White Elephant Dead

by Carolyn G. Hart

  “—because she’s kind of a woman of mystery. But she’s made a place for herself in the community, helps with good causes and gives lots of parties. Of course, we often miss her. She’s gone for two or three weeks out of the month, says she has to see to business interests in the States. I think her family was in the import-export business. But she’s never really said.”

  “I’m interested in her house there….”

  “Beautiful, just beautiful. Huge house. On a bluff overlooking the town. Olympic-size pool. Previous owner even had a jai alai court. One night I was up there at a party—”

  Max rippled a string of dollar signs across the page.

  “—and stood out on her terrace and watched the lights come on down in the valley. Great view.”

  “And how is she perceived among the Americans there?” Max sketched a treasure chest piled high with coins.

  “Oh, she fits right in. Except she doesn’t have a lot to say. She’s a good listener. But she seems to like it here. She always looks”—there was a considering pause—“pleased. Like a cat on a velvet cushion.”

  Max drew a thousand-dollar bill and another and another. “Oh, that’s great, Mr. Murphy. Thanks for your time. I’ll be in touch.” Max put down the phone and reached for his legal pad. He studied Annie’s list of the houses Kathryn had written on the note card and their owners. His eyes rested on one oh-so-familiar name, Vince Ellis, the redheaded, ebullient, energetic owner and editor of the Island Gazette. A longtime friend. A man Max wouldn’t have hesitated to contact with questions about any island event.

  How do you ask an old friend if he was being blackmailed?

  Sea air swept through the sunroof as the road curved along the Sound. Yellowing cordgrass rippled in a gentle breeze. Fiddler crabs scurried on a brown bank. A dazzling white plumed egret crooked its neck to poke a long yellow beak near the water, looking for crabs or snails or small fish. Annie loved the pungent marsh smell, a combination of salt water, spartina grass, decay and sulfur. To her right, glimpsed through the groves of loblolly pines, spread the rolling links of the Island Hills Country Club golf course. Many of the island’s most expensive homes backed onto the course.

  Annie saw the sign, hesitated, then sharply swung the wheel, screeching into Laughing Gull Road. As she turned, she wondered if this had been Henny’s route last night. But Henny could well have turned left onto Red-Tailed Hawk, planning to turn right on Laughing Gull. The same was true of Kathryn Girard. Either route made sense because Kathryn planned, of course, to return to Sand Dollar for the drive back to the gate.

  Annie knew that Sea Oats Circle was near. Thick forests of pines intermingled with clumps of homes. She passed White Ibis Inlet, Lady Crab Lane, then turned left onto Sea Oats Circle. Number 22 was an attractive two-story red brick with white wood, green shutters and ivy. Banks of azaleas would be glorious in the spring. Two huge magnolias glistened in the sun. A couple of bikes rested in a wooden stand. A battered old VW sported a Braves pennant on the radio aerial. White organdy curtains hung at open windows, and honeysuckle climbed a trellis at the end of the front porch. Annie had been to guild meetings with Ruth Yates bustling happily between the kitchen and living room, freshening guests’ coffee or tea, serving candied fruitcake in the winter, fresh peach cobbler in the summer. Ruth was in her late forties with faded gray eyes that looked anxiously out of a thin face. Hearty, bearishly built Brian Yates played pickup basketball at The Haven, the center for the island’s disadvantaged kids, managed to remind his well-to-do flock that earthly success is temporal without offending any of them, and wielded a mean hammer at Habitat for Humanity building sessions.

  How could this serene house be on Kathryn Girard’s list?

  Annie turned at the end of the block. These were nice houses but modest by island standards. How could either of the Yateses afford blackmail? Not, of course, that blackmail was something worked out in a budget.

  Back on Laughing Gull, Annie spotted a long log-shaped form in the water hazard on thirteen, negotiated a humped bridge over a broad canal and watched the street signs. She turned right on Porpoise Place. Number 8 was three stories, an Italianate villa scarcely visible through a thick screen of pines. A small wooden sign announced SERVICE ENTRANCE about twenty feet before the main drive. Kathryn’s stash of ninety thousand would be small potatoes at this residence.

