White Elephant Dead

by Carolyn G. Hart

  Louella stood, shook out her apron. “Isn’t anybody can say Ruth Yates didn’t do her best for her husband’s daddy. It broke her heart to see him like that.” Her old eyes were sad and troubled. Like she’d told Max, she didn’t know the rights and wrongs and the doctor hadn’t said anything.

  Chapter 10

  A nnie looked at the happy-face sack in the passenger seat as she braked at the stop sign for Red-Tailed Hawk. She could go home and have a glass of skim milk. Max always urged her to drink skim milk. He said studies proved that people who drank skim were healthier than those who drank whole milk. Annie said she could do a study proving that people who ate chocolate were happier than people who didn’t. She opened the sack, sniffed. Hmm, what an interesting smell. Or she could go by the hospital and check with Henny about the Campbells and Little Theater. Or—

  The car turned right. Annie was familiar with automatic writing on Ouija boards as described by Mary Roberts Rinehart in The Red Lamp, but not automatic driving. Apparently she had listened more closely to Max’s end of the conversation with Laurel than she’d realized. Now that she was so near, it wouldn’t hurt to nip up Red-Tailed Hawk and see where Mark Stone’s car skidded off the road.

  A half mile ahead, she slowed and peered to the right up Marsh Tacky Lane. In midafternoon sunlight, the dusty gray road curved into dimness beneath overhanging branches of live oaks and magnolias. Intermingled tire tracks were the only reminder of Thursday night’s crush of cars and searchers.

  About twenty yards past Marsh Tacky, Annie saw a crumpled mass of ferns in the east ditch. Annie turned and stopped. Putting on her hazards, she hopped out and walked to the ditch. Oh yes, there was a gouge from a right front tire. It appeared that Stone had gunned his motor trying to get back on the road.

  Annie looked toward Marsh Tacky Road. Stone had a clear view from here. If he’d gone into the ditch just as Henny turned right and if he’d stayed there until Annie and Max arrived, there was no way anyone could have left Marsh Tacky without being seen by Stone.

  Annie glanced at her watch. A quarter after three. She was due at Emma’s by four. She had time to go by the hospital if she left right now. Back in the car, she clicked off the hazards and headed north. At the last minute, she veered left into Marsh Tacky. There might be something to this automatic driving. But the fact was, this mattered. When Chief Garrett heard what Mark Stone had to say, he might pitch on Henny again as murderess-in-chief, no matter Kathryn’s ransacked apartment and the album full of money and the burned-out van. Garrett could argue quite reasonably that if Kathryn was a blackmailer, one of her victims could have broken into her place and set the inside of the van on fire. Of course, he was unaware of the gunshot outside Kathryn’s store late Thursday night. Annie counted up the surreptitious entries into Kathryn’s apartment: one, the murderer; two, she and Max; three, the ransacker; and four, the unknown who arrived just as she returned the album this morning. Of course, it was always possible that the murderer had made a second visit, but it seemed more likely that visitors three and four were blackmail victims who had heard about Kathryn’s murder and were afraid there might be some damaging information in her apartment.

  Annie drove slowly up the lane, noting trampled ferns and saw palmettos with broken fronds. The road angled north, curved south, turned west. Yes, there was the place where Henny stopped. The van had parked about twenty yards ahead. Nothing in the road recalled the van with the body and the abandoned old Dodge except tire tracks and footprints, some deep in gray dirt that had been wet and was now dry and dusty.

  Annie idled the Volvo near the spot where Henny had stopped. She pulled out her notebook, flipped past the last page where she had written, Jewels. Tapping the clean sheet with her pen, squinting in thought, she finally printed neatly:

  TIMETABLE

  (Times are approximate.)

  THURSDAY

  6:00 P.M.

  —Serena Harris observes Henny’s car turning into Marsh Tacky Road.

  6:01 P.M.

  —Mark Stone is forced into the ditch by Serena’s car.

  7:15 P.M.

  —Annie and Max Darling arrive at Marsh Tacky Road.

  7:20 P.M.

  —Annie discovers body of Kathryn Girard in back of van.

  7:30 P.M.

  —Police arrive.

  7:45 P.M.

  —Search begun for Henny Brawley.

  8:05 P.M.

  —Emma Clyde arrives.

  8:35 P.M.

  —Henny found by Boy Scouts.

  8:45 P.M.

  —Henny taken to hospital, Annie accompanies her.

  10:25 P.M.

  —Emma arrives at hospital, having arranged for auxiliary to guard Henny.

  11:00 P.M.

  —Max picks Annie up. At home, they get their bikes and set out for Kathryn Girard’s, knowing the police have already checked the apartment.

  11:30 P.M.

  —Annie and Max arrive at Kathryn’s store.

  11:35 P.M.

  —Intruder shoots at Annie.

  11:50 P.M.

  —Annie and Max leave apartment, Annie carrying the album, after searching Kathryn’s suitcase, briefcase and carry-on.

  FRIDAY

  9:30 A.M.

  —Annie discovers Kathryn’s apartment in a shambles, leaves photo album.

  9:35 A.M.

