White Elephant Dead

by Carolyn G. Hart

  Garrett gestured to Pirelli, then walked swiftly to the door. He looked through the tall window as Annie had just a little while ago. He stood without moving for several minutes, then, pulling latex gloves from his pockets and slipping them on, he turned the doorknob. The door opened. Garrett stepped inside and Pirelli followed.

  Annie knew they had much to do, Polaroid pictures, videocam, sketches, fingerprinting, the arrival of the medical examiner. But she was sure that she had seen the most important piece of evidence.

  “Max, Ruth’s gun is in there. I’m sure it’s hers.” She watched the men moving around the big room.

  Max frowned. “Why would she be so stupid? She described the gun to you, didn’t she?”

  Annie had a swift memory of Ruth’s forlorn eyes, shaking hands. Oh yes, Ruth had described the gun. What would Ruth do if she shot a man? Drop the gun and run? Oh yes, quite possibly she might. However, could Ruth be driven to murder? Gentle, unconfident, twittery, sweet Ruth? But this murder occurred because of another murder. And once a scarlet trail was begun, there could be no turning back. Never.

  “She told me about the gun,” Annie said wearily, “but she claimed Kathryn took it from her.” Bluffs and double bluffs abound in mysteries. Was Ruth that clever? “Do you suppose Ruth left the gun deliberately?”

  Max looked toward the house. “That would be a hell of a gamble.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. If it ever comes down to a jury, there are grounds for reasonable doubt, aren’t there? Ruth told me the gun was gone twelve hours before anyone shot this man.” Annie massaged her temple. Could Ruth possibly have staged that sad interlude with Annie? Did Ruth have the wit to create such a complex web? After all, it was Ruth who first mentioned the gun. If she had shot at Annie outside Kathryn’s store, then certainly it would be smart to tell Annie that the gun had been taken before Kathryn died. And when danger came, a call from a man who saw the murderer’s escape, why not shoot him and leave the gun?

  “Garrett won’t buy it.” Max shrugged. “But that’s Ruth’s problem, not ours. And Garrett’s problem.” He looked past Annie, lifted a hand in greeting and stood.

  “There they are.” Emma’s crisp voice sounded bright and fresh. She plunged across the flagstones, her caftan billowing, her bright eyes scanning the house, the terrace, the woods and paths.

  Laurel wafted alongside the big woman, murmuring huskily, “Poor dear man. I would never ever plant rhododendron. There could be no clearer signal of danger.” Laurel looked even more slim and lovely than usual. Most women her age would look absurd wearing their hair in a ponytail. Laurel looked adorable and her striped cotton blouse and soft blue slacks emphasized a figure that men from seven to seventy regarded with extreme interest.

  Annie glanced past them. Was Fred, the super sailor, in tow? Apparently not.

  Laurel’s midnight-blue eyes sparkled. “Celandine. Such an interesting plant. It reminds one of buttercups.” Her seductive lips curved in delight. “And, of course, it whispers of joys to come.”

  Max almost spoke, thought better of it. Annie felt that was a wise decision. There might have been an interesting silence, but after a quick amused glance at Laurel, Emma said briskly, “Thanks for calling me, Annie. Bring us up to date.”

  When Annie finished, Emma frowned. “Crew cut? Spiffy dresser?”

  Annie nodded.

  Emma’s square face was somber. “Poor old Jake. He was a damn fine golfer.”

  Max stared at the house. “Jake Chapman?”

  Emma nodded.

  Annie hadn’t recognized the dead man, but now she remembered him from the club, always well dressed, a neat, spare, intense, precise man, the kind of man who would have a beautifully kept house and well-tended grounds.

  “Why Jake?” Emma mused. “In The Puzzle of the Pink Potted Plants, the murderer’s ex-lover got up to let the cat out at three in the morning and spotted his car turning into Mulberry Lane.”

  There was a moment of silence.

  Emma’s face tightened for an instant, then she continued graciously, “I’m sure you all remember what happened next.”

  Max tugged at one ear and was a picture of earnest concentration.

  Annie frantically tried to remember: The Puzzle of the Pink Potted Plants, was that the one where Marigold looked at an open door transom and announced the murder’s identity?

