White Elephant Dead
Page 22
A bright smile lit Marie Campbell’s elfin face as she held out a chunky pottery pig to a customer. She took the five-dollar bill and handed it to her husband to put in the change box. Gary Campbell was too long to fit comfortably on the folding chair behind the card table and he looked morose and uncomfortable. And wary.
Janet and Dave Pierce were on their hands and knees by the chugging train. Dave reached into a box and pulled out an engineer’s cap. He popped it on his head and his grin made his usually stern face boyish and appealing. Janet, who wore the blue apron over a pale pink silk blouse and white silk slacks, clapped her hands in delight. Janet would never look girlish, her eyebrows carefully arched, her makeup too perfect. She had the elegance and grace of a model, but she was aging and blondes age hard. The sharp light slanting through a window emphasized the jut of her cheekbones and the lines at the corners of her mouth.
His red hair always a beacon, Vince Ellis held a blue stuffed rabbit with droopy ears in one hand and a Barbie Doll carry-all in the other. A tiny smile on her face, Meg Ellis sat stiffly on a wooden stool as a blue-aproned volunteer painted a pink butterfly on her cheek. Vince tucked the carry-all under one arm and used both hands to hold the bunny up and clap his paws. Meg giggled.
Annie had a sudden memory of Arlene Ellis on a picnic, tickled by Vince’s imitation of an anteater. It was uncanny how much Meg looked like Arlene. But Meg was, so everyone had been told, the daughter of Arlene’s sister, Amelia. Vince and Arlene adopted Meg after the deaths of Amelia and her husband. Meg came to the island about six months before Arlene drowned. Was there a connection between the deaths of the two sisters? Could Meg actually be Arlene’s real daughter? Maybe it would be smart to check out the circumstances of Meg’s adoption.
The stage steps creaked behind her. Blue-aproned volunteers flowed past. Emma said crisply, “The first assault is under way.” Her orange curls quivering, Emma nodded toward the sales floor. “There goes Laurel.”
Laurel was wending her way down the crowded center aisle. Today her white-gold hair curved around her face. She wore glasses with aquamarine frames that emphasized the blue of her eyes and the soft blue linen jacket. Her white linen skirt was so short it should have been against the law, at least in Annie’s opinion. After all, she was somebody’s mother. Actually, a particular, specific mother. Laurel’s progress was slowed by the bulky man carrying the moose head. He stopped and bowed, his white mustache quivering. Oh-ho, maybe Fred the Sailor was about to be vamoosed. But Laurel, always adept, slipped past. The moose head immediately began bobbing down the aisle after her.
Would it, Annie wondered, ever get to be a bore to have men of all ages look moonstruck the minute you came into view?
Laurel looked back, lifted pink-tipped fingers to blow a kiss.
The moose head damn near went into a gallop.
Emma folded her arms. “If it isn’t one problem with her, it’s another.”
Annie grinned. “Emma, you are a profoundly insightful woman.”
“I am a profoundly determined woman.” Emma’s chin jutted. “It hasn’t been easy. At least Laurel’s going in the right direction. I told her to start with Vince Ellis. I swear, Annie, dealing with your mother-in-law is on a par with trying to make a cat dance.”
Annie said dryly, “I’d rather teach Agatha to schottische.”
“Understandably.” Emma’s blue eyes were icy. “However, I prevailed.”
Annie looked into those penetrating blue eyes, decided not to voice her complete confidence that Emma had a trifle to learn about Laurel. Instead, she said brightly, “Really.”
“I told her to approach Vince and the Pierces and the Campbells and simply inquire what goods they’d put out to be collected on Thursday, that the club wished to give them a donation slip even though the donations were destroyed in a fire while the van was in police custody. Don’t you think that’s brilliant?” Emma’s broad mouth spread in a satisfied smile. “Marigold employed a similar approach in The Case of the Disappearing Diva. Damn fool woman ran away with a Houdini imitator who sold shoelaces door to door.”
Annie blinked.
“The diva, not Marigold, for God’s sake. But this will alert the murderer, assuming Ruth is innocent, that everyone knows where Kathryn was scheduled to stop Thursday night. That should cause some uneasy moments. And it’s such a clear challenge. Do you know what Laurel wanted to do?”
Annie had an idea. “Flowers?”
“Flowers,” Emma’s tone was grim. “The woman is obsessed—”
What a clear perception Emma had. Annie might casually mention Emma’s judgment to Max.
“—by the idea of communicating with flowers. She told me she’d worked late into the night preparing cards. I’ll admit the drawings were”—the caftan rustled as she shrugged—“somewhat fetching, yellow daffodils, Canterbury bells in white, pink and blue, and something called coltsfoot. It has yellow flowers and damned if the leaves don’t look like a colt’s foot. Laurel said she would present each person with a card and inform them that she commiserated with them utterly over the shocking murder of the woman coming to their homes simply to collect donations and that she knew they would feel a part of the community’s effort to solve this heinous crime”—Emma’s sardonic tone indicated she was quoting verbatim—“and she was confident they shared in the uncertainty engendered by the crime and accepted the obligation to see justice done. To wit, daffodils, Canterbury bells and coltsfoot.” Emma sighed. “I swear—” She broke off, her eyes narrowed.