  —Annie hides from unknown trespasser.

  10:45 A.M.

  —Annie at hospital, finds Ruth Yates in Henny’s room.

  11:10 A.M.

  —Annie corners Ruth Yates outside Women’s Club.

  11:30 A.M.

  —Annie opens the door to the van at the police station.

  Annie dropped the notebook on the passenger seat. Garrett was right about one thing, even if he was wrong in focusing on Henny. More than one person was involved in all that had occurred. For starters, the murderer was at Kathryn’s when Annie and Max arrived on their bikes late Thursday night. It had to be the murderer, Annie reasoned, because of the gun and because the bullet was aimed at her. Whoever came out that door was willing to kill to escape unseen. That wasn’t just a blackmail victim.

  That meant the murderer left Marsh Tacky Road—Annie looked up the sun-dappled road—between, say six-ten P.M. and their arrival at seven-fifteen. But, Annie figured, sooner rather than later. The minute Henny disappeared into the park, the murderer ran, too, taking the van keys along.

  The murderer reached Kathryn’s apartment between the police check and their arrival at eleven-thirty P.M.

  When did the murderer fire the van? Probably shortly after leaving Kathryn’s store.

  As for Kathryn’s apartment, someone came after Annie and Max left and before Annie arrived the next morning. Someone else came Friday morning shortly after Annie. These would be the blackmail victims, who heard of the murder when the calls went out for volunteers to search for Henny. The person who arrived before Annie tossed everything about in a rage.

  Annie was sure of her interpretation, but Garre
tt could argue the blackmail victims were equally likely to have fired the van. Would it do any good to point out that the car keys were taken from the van by the murderer? Probably not. Garrett could say there were other keys available and Annie knew that was true. An extra set hung on a hook just inside the Women’s Club office. Those were the keys Emma had brought to the police station this morning.

  Annie shifted into drive and followed the curve of the road to the sign marking the entrance to King Snake Park. The murderer must have come this way, most likely riding a bike. Was it to hide any trace of a bike that the van was burned? Or was it to make sure no one could identify any of the donations?

  Annie parked by the entrance. She glanced at her watch. She still had time to take a look. She walked under the arch. An asphalt bicycle path curved to her right around the lagoon. The dirt trails to the left would have been muddy Thursday night. Besides, those trails led into a forest preserve in the opposite direction from the houses on Kathryn’s list.

  The bicycle path was shadowy. No-see-ums buzzed. A night heron sat immobile on the limb of a live oak. Shrubs rustled to her right. Annie froze, then breathed again when she saw the tawny coat of a deer and a fluffy white tail. She walked quickly, waving away clouds of insects, watching carefully for snakes. There had been no one here to see a murderer’s flight Thursday evening except the inhabitants of the woods. Annie reached the far side of the lagoon. An alligator rested in the sun. Shiny eyes watched her.

  The bicycle path veered to the right. Past a scrubby patch of ground, a sleek green fairway marked the edge of the golf course. Annie had played the course with Max, though her golf was of the sort that she could only play with very good friends. Or her husband. She had a penchant for losing balls, but, as she often explained to Max, only an idiot looks too far for a lost golf ball on an island teeming with snakes and alligators. The north-south fairway to the ninth hole was a dogleg to the west. The golf cart path, of course, skirted the course, beginning and ending at the clubhouse. The bicycle path wound through more woods and eventually crossed Laughing Gull Road.

  A long rambling, two-story house backed up to the fairway with a good view of both the bicycle and golf cart paths. Max loved riding bikes and they often chose this path. It was, she realized with a shiver, made to order for a rider intent on escaping notice, miles and miles through a belt of forest, coming into open areas only to cross streets. This house was the only one near the eastern boundary of King Snake Park. A long room with ceiling-high windows overlooked a terrace and the paths.

  Annie hesitated, then headed for the back door. It wouldn’t hurt to ask.

  Max maneuvered the golf cart around the lagoon on the fifth hole. A short stocky man in an avocado-green shirt and white Bermuda shorts dipped his head, bent his knees and waggled his putter. Then he straightened, stepped back, knelt to peer at the undulating green. Returning to the ball, he once again, slowly, carefully, resumed his stance, paused, putted. The ball headed straight for the cup. At the last instant, it veered to the left, rolled slowly past the cup, gradually gained momentum and tumbled into a deep sand trap.

  His tall, lanky companion, russet shirt half tucked into pink shorts, marched up to his ball, perhaps ten feet from the hole, bent, stroked and the ball sped over the grass and plopped into the cup.

  It took the older man three shots to get out of the trap and two more to hole the ball. His round face, always reddish, looked choleric.

  Max waited in the shade of a live oak. It was not perhaps the most politic time to approach Horace Burford, M.D., whose late patients included the Rev. Alden Alcott Yates. Max waited until Burford had completed a superb iron shot that landed perfectly on the next green and his partner was in the rough trying to devise a shot around a two-hundred-year-old massive live oak. Burford was waiting in his cart when Max pulled up behind.