  Laurel smiled ecstatically. “Pink larkspur? Fickleness is ever destructive. No doubt she called her old lover the next morning when she heard about the body in Mulberry Lane? Putting two and two together.”

  Emma favored Laurel with an approving smile. “Exactly. And that’s what happened here, I’m certain.”

  Max folded his arms across his chest. “I know the women on the island always know everything as soon as it happens, but old Jake probably wouldn’t have known about the murder until the afternoon paper. Okay, maybe he’d pick it up on the morning news. But why would he happen to be looking out his window at just the right time to see the murderer go by? Emma, I don’t think it flies.”

  Annie announced excitedly, “He was going to eat breakfast in his clubroom.”

  Three pairs of eyes studied her.

  Annie suddenly knew how Frances and Richard Lockridge’s Pam North felt when confronted with slow mental processes.

  “Don’t you see?” Annie demanded impatiently.

  No one spoke.

  “If he ate breakfast there, it means he spent most of his time in the clubroom. And”—she squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, then opened them—“yes, the place at the table faced this way. Of course he’d see everything from the clubroom windows.” She bounced to her feet. “The vase! That’s what happened.”

  Now the silence was profound. Emma glanced meaningfully at Max. Laurel murmured throatily, “She seems quite calm. But is there an aura of red columbine, which might indicate a trembling and anxiousness? One can sense these things, I’m afraid.” Even Max’s dark blue eyes were concerned.

  “The vase!” Annie gestured toward the wall at the end of the terrace. “Come on.” She sped down the walk.

  The silent trio followed and clustered around her at the west end of the wall. She pointed at the tilted vase.

  “Don’t you see? Maybe the murderer was in such a hurry the bike skidded and bumped the wall, knocking over the vase.” She waved a hand at the immaculate grounds, the recently painted house. “Jake Chapman would have been furious. He must have hurried out on the terrace and followed long enough to recognize whoever it was and this morning, he called—”

  “Why do you say this morning?” Max squinted into the late afternoon sun.

  “The table’s set for breakfast. Besides”—and Annie remembered the quick bark of the gun last night—“if Jake confronted the murderer right after the attack on Henny, he would have been dead before we went to the shop. And that’s impossible or the gun couldn’t be here. And I refuse to believe in two guns. No, whatever he saw, he waited until this morning to call and complain.”

  Emma clapped her hands. “Two guns. That could be true, Annie. In The Mystery of the Albuquerque Anvil—”

  Annie cut in impatiently, “Emma, that was crazy. You had three guns, a bolo and an ax and then Marigold figured out the murderer soaked a bunch of cigarette butts and dumped a slug of nicotine in the bourbon. I mean, really!”

  Emma glared. “It was perfectly logical. Marigold figured it out as soon as I got to page 279. The chief suspect, a chain-smoker, had made his ex-wife mad so she decided to frame him and she brought the bolo to kill his pet boa constrictor, the ax to smash open the chest where he kept the bearer bonds and the guns to sell to a collector.”

  “How thrilling,” Laurel breathed, her eyes wide with admiration. “Dear Emma. You are simply amazing. I must devise a crest for all your books. Perhaps sweet alyssym, w
hich always brings to mind excellence beyond beauty.”

  Emma’s nod accepting the tribute was graciousness itself, but her pale eyes studied Annie like a taxidermist evaluating a carcass.

  Annie stared right back. There were benefits from reading about Sara Paretsky’s V. I. Warshawski. V. I. never wilted. “Lacking an ex-husband, a boa constrictor and a chest full of bearer bonds, I think we can dismiss two guns here. Broward’s Rock is not Arsenal America. Most people don’t have handguns. Rifles, maybe, for hunters. But not handguns. And who are we talking about? The Campbells. Vince Ellis. Dave and Janet Pierce. Ruth Yates. None of them hunt. No, there’s one gun and it belonged to Ruth Yates.”

  “Ruth.” Emma’s tone was thoughtful.

  Max waved away a cloud of no-see-ums. “All we know is that the gun in the clubroom sounds like the one that belonged to Ruth Yates. It will be up to Garrett to find out.” He looked across the terrace. “Do you suppose Garrett’s going to leave us out here until all our blood is sucked away?”

