Max nodded in approval. Barb was certainly a whiz. Of course, today’s computers could do everything but hold the scalpel in brain surgery, and that would probably be next. The capability to print sharp color photos was pie-easy, certainly easier than making his newest favorite recipe, a mint-flavored chocolate pie in a graham cracker crust, topped with springs of fresh mint and flecks of shaved bitter chocolate. And Barb was a master at scouting out photos that made the dossiers twice as up close and personal.
He picked up the top photo that had run in the Island Gazette: Spring House and Garden Tour, l. to r., Loretta Campbell, Gary and Marie Campbell, Sam and Kate Campbell. Gary and Marie stood together on one side of a redwood piano. Gary bent forward, minimizing his height. He looked like a balding stork, a bony, solemn face with bushy eyebrows, deep-set blue eyes and a square chin. His arm curved around Marie’s slight shoulders, one thin hand tight on her arm. Marie had the odd quality of being arrested in motion, as if she were just about to move, or had just settled for an instant, like a hovering hummingbird. Curly dark hair framed a piquant face remarkable for vivid green eyes, a bright, quizzical expression and a smile that promised warmth and love and hope. Teenagers Sam and Kate sat stiffly on the piano bench. Sam was an echo of his father, all long arms and legs, but he had a mop of curly black hair and his mother’s mouth. Unlike her mother, Kate was solidly built with an athlete’s bright cheeks. Long blond hair framed a softly rounded face with spectacular dark brown eyes. Old and frail, Loretta Campbell hunched in an overstuffed, ornately carved walnut chair near the piano. A slight smile touched her wizened face.
There were individual shots, Gary in a dark gray suit receiving a plaque from the county bar association in honor of his term as president, Marie marching with a placard held high above her head, DON’T KILL THE DEERS!, Sam sitting on a weathered pier with a fishing pole in hand, smoothly muscled Kate handing off the baton at a track meet, the obituary photo of Loretta as a younger woman with tightly permed hair and thin lips.
Max read the obituary first:
CAMPBELL Loretta Agnes Simpson, 76, daughter of the late Burl Simpson and Gladys Wright Simpson. Born in Columbia, South Carolina, nursing school graduate, married Maj. Robert Campbell M.D. March 7, 1945. Predeceased by Dr. Campbell in 1982. Survived by son Gary and his wife, Marie, and two grandchildren, Kate and Sam.
Loretta Simpson joined the Army Nursing Corps upon her graduation in 1944. She met Maj. Campbell at Ft. Bliss, Texas, and they were married in 1945. In 1946, Dr. Campbell set up private practice on Broward’s Rock, the home of his paternal grandparents, and was a founder of the hospital. Loretta worked as his nurse until the birth of their son Gary. Loretta was a member of the St. Francis Altar Society, the Hospital Auxiliary, the Broward’s Rock Women’s Club, the Red Cross, the Community Chest, and the Island Hills Golf and Country Club.
A rosary will be said at 10 a.m. Tuesday at St. Francis Catholic Church. In lieu of flowers, the family suggests memorial gifts to the Women’s Club or to the Hospital Auxiliary.
Max checked the date. Loretta Campbell had died the previous year. Barb had appended a note: Congestive heart failure. Died at the hospital, doctor in attendance. She left everything—no surprise—to sonny boy. An estate around four million. The old man never charged a lot as a doctor but he bought up lots of oceanfront property and sold it for big bucks when the island was developed.
So Gary Campbell didn’t need to practice law too assiduously. Max picked up the Campbell dossiers:
GARY CAMPBELL, 44, only son of Dr. Robert Campbell and Loretta Agnes Simpson Campbell. Top graduating senior from high school. B.A. in political science and J.D. from the University of South Carolina. Solo practitioner, specialty wills and estates. Active in county bar, a past president. Shy, retiring, gifted mechanically. Worked backstage in local Little Theater for a number of years. A first marriage to Helen Jimson ended in divorce. Divorce settlement in closed court records, rumored to be substantial. Married to Marie McKee in 1980. Two children, Katherine McKee and Samuel Edward. Served as scoutmaster, active in Parents Club, volunteer at The Haven (teaching chess).