  Annie craned to see as she slowly drove past. A bunch of cars were in the front drive. The Pierces often entertained houseguests. Annie was a bit fuzzy on what David Pierce did but he had a private plane that took him to his Atlanta office. And he had offices in New York, Houston and London. Something about satellite communications. He was short, slim, dapper and intense. As for Janet Pierce—a head taller with gorgeous ash-blond hair and brilliantly green eyes and a model’s figure—Annie had once heard someone describe Janet as a trophy wife. But the Pierces didn’t quite fit that glib assessment. Dave was a widower. Janet had, indeed, been a part of his corporate life, but once when someone complimented her, Annie thought a little snidely, on the grandness of the Pierce home, she’d said bitterly, “Dave won’t move. Because she chose it.” Then she’d swirled back onto the court and played with barely restrained violence. Trophy wives aren’t jealous of a dead mate.

  A green Porsche bolted out of the drive, cutting in front of Annie. As the Porsche roared past, long blond hair swirled from beneath a pink straw hat with a blue ribbon. A white hand had lifted in greeting.

  Annie waved back. Janet always drove fast.

  Annie took two wrong turns, but finally discovered Mockingbird Lane, a squiggly offshoot from Mourning Dove Court. The Campbell house was a two-story Tudor that rambled with L’s and wings and turrets. All it lacked was a rope ladder dangling from the east turret and a moat. Annie had worked with Marie Campbell on a clothing drive to benefit The Haven. Marie had worked swiftly, cataloging, discarding, talking all the while, a passionate discourse on preventing tourists from feeding the dolphins (“…just criminal. It teaches them to depend on people. We have no right…”), her dark eyes flashing and her finely boned face flushed. Her husband Gary was tall and thin and very quiet. At parties, he stayed close to her side, carefully observing everyone who approached her, not quite truculent, not quite hostile. Annie was never certain whether he displayed doglike devotion or the dog’s instinctive wariness of interlopers. This morning a small figure knelt beside a bed of petunias, energetically weeding.

  Annie picked up speed as Marie looked toward the street. Just past the house, Annie realized that Mockingbird was a dead end. Making the turn, she retraced her path. Marie stood by the bed, trowel in hand, gloved hand shading her eyes.

  So far as Annie knew, she owned the only red Volvo on the island. So much for a quiet survey of Kathryn’s addresses. Annie waved.

  The trowel flashed in the sun.

  The last house—or the first, if Kathryn came the other way around—had once been a home where she and Max were familiar guests. How many times had she and Max stood on the second-floor balcony of the Ellis house and looked down at a sparkling pool. She and Max had known Vince and his wife, Arlene, since those scary early days on the island when Annie was suspected of murdering an obnoxious mystery writer. Vince put out a superb small-town newspaper and knew everybody and everything that happened on Broward’s Rock. The house was unpretentious but nice, a two-story, rambling colonial surrounded by magnificent roses, white, crimson, yellow and pink, a profusion of loveliness. Vince no longer was a genial host, flipping hamburgers, teasing guests, planning party games. Not since the death of his wife.

  Four houses. The homes of people she knew. Last night when a blue van stopped at one of these houses, Kathryn Girard died. Who drove the van to Marsh Tacky Road?

  The Island Gazette newsroom consisted of three desks with computers. Ace reporter Marian Kenyon covered news; an ebullient retiree from the Atlanta Constitution, Eddie Abel, covered sports; and Ginger Harris, sweet-faced, seventyish, sharp-eyed, did everything
else, from Life Style to obituaries to gardening to financial news. Ginger had come out of retirement after Arlene Ellis’s death to take her place in the newsroom. Beyond the desk, a door led to Vince’s office.

  When Max stepped inside, Marian popped up, her frizzy blond hair (a new shade bordering on apricot) quivering. Marian always moved fast, her eagle-beaked face intent, ready to pepper any source with pointed questions. Grabbing her steno pad and a soft lead pencil, she balanced on her toes in Max’s path. “Police report states you and Annie found the body. How come you were on Marsh Tacky Road?” The question was oddly indistinct and the side of Marian’s face pouched like a squirrel with more acorns than mouth.

  Max found himself being maneuvered to the hard straight chair by Marian’s desk. Since his goal was Vince’s office only a few feet away, he didn’t resist. “I’ll make a deal. Fill me in on what you’ve got on Kathryn Girard and I’ll give you a blow-by-blow.”

