Annie managed not to smile. “Emma’s heading up a task force at the club—”
Henny dismissed Emma with a wave of her hand.
“—and Max and I are busy—”
Henny grabbed the glass of water, drank thirstily, then cleared her throat. “Here’s what we need to do, Annie. Check the back of the van, see if there’s any trace of dirt or sand or smudges from a bicycle tire.”
Maybe Henny was the best detective on the island. That had not occurred to Annie. If a bike had been tucked into the van, it might have left some trace. Retrieving the van from the police would give Annie a chance to check out the back.
Henny continued, almost briskly, “See what you can find out about Kathryn—”
“Max is busy on that. And I’m going to talk to Edith Cummings and Adelaide Prescott as soon as I see to the van. Now, Henny, here’s what I want you to do.” Annie spoke softly but firmly. “You’re the only person who came close to the driver of that van. Everyone knows you don’t remember anything—”
Henny’s hand flew up. “The van was going fast.” Her face squeezed tight. “But that’s all I remember, the van and the rain. I followed it.” Her voice quivered with frustration. She moved restlessly, then sighed and turned her face to the pillow. In an instant, she was fast asleep.
Annie stared at Henny and wished she’d talked faster, harder. Henny still didn’t know she was in danger, though when she woke, if her head wasn’t pounding, it wouldn’t take the island’s best mystery reader long to figure it out. As for now, Annie still had to deal with Ruth Yates. She didn’t dare go off and leave Henny alone with Ruth.
Annie eased away from the bed, stepped lightly to the alcove with a window and rocking chair. As she pulled her cell phone from her purse, Ruth tiptoed up to join her, her faded gray eyes blinking furiously.
“Annie, you saw the body last night?” Ruth’s voice quavered.
Annie kept her face empty of expression. Ruth had enough expression for both of them, fluttering eyelashes, trembling lips, shaking hands. What on earth was wrong with the woman? “Yes.” Annie spoke slowly, watching Ruth. “She was in the back of the van, covered with an old green blanket. I pulled the blanket down.”
Ruth’s hand clutched at her neck. “Did they find the weapon?” Her voice shook and her eyes glistened with a sick apprehension.
The weapon? But they’d not talked of how Kathryn Girard died. The word had spread across the island, of course. But how definitive had it been? Some might have heard about the croquet mallet, but many, obviously including Ruth Yates, had not.
Weapon.
Annie had a sudden, sharp, horrific memory of the figure that had whirled last night and lifted a gun and fired as Annie flung herself behind a rain barrel.
“Ruth, what do you know about the gun?” Her voice was louder than she had intended, sharp and accusatory.
Ruth’s face crumpled. She whirled and dashed across the room, her shoes clattering on the floor.
Shocked, Annie stood for an instant, then, questions flooding her mind, she started for the door.
“…no, no…” Henny’s voice rose.
Annie turned toward the bed.
Henny’s eyes were wide and staring. “No lights. No lights.”
Annie held her hands tightly. “It’s all right, Henny. You’re safe.”
Tears spilled irregularly down Henny’s pale cheeks. “I walked toward the van. The lights were off. Oh Annie, that’s all I remember.”
But, Annie thought grimly, Henny’s memory was returning in patches. So she wasn’t safe at all. “Rest now, Henny. I’ll stay with you for now. You’ll feel much better soon.” Annie kept her voice low and soothing and Henny drifted off to sleep. Carefully, she loosed her grip of Henny’s hands, waited to be sure the injured woman didn’t rouse. When Anne stood, she knew it was much too late to catch Ruth Yates. However, this was a small island, a very small island. Ruth had no place to hide. Annie would find her. But first, Henny must be protected. Stepping softly, Annie tiptoed to the door.
Billy looked up anxiously. “Annie, is something wrong?” He pushed up from the chair and now he towered over her. “Mrs. Yates looked upset when she came out. Is Henny okay? I almost called the nurse, but you didn’t come out.” He rubbed his red nose, smothered a sneeze.
“Henny’s doing fine, Billy. She’s asleep now. But from now on, anyone who comes—and that includes members of the auxiliary—tell them to pull up a chair outside in the hall, that Henny needs quiet and the doctor’s put her room off limits.”