  Since no-see-ums loved Max and ignored her, Annie said callously, “I’m in no hurry to talk to our new police chief.”

  Emma, her glance still cold, demanded, “What exactly brought you here, Annie?”

  That, of course was precisely what Garrett was going to ask. “It’s all perfectly logical,” she said stiffly. “Nobody came out of Marsh Tacky Road into Red-Tailed Hawk, so the murderer had to come this way. So I came.”

  Max swatted away a mosquito. “You came, you saw, you knocked on the door. I believe it. Whether Garrett will is another matter.”

  “Sour red berries with big yellow flowers.” Laurel smiled. “And spiny.”

  Max said gently, “Yes, Mother?”

  “Barberry. A sure indication of sharpness of temper. Perhaps dear Annie should be tactful when she informs Chief Garrett about our investigations and Mark Stone’s enforced vigil near Marsh Tacky Road last night.”

  Annie looked at Laurel’s dreamy expression with respect. Laurel sure had a point. How much tact would it take to tell Garrett they’d outdone him from start to finish in the search for facts? More tact than Annie had ever commanded.

  Emma waved a stubby hand. “Leave it to me. I’ll explain everything.”

  Sometimes Annie resented Emma’s generalship. But not right now. She welcomed any and all support.

  A car door slammed. Horace Burford, wiping his sunburned face with a bandanna, stomped across the terrace, black bag in hand.

  Max was frowning. “Annie, you said Jake was going to have breakfast.”

  Annie nodded. “There was a glass of orange juice and a bowl of cereal. And the murderer came.”

  “Okay.” Max waggled his arms and the no-see-ums whirled away. “I follow you this far. But are we talking mental telepathy, a crystal ball? Why did the murderer come?”

  Emma jumped in. “Oh, that’s simple. Jake called him. Or her. First thing this morning. Wanted his vase fixed, said how much it would cost. Annie’s right. Jake had to have seen something last night. Nothing that would have alarmed him. But if someone rode past his house, careened into the wall—and you know the person who left Kathryn’s body and tried to conk Henny must have been stressed—and went on, leaving the damaged vase, Jake would have been outside in a flash. He wouldn’t have been likely to chase after the person at the moment, but he would certainly have called.” Her broad mouth spread in a grim smile. “Oh yes, I like that. I’ll use it in my next book. I’ll call it The Case of the Careless Caller. I can see it all. The phone rings. The murderer answers. At this point, the murderer thinks everything is pretty well under control. Kathryn’s dead. The murderer escaped from her apartment with the blackmail folders. Henny Brawley’s under suspicion for Kathryn’s murder. So far, there’s no indication Henny remembers anything of what happened in Marsh Tacky Lane. Everything’s cool. Then, Jake calls. Jake’s in a huff and he says, ‘You knocked over my vase when you hit my wall last night. It’s going to be expensive to fix it.’ He didn’t know it, but the minute he said that, he was a dead man.”

  Footsteps thudded. Two medics carried a gurney around the end of the house.

  “Maybe.” Max swatted at a bumblebee.

  “I wouldn’t do that.” Annie watched the black-and-gold-striped insect.

  “I’m simply giving him some direction.” But Max took two steps back and didn’t poke at the bumblebee as it curved near. “Okay, Emma. I’ll agree that Jake Chapman saw something. Or someone. He calls this morning. The murderer comes over, shoots Jake and drops the gun. And, since Annie saw the gun, she’s going to have to tell Garrett that it looks like the gun Ruth Yates described.”

  “But if I do,” Annie said unhappily, “Ruth’s going to be in terrible trouble.”

  Footsteps gritted on the terrace. Pete Garrett strode up to them.

  Chapter 11

  Pete Garrett’s hard glare fastened on Annie. “You find a body last night. You find a body today. How come?” The phrasing wasn’t elegant, but his point was clear.

  Annie bristled. “That’s not fair. I found Kathryn’s body because I was hunting for Henny Brawley.”

  Garrett jerked his head toward the house. “And this one?”

  Laurel moved closer to Garrett. “My dear”—Laurel beamed at him—“I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Laurel Roethke and I do so much appreciate the efforts of our wonderful enforcers of the law. It was my pleasure to observe you last night as you so efficiently performed your duties.”