  Flinging herself into her swivel chair, Marian scrabbled in her desk drawer and pulled out a piece of bubble gum. Unwrapping it with one hand, she shoved the pink square into her mouth, distending her left cheek even further. “Quit smoking. May strangle on sugar. About to go out of my mind. What have I got on K. Girard? Nada. She must have landed on the island like Athena out of Zeus’s noggin. I can’t find anything on her. Zero. So I told the boss we could do a three-column head, use a border of question marks, I’d give it my Arthur Brisbane best, but you know what the boss is running for the lead story? His rewrite of a handout from Garrett. Anemic. Puerile. Then he had the”—the next was indistinct but Max could fill in the blanks—“—s to tell me we had everything we needed! The lead goes something like, ‘Island Police Chief Peter Garrett announced Friday that an arrest is imminent in the slaying Thursday night of Kathryn Girard, owner of an island antique shop. Girard’s body was found—’”

  Vince’s door opened. The tall, rangy redheaded editor hesitated for an instant when he saw Max. Then he plunged into the newsroom, smiling, but his eyes were hard. “Hey, Max, sorry I can’t stop. I’ll get back to you.”

  Max stood, hand outstretched.

  Vince pumped Max’s hand, clapped him on the shoulder. “See you later.” And he brushed past.

  Marian’s raspy voice twanged, “So maybe if I get some stuff from Max, the Gazette will have an honest-to-God news story. And what’s this crap about Henny Brawley going to the slammer? Hey, Vince, you heard that?” She bounced to her feet, glaring after her boss, pugnacious as Brett Halliday’s Mike Shayne when it was time to stand up and be counted.

  The front door slammed.

  Marian Kenyon’s face crinkled in dismay. “Vince, oh Vince, what the hell?”

  Marian didn’t have an answer.

  Max was afraid he did.

  Vases of flowers were arranged three deep on either side of the door to Room 218. Billy Cameron dwarfed the straight chair to the left of the door. As Annie came down the hall, his big face creased in a smile, then he clapped both hands over his face and sneezed. Once. Twice. Three times.

  “Gesundheit, Billy.” Annie saw that the door was ajar.

  He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, smothered another sneeze. “Thanks, Annie.” He gestured at the flowers. “Nurse wants doctor’s approval, said you have to be sure there’s no allergy or anything.” He sniffled. “I wish Garrett could see these.”

  Annie understood. Anyone who evoked this kind of care and love couldn’t possibly be a murderess. But Annie doubted the floral tributes would sway the young police chief. “How’s Henny?” Henny came first. Annie was glad she’d stopped at the hospital. Emma could just wait.

  Billy rubbed his nose, which could soon serve as a beacon in the fog. “Lots better. She doesn’t know about”—he lowered his voice—“the other lady. But I think Garrett’s going to try and question her pretty soon. So maybe you better tell her.”

  Annie reached out to push the door. “Has anybody tried to get past you?”

  He looked as stalwart and impassable as Rowdy, the masterful malamute in Susan Conant’s Holly Winter mysteries. “Naw. Everything’s super. Emma Clyde’s got a schedule set up. Mrs. Yates is in there right now.”

  Annie felt like Rowdy had just landed on her shoulders. She shoved into the room, her heart thudding, to find wispy Ruth Yates sitting beside the bed, crochet hook flashing. “…and I don’t want you to worry about a thing, Henny. I went by your house and fed Dash. I told him you’d be home soon. He is such a handsome cat, isn’t he? And I’ve brought you a fresh assortment of clothes, that pretty red blouse you brought back from Maracaibo and those nice tan slacks from the Talbots catalog. And fresh underwear, of course, and socks and tennis shoes.”

  Annie reached the bed, clung to the metal end.

  Ruth Yates, looking as frazzled as a Girl Scout leader at the end of a week-long campout, shook the fluffy yellow yarn and peered down at the shapeless mass in her lap. “I swear I hate this new yarn. It just slips and slides.”

  Annie’s gaze swung frantically from Ruth’s wistful, defeated face to the bed. Henny was propped up against double pillows, a bandage looped around her head, her face a stark white. Bluish patches looked like bruises beneath her usually vibrant brown eyes, eyes that now looked fuzzy and bewildered. She tried to smile, but it slipped away and she touched her temple.

  “Henny.” Annie was at her side and holding a thin cold hand. “Oh Henny, we were so worried about you.”

  Henny moved uncomfortably against the pillow. “What happened, Annie?” her voice was thick.