His big face corrugated in a worried frown. “But he hasn’t, has he?”
“He will.” That was first on Annie’s agenda. She started down the hall, then turned. “What time do you go off duty, Billy?”
“Seven.”
Annie felt a welling of relief. Billy could be counted on. There was plenty of time to make sure Henny was safe. By the time she reached the parking lot, Annie was connected to Cary Martin’s cell phone, thanks to his office nurse, who was a big Death on Demand customer and who wanted to know if there was a new book by G. M. Ford (“Annie, The Boys are the funniest detectives in the world!”). Indeed there was a new title and Annie promised a free copy. Pronto.
“Hi, Cary. Listen, will you do me a favor and put Henny’s room off limits to visitors? Including God’s gift to the Broward’s Rock police force? Our new police chief doesn’t know the difference between a suspect and a victim!” Annie’s voice dripped disgust. “He’s after Henny, believe it or not. Plus, Emma and I are afraid the real murderer might try to get to Henny, so the safest thing is to keep everybody out.”
“Sure. Probably a good idea anyway. Listen, I’m all out of books.” He sounded like a waif who hadn’t had a square in two days.
“I’ll drop a Tommy Hambledon by your office.” Cary’s favorite books were the World War II adventures by Manning Coles.
Annie dialed the store as she drove out of the hospital lot. She’d better figure out what happened last night in a hurry because the free book count was climbing.
“Death on Demand, where Agatha rules and mysteries flourish.” Ingrid sounded more resigned than joyous. Ingrid loved mysteries and cats. Usually.
“Did she bite you?” Annie braked to let a mother duck lead seven large ducklings across the road.
“I swear I don’t know how she does it.” Ingrid’s normally pleasant voice was aggrieved. “I was watching her. And Annie, I’m nice to her.”
“I know. Ingrid, she doesn’t mean to bite.” Actually, of course, Agatha certainly meant to bite. But Annie was confident that Agatha truly loved both her and Ingrid. It was just that cat nature did not take kindly to being thwarted (or hungry).
Ingrid didn’t say a word. It must have been a large gash. Often, as in a marriage, some topics are best left unexplored. “Ingrid, put up the ‘Closed’ sign. I need to have these books delivered…” and Annie concluded, “…and please see if there’s a new Earl Emerson for Billy.” Was giving away books getting to be a habit? “Thanks, Ingrid.”
The next call was less satisfactory. Voice mail. Annie left a message. “Pamela, will you take the night shift outside Henny’s door? Billy Cameron gets off at seven. If you’ll take over—and Dr. Martin has ordered no visitors and that means none, zip, zero—I will be absolutely confident that Henny is safe. Pamela, I am counting on you.”
Henny was as safe as Annie could manage. But with the way of today’s hospitals—get the patients out, keep those beds empty, raise the prices—Henny might be on her way home tomorrow. Henny’s house was remote with no near neighbors. But surely they had twenty-four hours of safety.
The memory of that swift gunshot in the night outside Kathryn Girard’s store made Annie feel cold despite the summery September morning. As she turned into the Women’s Club parking lot, she wasn’t sure where to start, talking to Emma Clyde or hunting for Ruth Yates.
Chapter 7
“I’ll get us some iced cappuccino,” Barb of
fered, dropping a folder on Max’s desk. Iced cappuccino was a specialty at Death on Demand. “I need a pick-me-up.”
“Watch out for Agatha,” Max said absently as he clicked print on his computer screen. “She’s hungry.”
Barb tugged at her shift, which fit just a little too snugly over her ample bosom. “What’s life without good food? In fact, I think I’ll whip up an awning cake. Do us all good.”
Sheets slipped out of the printer.
Max kept his tone casual. “Awning cake?” It’s hard on a serious chef to admit ignorance.
Barb grinned. “Think beach chairs, alternating stripes of green and white. White cake, green crème de menthe mixed in cream cheese, white cake, white crème de cacao mixed in cream cheese. Mmm, good.”
Barb reached out for the newly printed sheets, handed them to Max. Her good-natured face drooped. “You know, just to look at all these people, you’d think they had it made, rich, handsome, secure. But the truth is, everybody’s got troubles.” She forced a smile, but tears glistened in her large brown eyes. “Back in a flash with a caffeine charge.”