MARIE MCKEE CAMPBELL, 42, youngest of five children born to Michael James McKee and Elinor Bassett McDougal, Shelbyville, Tennessee. Father a small farmer, killed in a tractor accident when Marie was eleven. Moving the family to North Carolina, her mother worked nights in a clothing factory. Marie’s brother, Mike, was killed by a drunk driver. The year Marie graduated from high school, her mother was diagnosed with ovarian cancer and died within three months. Marie’s SAT scores earned her a scholarship to Chastain College, where she majored in business and minored in ecology. She picketed a university lab which used cats for laboratory research. After graduation, she received certification as a paralegal and moved to Broward’s Rock, where she went to work for Gary Campbell. She and Campbell married within six months of his divorce.
KATHERINE MCKEE CAMPBELL, 17, senior at Broward’s Rock Prep. Won lead role in Annie Get Your Gun. Accomplished at tap, ballet. Member choir. Uses gift for mimicry to do sketches of famous actresses. Loves nineteenth century novels but careless with schoolwork, making mostly Bs and Cs except for drama where she always excels. A superb athlete, holds double A times in backstroke and free style, a quarter miler and relay star, and a state-ranked tennis player. Missed a month of school last year for illness.
SAMUEL EDWARD CAMPBELL, 14, sophomore at Broward’s Rock Preparatory School. Belongs to Chess Club, Aerospace Club. Received prize as outstanding second-year Spanish scholar. Has accrued twelve hours of college credit through advanced placement exams. Shares his mother’s passion for wildlife preservation and plans to be a marine biologist.
Barb clattered into Max’s office, carefully carrying two tall frosted glasses topped with mounds of whipped cream dotted with chocolate and cinnamon. “I left a note. Ingrid wasn’t there.” She put a coaster on his desk, placed the drink. “Maybe Agatha needs counseling.”
Max grinned. “It doesn’t take a psychiatrist to read her mind. Agatha thinks ‘svelte’ is a swear word and she won’t listen to a discourse on the dangers of fat to a small cat liver.”
Barb avoided his gaze. “She was in a better mood when I left.”
Max didn’t need a cat psychiatrist to explain that one either. Soft-hearted Barb, who understood hunger. “Don’t tell Annie,” he warned. He closed the folder on the Campbell family.
Barb picked up the Ellis folder, handed it to him. “More troubles than a man should have.”
Annie waited until Pamela Potts completed her report. “…had only an hour’s sleep.” Red-rimmed eyes blinked bravely. “I’ve compiled a complete report on Kathryn Girard’s activities on the island. And now”—a bravely suppressed yawn—“I’ll go off duty.”
“Very good, Pamela.” Emma patted the folder. “You get some rest.”
Pamela wove her way unsteadily toward the steps, but she managed to go down them quite easily. Annie suppressed a grin. She didn’t bother to alert Pamela to the message awaiting her, requesting her presence tonight at the hospital. Annie wasn’t worried. Pamela would be there.
Annie opened her purse. “When I emptied Henny’s pockets this morning, I found the pick-up card for Kathryn Girard. Kathryn had marked out the original addresses and substituted others. Max took the card to Chief Garrett, but we made some copies and I brought you one.” She put a sheet on the table in front of Emma.
Emma’s eyes blazed with a cold, eager light. She tapped the sheet with a stubby finger. “I researched handwriting analysis once. For The Mystery of the Startled Widow.” Her finger traced the first address in Kathryn Girard’s bold script. “Thickness indicates greed. That loop means care in planning, attention to detail. And this curl simply screams malevolence.” She looked as pleased as Frances and Richard Lockridge’s Jerry North spotting a martini. Emma’s square face exuded satisfaction. And even a hint of admiration? “Good work, Annie. Combined with what I’ve learned, we’re finally on the right
track. I have a well-placed source who informed me just a few minutes ago that a large sum of money was found hidden in Kathryn’s apartment. Now, juxtaposed with this list, what does that tell us?”
Annie knew better than to upstage one of the world’s most popular mystery writers. “What does it tell us?” she asked obediently.
“Blackmail!” Emma’s eyes glistened with delight. “And everything reported by Faithful Pamela—”
Was Pamela taking on the guise of Miss Silver’s Faithful Frank?
“—confirms this assumption. Kathryn was extremely active in the Hospital Auxiliary and she was especially eager to stay with the dying. Where can you find out more about any family than at a deathbed? It rather reminds me of one of my best, The Case of the Chattering Crocodile.”