  Ruth Yates popped up and leaned close. “Now, Henny, you mustn’t—”

  Annie saw the water pitcher on the stand. She’d empty it, bring fresh. The IV, surely Ruth couldn’t have trifled with it. When had Henny taken medicines? Annie needed to be sure the nurse’s aide presented the medicines directly to Henny, didn’t leave them to be taken later. She stared at Ruth, who surely was a most unlikely candidate for murderer-in-chief. But she was a candidate.

  “…think about it. It’s better not to dwell…”

  Henny’s voice was weak, but she managed to snap, “Dammit, how did I get here?”

  Annie gave Henny’s limp hand a squeeze. “I’ll freshen up this water.” She grabbed the pitcher, crossed to the open bathroom door, poured it into the lavatory, all the while watching Ruth’s pale face.

  Ruth’s gray eyes blinked. She brushed back a strand of hair. “I think that’s fresh, Annie. The nurse brought it in just a few minutes ago.”

  Annie turned on the faucet and filled the pitcher. “The fresher, the better.” She plumped it down on the bedside stand. “Henny, have you taken any medicine since Ruth came?”

  “Turned it down,” Henny said sturdily. “Don’t like painkillers. Asked them to bring me some ibuprofen.” She gestured at a little white cup on the stand.

  Annie picked it up, shook two tablets out in her hand, checked them. Water okay. Tablets okay. IV? Annie leaned over the bed. “Were you awake when Ruth came?”

  Henny’s brown eyes didn’t look quite so fuzzy. “Yes.”

  So the IV couldn’t have been tampered with. At least, not by Ruth.

  Annie swung toward Ruth, who was glancing back and forth like a spectator watching an unfamiliar sport. “Ruth, who was on duty when you arrived?”

  Ruth looked relieved. This was a question she understood. “Pamela Potts.”

  Annie felt the tension drain away. Henny was okay. No way would anything be tampered with during Pamela’s watch. And Henny, though weak and confused, was awake when Ruth arrived. But to stay safe, Henny had to know what was going on and she had to know she was in danger. Annie turned back to the bed.

  Henny was looking at her sharply. “All right, Annie.” Henny was almost her crisp self. “What’s going on?”

  “Do you remember calling me from the Women’s Club last night?” Annie poured a glass of the fresh water, put it on the stand within Henny’s reach.

  Henny’s usually confident
face was troubled, anxious. “I don’t remember anything after breakfast yesterday. I sat on my deck, watched a great blue heron.” She gingerly touched the bandage. “Annie, what happened to me?”

  As Annie described the evening—Henny’s call to the bookstore, her non-arrival, the search by Annie and Max, their discovery of Henny’s car and the Women’s Club van on Marsh Tacky Road, Kathryn’s body in the back of the van—Ruth Yates hunkered down into her chair, her hands tightly clutching her crochet.

  Ruth interrupted, her voice high and thin. “What happened to the driver of the van? The way you tell it, Henny’s car blocked the road. Where did the driver go?”

  Annie looked at Ruth with respect. She might be fluffy and uncertain, nervous and troubled, but she immediately perceived the critical point.

  So did Henny. “Wait a minute.” Her voice was stronger, though she still pressed fingers to one temple. “Kathryn Girard was murdered. Her body was in the back of the van. But if the murderer drove the van to Marsh Tacky Road, how did he—or she—get away? There’s the park and lagoon and golf course to the west and nothing but forest to the east.”

  And it was at least two miles to the nearest of the four houses on Kathryn’s list, not that Annie intended to get into that with this audience.

  “Is that why the police think—” Ruth clapped a hand over her mouth.

  Henny was very still, her dark eyes scouring Ruth’s face. “I see,” she said quietly. “Am I the Prime Suspect?”

  “At the moment,” Annie said grimly. “You’ll soon have a visit from Frank Saulter’s fuzz-faced replacement. Just close your eyes and refuse to speak until you’ve talked with your lawyer. Max will call Johnny Joe Jenkins.” The personable criminal lawyer lived in Chastain, the nearest town on the mainland.

  Henny’s sharp brown eyes crackled. “If that isn’t infuriating!”

  “To be suspected of murder?” Ruth Yates asked in a small voice.

  Henny’s eyes flashed. “To be trapped here and not be able to do a thing. And I’m the best detective on the island.”