Max put the sheets in a folder and watched her leave, head down, hand scrabbling in her pocket for a tissue. This had been a hard year for Barb: Her mother died in a car wreck, her teenage son was arrested for smoking pot, her new boyfriend turned out to be a louse who cleaned out her bank account. On the surface, she was an ebullient extrovert, a great cook, an avid bowler, an accomplished gardener.
But like Barb said, everybody’s got troubles and the people on Kathryn Girard’s list had more troubles than most.
Max arranged the dossier folders in alphabetical order: Gary and Marie Campbell, Vince Ellis, Janet and Dave Pierce, Brian and Ruth Yates. As he picked up the top one the phrase strummed in his mind over and over, “Everybody’s got troubles.”
The Broward’s Rock Women’s Club was housed in one of the oldest structures on the island, a Georgian chapel built in 1770 by a plantation owner. The plantation had fallen into ruin after the Civil War. The only remnant of the fine plantation house was half a brick chimney and one partial wall of stucco-covered tabby, the sea island building mixture made of oyster shells and lime mortar. The chapel, however, was built of brick that had been shipped from Savannah. The beautifully proportioned building had survived war, fire and pillage. Local philanthropist Adelaide Prescott bought the ruins in the early 1950s and oversaw its restoration. She deeded the building and its grounds, including the old cemetery with its leaning stones and age-darkened crypts, to the Women’s Club, which met monthly to hear visiting lecturers on topics ranging from the plight of the great cats in Africa to the expected transformation of American society as a result of instant worldwide communications. The interior had been transformed into a spacious room with a low stage at the east end. To afford flexibility, folding chairs were arranged for programs and stored at other times for square dancing, holiday bazaars and, of course, the annual White Elephant Sale.
Today, a half dozen cars were tucked in a row behind a line of weeping willows. Adelaide had insisted that cars not be visible through the sparkling glass panes of the Palladian windows. Annie parked beneath the shade of a live oak and brushed back a strand of feathery Spanish moss as she stepped out.
Crushed oyster shells crunched underfoot as she hurried up the broad central path to the building. Annie decided Adelaide Prescott was a very wise woman. Once past the line of willows, the chapel appeared as it existed in long-ago days, the two Palladian windows on either side of the door, the high roof and small end wings in perfect balance. The chapel nestled against a backdrop of pines, like a small diamond in an exquisite setting. The little cemetery, its iron gate ajar, lay in the shadow of a half dozen live oaks. Silvery swaths of Spanish moss hung straight and still, graceful reminders that life can be drawn from sunlight and air.
Inside, Annie paused while her eyes adjusted from the brilliant September sunlight to the softly lit interior. At first glance, the long room looked like a tidy housekeeper’s worst nightmare, overflowing boxes and bags scattered in disorderly piles, broken lamps, a statue with one arm missing, chipped dishes, stuffed animals including a moose head with pink eyes, a model train that was clacking merrily around a mountain and emitting a piercing whistle as it neared the bridge, cowboy hats, a fake cactus, Japanese screens and more, much more. Women wearing blue aprons with the club emblem, an osprey with spread wings hovering high above green water, conferred in low voices, wrote prices, affixed stickers and placed items ready for sale on trestle tables set up against the north and south walls. There was an air of intense pressure and total concentration.
Beyond the disarray on the main floor, the low stage was bare except for a card table and Emma, perched on a small wooden chair. Her cell phone tucked under her square chin, she was gesturing decisively to a drooping figure. It took Annie a moment to recognize Pamela Potts. Emma looked up, spotted Annie and beckoned.
Annie began a snakelike progression toward the stage, skirting a piece of driftwood carved in the shape (roughly, very roughly) of a pelican, stepping over a rolled-up grass mat that made her nose itch, avoiding the moose’s immense antlers, squeezing between two huge pottery camels, unhooking her sleeve from a hand trowel attached to an orange Formica pole festooned with a sign announcing, CUTE CLOTHES TREE.
All the while she scanned familiar faces. Muted hellos greeted her, but no one paused to chat. The minutes were ticking away and whether the motley merchandise was tagged or untagged, the doors would open at nine tomorrow. Annie was almost to the base of the stage when she spotted Ruth Yates, who was sidling toward the front door, her thin face averted. Annie waggled her hand at Emma, held up a finger meaning just a minute and hurried after Ruth.