Annie resisted the temptation to say, “Coo!” although she realized she likely was passing up what might be her only opportunity to respond with the enthusiasm of Tuppence and Tommy’s faithful Albert.
“So, our role is clear.”
Annie wondered where Emma kept her crystal ball. “Clear?” At this rate, maybe she should change places with the parrot on the fishing boat.
“We shall attack, all guns firing.” Emma pulled a stack of papers close.
“Attack? But Emma, these people don’t have any idea we know about them. Wouldn’t it be better—”
“Annie, you may have read a great many mysteries.” The patronizing tone made Annie wish she’d stuck Emma’s latest on a bottom shelf down with the W’s. “But I write them. I know how a murderer’s mind works. And”—this was reflective—“I know how a blackmailer thinks.”
Annie didn’t doubt that statement. If she’d had the courage, she would have asked snippily, “Had a little personal experience there?” Instead, she made an Agatha-like growl deep in her throat.
Emma waggled her copy of the sheet. “Blackmailers are bullies. They like to see people squirm. Kathryn couldn’t resist a final poke at the caged animals.”
“Emma”—Annie’s voice was eager—“we don’t want to make people squirm. That would be awful. Let’s keep this quiet. We can try and find out—”
Emma shrugged. “Omelets,” she said briskly.
Annie had a vision of broken eggshells surrounding a sizzling skillet. But these weren’t eggs, these were people.
“Emma—”
A stubby hand was raised. “Annie, do you think Henny is in danger?”
Last night a bullet didn’t miss Annie by more than a few feet. The murderer could have aimed into the air. That would as likely have sent Annie into a dive for cover and afforded the murderer time to escape.
The murderer still had that gun and Henny was remembering occasional patches of last night. Even though Henny might never recall the moment when she came up to the van, the murderer had to be frightened. Annie could imagine the scene, the dark road, the misting rain, the lights from Henny’s old car poking through the darkness, the van with the body in the back. The murderer most likely slid out the passenger side of the van, carrying the croquet mallet, and came up behind Henny. But when the mallet was swung, the murderer slipped. Or Henny moved forward. That explained the roundish bruise on Henny’s arm and the fact that Henny wasn’t battered to the ground. Instead, Henny ran away. Where was the gun at that point? If Ruth was the killer, her story of Kathryn taking the gun was a lie. Perhaps Ruth had intended to use the gun but saw the mallet in the back of the van and grabbed it to strike Kathryn. She must have left the gun at home, but taken it later that night when biking to Kathryn’s store. But if Ruth was innocent, the gun was in the back of the van and the murderer saw it when dumping Kathryn’s body on the floor, saw the gun and left it, but retrieved it after Henny fled.
Whatever had happened, Annie was certain that the gun was in dangerous, deadly hands and, yes, that Henny was at risk. But was making the murderer nervous a wise thing to do?
Annie came around the card table, knelt beside Emma. “Listen, Emma, last night…” Once started, Annie not only described that terrifying moment in front of Kathryn’s store, she spilled out her confrontation with Ruth Yates.
Emma wasn’t interested at this moment in the provenance of the gun. She gripped Annie’s arm. “Think, Annie! You must have some sense of who shot at you. A man? A woman? How tall was the person? Bulky? Thin? Old? Young?”
“A coat. A cap. Dark. Black. An arm sweeping up. Folders. That’s all I saw,” Annie said miserably. “Then—”
Emma gave her arm a squeeze. “Good thing you dived.” Her piercing gaze studied Annie with interest. “So you and Max opted not to call the cops. Maybe the less said about that episode the better.” Her cornflower-blue eyes were busy calculating why they hadn’t called Garrett. “Has it occurred to you that the murderer might add you to the shut-’em-up list?” Then she shook her head and her bronze ringlets quivered like sea oats in an onshore breeze. “No, no,” she answered herself brusquely. “Obviously, you aren’t going to finger anyone or you would already have done so. The murderer’s not worried about you. Just like,” she muttered, “The Case of the Half-Hearted Heiress.”
Annie wished Emma would refrain from drawing corollaries with her own books. Annie didn’t want to take offense but she remembered that particular title and a rather vapid ingenue who never quite understood what was going on. Emma’s sleuth, Marigold Rembrandt, understood everything of course.