  Garrett was not immune to Laurel’s magic. For a moment, a light flickered in his eyes that had nothing to do with police work.

  Annie observed her mother-in-law. How did Laurel do it? Was it her shining hair that glistened like burnished silver? Or those mesmerizing eyes, brilliant as a Greek sea? Or the curves subtly accented by her beautifully fitted clothes?

  Garrett’s growl to Annie was transmuted to an accolade to Laurel. “Ma’am.”

  Laurel’s eyes held his for a long moment. “I know you understand that we all want to do our part for the community. Mrs. Clyde”—Laurel nodded toward Emma—“is so active and such a supporter of the mayor’s. We felt it incumbent upon us to gather as much information as possible to aid you in your investigation. In my efforts, I discovered that no one was observed leaving Marsh Tacky Road after the arrival of Henny’s car and before the arrival of my son and daughter-in-law. Obviously”—her laughter tinkled like a wind chime—“the murderer fled through King Snake Park. Annie was simply exploring the surroundings and she came to this house.”

  It took Garrett a couple of questions to sort it out, but he wasn’t slow. “So”—and he looked Annie—“you came up here to ask this guy if he saw anything last night?”

  “Let me show you,” Annie urged.

  A moment later, Garrett surveyed the tilted terra-cotta vase.

  Annie pointed at the wall. “Jake Chapman saw somebody bump the wall last night. But he didn’t know about the murder. This morning he called to complain about the damage and the murderer had to kill Chapman.”

  Garrett wheeled around and headed for the house. He was already crossing the club room when the interested quartet reached the door, Emma in the lead. Pirelli held up a hand, barring their entrance. Max looked over Emma’s shoulder while Annie and Laurel peered in through the window.

  Garrett looped a string around the telephone receiver. Using a pencil, he pushed redial. The receiver dangled from the string. They all listened. One ring. A second. It was answered in midpeal. A sweet voice said, “Ruth Yates.”

  Slowly, carefully, Garrett depressed the cradle.

  Across the room, Horace Burford pushed back a chair. He stormed across the room, red face glowering. “What the hell’s going on?” He swiveled, glared at Max in the doorway. “I warned you, Max. Alden Yates died of natural causes and that’s all there is to it. I’ll see you in court.”

  Max tu
rned his hands palms up. “I haven’t said a word about Alden Yates. Ask Chief Garrett.”

  Burford stood quite still, his red face abruptly wary.

  Garrett took two steps, stood inches from Burford. “Alden Yates? Who was he?”

  Burford turned away.

  Garrett moved at the same time, kept himself face-to-face with the doctor. “Who was Alden Yates? When did he die? Where did he die?”

  Burford reached for his bag, snapped it shut. “An old man, a sick man. Brian Yates’s father. Died of the results of a series of strokes. That’s all there was to it.” He stalked toward the door. Max and Emma stepped aside.

  Garrett didn’t follow this time. But he called sharply, “Did you sign the death certificate, Dr. Burford?”

  Burford’s angry voice barked, “Damn sure did,” as he plunged out onto the terrace.

  Garrett walked up to Max. “What do you know about Alden Yates?”

  “I don’t know anything,” Max said carefully. “There’s been some gossip. You might check and see who was on duty at the hospital the night Alden Yates died.”

  Annie avoided looking at the area where Jake Chapman’s body had lain. But she couldn’t resist one quick glance. The gun no longer lay on the floor. No doubt it had already been boxed for transport to the forensics laboratory in Columbia.

  Garrett saw that quick glance. “What are you looking at?”

  “The gun’s gone.” She took a deep breath.

  He was immediately alert. “What do you know about the gun?”

  She knew what she said might be the last nail in Ruth Yate’s coffin. But she had to speak. She had to tell Garrett everything she knew about that gun. Or everything she thought she knew. She started with the gunshot outside Kathryn Girard’s shop.

  Garrett pounced like Agatha after fresh liver. “What were you people doing there?”

  Annie and Max exchanged a swift glance.

  Max said smoothly, “We were checking to see if anyone was at the apartment. There was no answer to our knock. But I’m sure you want to know what happened when we arrived.” And the implication was clear: Don’t push us and we’ll give you some useful information.