Outside, Ruth threw a frantic glance over her shoulder and broke into an awkward run, veering away from the path.
Annie jogged. In a half dozen steps, she was on Ruth’s heels. “Ruth, you can’t get away from me.” It was not a race. If the circumstances had been any other, if Henny weren’t in danger, if a gun hadn’t been fired the night before, Annie would have hated herself for bullying this abject middle-aged woman. Only Ruth would have come to the club today. No doubt she was signed up to work so she came, even though she must have known that Annie would seek her out. Poor, bedeviled Ruth.
Gasping for air, Ruth clung to the cemetery gate. “Kathryn wasn’t shot.” Her voice quavered, but her eyes were defiant. And hurt, like a child who’s been lied to.
Annie wasn’t sorry. “No. But the murderer has the gun.”
Ruth whirled away, plunging into the cemetery, stumbling across the hummocky ground. She finally stopped and leaned against an old obelisk, the name obliterated by time, the outline of a palmetto palm barely discernible. “Oh, I wish I were dead. I was going to shoot myself.” Tears trickled down her face, furrowed her makeup. She crossed her arms tightly and shuddered. “I got the gun out when she called. I went upstairs and got it out of the attic. It belonged to my dad. Brian doesn’t like guns but I wanted to keep it. My dad brought it home from the war. He was proud of it. It’s pearl-handled and has his initials on it. It wasn’t loaded. But I know how to shoot. Dad taught me when I was little. So I loaded it.”
Cicadas rasped their late summer song. A tendril of Spanish moss caressed Annie’s cheek. Sunlight slanted through the live oak branches, touching the weathered gravestones with streaks of gold.
“Nothing’s that bad,” Annie said softly. “Ruth, it would break Brian’s heart.”
She was hiccupping now, little jerky sobs. “I was to put the money out with some stuff for the sale. She said she’d be by sometime after four.” Miserable eyes, begging understanding, sought Annie’s. “I wasn’t going to do it. Not again. I lied to Brian before. I told him the car had a big repair job. That’s what I said once. Another time I told him my cousin Becky had to have an operation and she needed help. He said of course I must help her. We had to cancel our trip to see Judy and the new baby. Oh God, I hated
that woman.”
“Yesterday…” Annie said gently.
Ruth’s tear-stained face hardened. “I’d told her to pull around to the back of the house. I was waiting there with the sack. She got out and opened the rear door. She had on a blue poncho. The hood framed her face and”—the flat voice was wondering—“she looked like an old Italian painting, that beautiful dark hair, the way her cheeks hollowed beneath the bones.” Ruth shuddered. “But her mouth was mean. Her mouth was always mean. I brought the sack. Then I opened it and pulled out the gun.” Ruth’s face crumpled like a Chinese lantern dashed to the ground.
Annie stepped back. The hard edge of a granite tomb poked into her hip.
“Do you know what she did?” Ruth reached out, grabbed handfuls of the Spanish moss, twisted and tore the gossamer gray moss. “She laughed at me. She laughed and yanked the gun away and tossed it into the back of the van.”
The cool cry of a mourning dove mingled with the pulsating song of the cicadas.
Annie’s skin prickled. She had never seen such a violent mixture of pain and anger and defeat.
“Kathryn took the gun,” Annie repeated.
Ruth pushed away from the obelisk, walked heavily, head down.
Annie followed. “What happened then?”
Ruth ignored her, walking faster toward the weeping willows.
“Ruth”—Annie grabbed her arm—“what happened then?”
“She looked in my sack”—Ruth’s voice had an odd hollow tone—“and when she didn’t see the money she said—” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter what she said, Annie. Kathryn’s dead. She took my gun and drove away and someone killed her.”
This time, Annie didn’t follow. Ruth walked hurriedly, leaning forward, like a swimmer breasting heavy waves.
The burden of guilt.
The judgment came so clearly Annie almost expected to hear the words in a deep stentorian tone. Ruth claimed Kathryn took the gun, drove away. Did she? Or when Kathryn turned arrogantly away to toss the sack into the back of the van, did Ruth pick up a croquet mallet and batter Kathryn to death?
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