But this was no time for personal feelings. Annie pushed to her feet. “Emma, I think we should move quietly—”
Emma held up a stubby hand. “The cat’s out of the bag. My source told me Garrett’s already on his way to check out those addresses, talk to the people who live there. That will be the beginning of pressure. We’ll figure out how to increase the stress. But first, let’s go get the van. I got the extra set of keys out of the office this morning.”
She was on her feet and leading the way. This morning her caftan was a swirl of black and red and she somewhat resembled a mobile checkerboard. “Who knows what we may learn from it. After all, as Marigold often points out, ‘A woman’s eye sees more.’” Emma laughed deep in her throat. “Of course, I never explain more of what. But my readers don’t seem to care. It rather reminds me of The Puzzle of the Purloined Pillow. Marigold deduced the presence of a missing python from a bulge in the clothes hamper.”
Max studied an array of color printouts on his desk:
Vince Ellis, freckled face almost as red as his curly hair, legs pumping, crossed the finish line in the annual Save the Turtles Marathon. He looked stronger than most middle-aged athletes, a shade over six feet tall with a broad chest and muscular legs.
Vince and his wife Arlene danced at the country club’s New Year’s Eve ball, Vince dapper in a tuxedo, though his black tie was askew and confetti spattered his red hair, Arlene ethereal in an ice-blue gown, her golden hair in coronet braids, a gold necklace emphasizing the slender column of her neck.
Tennis player Vince accepted the silver trophy for men’s singles, ages forty to fifty. His red hair was a sweaty mop and his nose peeling from sunburn, but he had a grin big enough to make an alligator jealous.
Vince and Arlene walking slowly, a little girl between them clutching their hands as they entered the church.
An ashen-faced Vince climbing into a Coast Guard search helicopter.
Max opened the folder:
VINCENT HENRY ELLIS, 46, son of William Henry Ellis and the late Margaret O’Hara Ellis, Jasper, Florida. High school track, basketball and football star; editor high school newspaper. Track scholarship to the University of South Carolina. B.A. in journalism. Five years as AP statehouse reporter in Columbia, ten years as business reporter on Miami Herald. Used inheritance after mother’s death to purchase the Broward’s Rock Island Gazette. In high school dated homecoming queen and class president Arlene Frances Simms. Arlene received an academic scholarship to the University of South Carolina. She also majored in journalism. They married the day after graduating from college. Arlene
worked as a freelance writer, specializing in garden stories. When they bought the Gazette, she became Life Style editor and her gardening columns regularly won first in state newspaper competitions. Vince and Arlene had no children until they adopted the orphaned daughter of Arlene’s sister, Amelia. Three years ago Arlene’s sailboat capsized after a sudden storm. Her body was never found.
Max scanned a very brief dossier:
MARGARET WENDY LASSITER ELLIS, 6, daughter of Richard James Lassiter and Amelia Simms Lassiter. Parents deceased. School record indicates the Lassiters were killed in a car wreck. Adopted four years ago by Vince and Arlene Ellis.
Max picked up the iced cappuccino. But not even the coffee-rich drink lifted his spirits. Vince couldn’t have made it clearer that he—and the Gazette—wouldn’t be investigating Kathryn Girard’s death. His name was on Kathryn’s list.
Vince, a blackmail victim?
Max couldn’t believe it. Or even if he had to believe it, he couldn’t believe that Vince Ellis, a man he’d known and liked for years, a man who’d wept at the memorial for his wife, a man who’d walked the beaches, gaunt and thin, staring out to sea, could possibly have arranged her death.
But what else could he believe?
Max shoved the folder aside, picked up the next.
Annie followed Emma and Mavis Cameron around the end of the police station. The parking lot was screened from the street by a line of pines. Annie lagged a little behind. Honestly, she didn’t see why she had to be the one to drive the van back to the Women’s Club. But Emma, that stubby hand firm on Annie’s elbow, had marched her directly to the pink Rolls-Royce. On any other errand, Annie might have enjoyed riding in Emma’s car, which breasted the roadways like a stately liner encountering swells. On the short jaunt, Emma had discoursed with pleasure about The Adventure of The Curious Coon Cat. Annie was, to put it exceedingly politely, suffering from a surfeit of Marigold Rembrandt. Did Emma ever talk about anyone else’s mysteries? Annie tried a diversion. “Don’t you think Jean Hager’s Mitch Bushyhead is terrific?” Emma’s cornflower-blue eyes blinked, but she kept right on talking about Marigold.
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