranged against the wall next to a window that overlooked the emergency drive. A dumpy woman with wispy white hair huddled in a chair, her face splotchy from tears. A middle-aged couple held hands. The wife stared at the door to the emergency cubicles. Her husband spoke loudly, insistently, “He’ll be all right, Maude. Tommy’s tough. He’ll be all right.” But there was terror in his eyes. A thin black woman stood by the counter. “When can I go in to see my husband?”

  The wan-faced attendant glanced at her watch. “Pretty soon, ma’am. Please make yourself comfortable. I’ll come and get you when they’re ready.”

  Annie wondered if all the others felt as helpless as she. The nurse had shooed Annie out of the cubicle, saying briskly that they needed to get Henny ready to see the doctor and was she a close relative?

  A close relative? Annie almost said no, that Henny had no family, but she caught herself in time and simply said, “Yes.” She was darned if she was going to be banished altogether. And she was as close to Henny as anyone on this island. Henny couldn’t speak for herself now, she couldn’t fight for herself. But Annie could. It had taken a few minutes to fill out the paperwork and Annie was amazed how much she knew about her old friend. As for insurance, Henny was on Medicare. Annie promised to get her Medicare number and Social Security number as soon as possible.

  Now she paced, hungry, tired, worried and scared, knowing those sensations must be the common currency in every hospital emergency room. There was something so ominous about the door that didn’t open. What were they doing in there? Was the doctor with Henny? Was Henny still unconscious? How badly injured was she?

  The door opened. The orderly probably never equated himself with a ministering angel and there was nothing angelic about his crew cut that was alternately pink and orange, the ring in his left nostril and the gap between uneven front teeth. But he was smiling. No rock star ever had, for that initial instant, a keener audience. “Mrs. Carson?”

  The thin black woman’s face was so eager, so hopeful that Annie blinked away a sudden tear.

  Mrs. Carson started toward the orderly, an answering smile growing, her golden hoop earrings jangling like Christmas bells.

  As the door closed behind them, the room had a deflated feel, silent as a deserted dance floor.

  Annie paced. How long had it been? It seemed like a long, long time. She checked her watch and for a moment blinked in disbelief. Only ten o’clock? It seemed more like midnight. And where was Emma? Surely she would come. But no one, certainly including Annie, ever had the temerity to tell Emma Clyde what to do. Annie wasn’t certain she especially liked Emma, but she wanted that incisive, coldly analytical mind engaged in the effort to make sense of this night. Had Max been able to find Emma among those milling along the road after the search ended? And where was a police guard for Henny—unconscious, defenseless Henny? Surely the new police chief understood the danger. Henny must have walked toward the van and a waiting murderer.

  Annie scrabbled in her shoulder bag for her cell phone. She stepped outside but stood where she could see that very important door. As she punched in the number of Max’s cell phone, she sent ESP messages: Max, turn on your cell phone. Max, turn on your cell—

  “Hello,” his easy, familiar, cherished voice answered.

  “Max, you’re wonderful! You have your ringer on!”

  He laughed. “I thought I had other qualities more deserving of admiration. And I have to confess, I’m waiting for a call from Billy. Hey, what’s the word on Henny?”

  “No word yet. They made me go out to the waiting room. She was still unconscious when I left her.” A light breeze rustled the fronds of a clump of palms near the emergency room door. The rain had ended for the moment, but the air had a sultry, steamy, more-to-come heaviness. The plaintive cry of a mourning dove made the moonless night seem darker and sadder. “Max, did you find Emma and ask her to come over here?”

  “Sure. She was sitting in her golf cart, staring at the van.”

  Annie frowned. That had to have been an hour ago. “Did she say okay?”

  “Yes. Isn’t she there yet?” Max sounded surprised.

  “No.” Surely Emma wasn’t missing now. No. Annie would as soon imagine Sherlock Holmes deferring to Watson. “Maybe she changed her mind. I’ll call her.” Annie tossed it off as if a casual act, praying that she could within minutes acquire the smart-ass assurance of Janet Evanovich’s Stephanie Plum and the tough confidence of Dana Stabenow’s Kate Shugak. They wouldn’t mind calling Emma. Okay, okay. Annie would do it. But not right this minute. “Max, where are you?”