  Burford mopped his face, glanced in Max’s cart, which was empty of clubs. “You takin’ up joyridin’, Max?” Burford was an excellent doctor and was chief of staff at the hospital, capable, bullheaded, cantankerous and smart. Godzilla could likely have given him pointers on bedside manner.

  “In pursuit of you, Horace.” A thrashing in the rough heralded an attempt to shoot to the fairway. Max knew he had about forty seconds. “Horace, you’ve heard about the murder last night.”

  The doctor’s white eyebrows bunched. “Damn fool cop can’t seriously suspect Henny.”

  “He seriously does, Horace. But there are some other suspects now. Including Ruth Yates.” Max stared into startled blue eyes. “That’s why I want to ask you about the death of Alden Yates.”

  Just for an instant, the doctor’s red, sweaty face was immobile. Then, flapping his orange bandana, he barked, “Alden Yates suffered a series of strokes and he died of heart failure.” Cold eyes stared at Max. “Anybody who says differently will see themselves in court for slander. That includes you. Now, if you’ll kindly leave me the hell alone, I’m playing golf, in case you hadn’t figured that out.”

  Annie admired the red-tiled terrace bordered by camellias, Japanese quince and masses of blue and white impatiens. Everything about the house bespoke loving attention to detail, from the carefully edged flower beds to the baskets of ferns hanging from beams in a screened-in porch to bright green shutters and carefully trimmed ivy. On the first floor, a series of long, tall windows provided a magnificent view from a huge clubroom.

  A low brick wall marked the end of the property. Terra-cotta vases filled with marigolds graced corner pedestals. The bicycle path ran on the south side of the low wall. The golf cart path skirted the west side of the wall. Annie walked swiftly. She was turning into a central walkway of the wide terrace when she paused, frowned and returned to the path. At the far west end of the wall, where the path curved into a swath of trees bordering the fairway, a vase leaned to one side.

  So, all was not quite perfect. That made the house suddenly seem more approachable. Annie always felt intimidated by perfect housekeepers and perfect groundskeepers. They tended to be inflexible and ask searching questions, such as, “What do you do about mildew?” and “What is your schedule for mulching?” (Annie forced herself not to reply, in turn, “Pretend it isn’t there,” and “By the light of a quarter moon with a newt in one hand and a buckeye in the other.”)

  Annie’s shoes clicked on the tiles. She walked slowly, trying to frame a reasonable question. “Were you looking out of your windows into the rain at a few minutes after six last night?” seemed a little abrupt, not to say peculiar. But surely the person who lived here must have heard sounds of the search, perhaps seen swaths of lights. Though that activity occurred some time after the murderer’s escape. But still…Some intelligent query, Annie assured herself with Hastingslike confidence, would occur to her.

  She stepped onto the porch, lifted her hand to knock at the door leading into the club room, and looked through one of the eight-foot windows, admiring the bright chintz-covered chairs, a stark white fabric with a profusion of red poppies, the glowing heart pine floor and—

  Annie’s hand fell. She stood quite still and leaned toward the window.

  The dead man lay on his back not far from the door, afternoon sun spilling around him. He had been a natty dresser, a cream polo of the very finest, softest weave of cotton, crisp khaki trousers, Italian loafers of burgundy leather. A table set for breakfast was a few feet beyond him, a glass of orange juice, a bowl with cereal. Thoughts whirled in Annie’s mind: He must have been ready to have his breakfast when his murderer arrived. Edith would know the origin of “natty.” Maybe the word popped in her mind because he was old with a bristly iron-gray crew cut and sharp features. He’d been dead for a while because the pool of blood had congealed and his blood-sodden shirt was stiff. He hadn’t shot himself because the gun lay near his foot, but the police would do gunshot residue tests to be sure.

  The gun. Annie swallowed. She couldn�
�t be certain from here, but the grip looked white and shiny. What was it Ruth had said? Her father’s gun, the grip pearl-handled with his initials.

  Annie stepped stiffly down the steps, walked to a lawn chair in the shade of a yellow and white umbrella. She sat down, got out her cell phone and made three calls.

  Max’s Maserati squealed to a stop just as the police siren died. Garrett and Pirelli jumped out of the police car and Max shouted, “The terrace. Annie said to come to the back of the house,” and he was running hard, knowing there should be no danger to Annie now, no matter what she’d found, but driven to be sure. He heard Garrett’s yell, but he didn’t care. Annie, Annie…Loblolly pines screened both sides of the rambling house. Somehow he kept his balance even though his loafers skated over needles slick as pond ice. He skidded around the end of the house, jumped a low wall onto the terrace.

  Annie came up from the terrace chair and ran to meet him.

  Max caught her in his arms. “I’m sorry, honey, I’m sorry.”

  She clung to him and let tears come because there is nothing so ugly as murder. She didn’t know the man, but he had picked out a pretty shirt this morning and the shirt would never be worn again.

  “You two sit over there and keep quiet.” Garrett might look like a sunburned cupid, but his voice was tough and cold and the eyes that studied them were full of suspicion. He watched until they walked to the lawn furniture, sat down. Max gave Annie’s arm a warning squeeze.

  Annie pointed at the back door. “He’s in there, Chief.”