  “I just got home. I’ve been ferrying volunteer chauffeurs. Ingrid drove Henny’s car and Laurel drove yours.” There was an odd silence. “When I dropped Mother off, she rummaged around in her purse and found a drawing of a chamomile plant. It looked like a bunch of peculiar daisies and it smelled funny. She murmured something about scented and how odd that the soothing drink should be a product of a plant that signals energy in adversity. Then she handed me the drawing, kissed me on both cheeks like De Gaulle presenting a medal and wafted out into the night.”

  Annie might not be a whiz at tea leaves but she was getting the hang of flower messages. “Don’t worry. She’s giving us a psychic push to help save Henny. I’ll call her tomorrow. She might have some good ideas.” Annie heard her own words with surprise, since normally she equated Laurel’s brain waves with unexplained vibrations from outer space.

  For an instant, Max was speechless. Then he said firmly, “You must be hungry. I’ll bring you some dinner….”

  Annie was past caring about food. “Food doesn’t matter.” She ignored Max’s shocked silence. Anyone would think she was as obsessed by food as Selma Eichler’s happily pudgy detective Desiree Shapiro! Did Max think she was as desperate for mouthwatering sustenance as Nero Wolfe during the war years (“Help Wanted, Male” in the collection of novelettes, Trouble in Triplicate) when he might have traded in Archie for a succulent slice of prime rib? “We can’t waste time thinking about food,” she said bravely, ignoring the sudden lurch of her stomach. “What’s happening with the investigation?”

  Now the silence had a markedly different quality, that of a man trying to find words.

  “Max?”

  “Nothing.” Only one word, but it bristled with bemusement, irritation and disgust. “Our I’m-in-charge-here new police chief says the case is closed, all that remains is to arrest one Henny Brawley when she regains consciousness. Garrett announced it’s a clear case of women squabbling over charitable works. He was in an expansive mood after the coroner removed the body. He stood by the open door to the van while Vince Ellis—”

  Annie wasn’t surprised that Vince was on the scene. As the owner of the Island Gazette, he often covered big stories himself.

  “—shot a dozen photos and inte
rviewed him. When Vince asked what the motive might be for Henny to murder Kathryn Girard, Garrett tossed off a half dozen, ranging from jealousy to a club power struggle. In one superb flight of fancy, he suggested that Henny coshed Kathryn just before you and I turned onto Marsh Tacky Road, that the lights of our cars scared her and she ran out into the forest to hide and that’s how she fell down and banged her head.”

  Annie forgot her hunger pangs. Now she knew how Bulldog Drummond felt when facing an utter cad, ready to scale cliffs, ford rivers and generally raise a little hell with the forces of evil. “That’s ridiculous. How does the great detective explain Kathryn’s body in the back of the van? If Henny followed Kathryn there to attack her, why wouldn’t the body be found in the front seat or on the road beside the van?”

  “This guy is unsquashable, Annie. To hear him tell it, poor Kathryn sought refuge in the back of the van against a weapon-wielding Henny, which would argue the intelligence level of a rabbit, and Henny battered her to death and was busy covering her with a blanket when we turned onto the road.”

  “Where’s the weapon?” Annie pictured the front seat of Henny’s old Dodge, the cell phone and the bag of books.

  “Another point against Henny.” Max sounded weary. “The fact that the weapon wasn’t in the van proves that she ran off into the darkness clutching it.”

  “But nobody found—”

  “Actually, somebody did. One of the bird-watchers spotted a croquet mallet just off the road in the direction Henny ran. Garrett had Pirelli shoot lots of pictures, then they took it into evidence.”

  A croquet mallet. For a moment, Annie wondered if she had wandered into a Constance and Gwenyth Little mystery of the absurd.

  Max said grimly, “We’d better damn well hope Henny’s fingerprints aren’t on it. Of course, it won’t help if they aren’t. Garrett’ll just say she had on gloves or wiped it off or something. His mind is closed tighter than a clam.”

  “Is he sending someone over here to guard her, make sure she doesn’t escape?” That was infuriating, but a guard would be a guard. Annie didn’t care who or why, so long as someone was on duty.