Laurel, with the moose head peeking over her shoulder, held out a card to Vince Ellis.
Vince listened as she spoke, his face blank. He still held the blue rabbit. Shaking his head, he turned away.
Laurel stood for a moment more, looking at his back, then, with a bright smile, she walked toward the electric train and the Pierces.
Annie reached out, grabbed Emma’s arm. “As Marigold often says, ‘Inspector, however a solution is derived, justice results.’” Marigold was often given to pompous pronouncements after outwitting the police. Privately Annie thought Inspector Donald Dilatory should have thrown Marigold’s ass in jail but such was not to be in a mystery by Emma Clyde.
Emma might be overbearing but she was also smart and Annie didn’t have to tell her that Laurel’s card would have the same effect as a request for a list of donations, a clear announcement to the murderer that Kathryn’s stops were known.
Annie decided a change in focus might be wise. “Okay, Assault One is under way. Assault Two?”
“We’ll let them stew today. I’ve told Pamela to get the word out that the police know Kathryn Girard is a blackmailer. Tonight at the Fall Revel, I’ll make it clear that I am convinced of Ruth’s innocence and that I expect every member of the club to join us in an effort to discover information about Kathryn. And now”—Emma spoke above the raised voices from the middle of the room where the quilt confrontation was escalating—“I’d better see to that.”
Annie watched soberly as Laurel made her rounds. The results were very much the same in each instance. Janet Pierce’s face crinkled in puzzlement. She looked at her husband and asked a question. Dave Pierce pushed up the engineer’s cap, then shook his head. At the card table manned by the Campbells, Marie was arranging a display of pottery angels. Her smile was apologetic as she waved away the offer of the card. Even from here, Annie could lip-read her answer, “Oh. No, not at our house. I’m sorry.” Gary Campbell didn’t smile. His thick eyebrows bunched and his lips made a hard line. As Laurel turned away, Marie dropped her hand on his arm, spoke urgently to him. But his rigid face didn’t relax.
Annie realized abruptly what a genius stroke it had been to burn out the back of the van. Now no one could prove that the van had made a particular stop or that anything in the back belonged to any particular person. Smart thinking by a thoughtful murderer. But the murderer couldn’t burn away the reasons for blackmail. And if Kathryn had discovered secrets, so could Annie.
The ferry rocked gently in its berth. On Saturdays Parotti kept pretty well to schedule, leaving on the hour, returning on the half hour. It was almost ten, so Max walked fast. Parotti’s Boat Rental was next to the ferry office. Max pushed open the door.
Ben Parotti looked up with a bright smile, which ebbed as he recognized his visitor. “Everybody’s at that damn sale. Only rented two boats all morning.” Parotti was especially nautical today, white cap with gold braid, white jacket with gold buttons and navy slacks. The effect was marred a little by high-topped red sneakers. He saw Max’s glance. “Don’t go tellin’ the missus. She give me some things called boaters and I felt like I was walking in a couple of barges. I’ll take sneakers every time.” He brightened. “She’s gone to that sale. Thought your missus’d have you over there to help.”
“I’ll go over in a while.” Max sat on an old bench that gave an alarming tilt.
Parotti popped up. With apparent ease, he grabbed an anchor from one corner, smacked it next to Max. The bench settled down. “Keep meaning to fix that. But the missus has kept me real busy in the grill. And when that woman gets an idea!” Parotti sighed. “But if she hadn’t kept me up late working on that dadblamned shelving by the front windows, I wouldn’t have salvaged myself a nice little treat. Even the missus was pleased.”
Parotti loved to talk, but Max knew he couldn’t afford to spend the morning. He needed to ask his questions and go, but Parotti was so pleased with himself, Max didn’t have the heart to squelch him. The only thing Parotti loved better than a good story was a successful discovery of anything he could claim as salvage.
Max relaxed against the wall. Annie didn’t expect him at the sale until lunch. “What’d you find, Ben?”
Ben pulled up a chair, hunched close to Max. “I’ll tell you, I was never so surprised. I’m working on that damn shelf and I saw a shadow down by the pier. Well, you know I don’t take kindly to anybody poking their noses into my stuff and I thought to myself, well, somebody’s up to no good. Why else would a body be sneaking around on the pier at one o’clock in the morning? Nothing else is stirring anywhere. The party people are on the boats over in the marina by you folks. It’s workin’ boats here and nobody’s got a call to be wandering around after midnight. So I decide to take a quiet look”—his leprechaun’s face mirrored sheer amazement—“and you’ll never guess who I saw heave somethin’ into the harbor! In the middle of the night!”
Max played along. “The mayor?”
“Better than that.” Parotti leaned forward, planted his hands on his knees. “Brian Yates, one of them preachers at St. Mary’s. You know, he wears a collar but he’s married.” Parotti sounded faintly scandalized.
Max didn’t try to explain the difference between preachers, ministers and priests, Anglican or Roman. “What did you do, Ben?”
“Well, I hunkered down behind a trash can and watched him hurry away, looking this way and that”—Parotti’s head swiveled and his eyes darted—“like a man who damn sure didn’t want to meet up with anybody he knew. I almost popped out to ask him what he thought he was doin’, dumpin’ trash in the harbor. We got laws about that!” Parotti glowered.
“But you didn’t.” Max grinned. A man intent on salvage wouldn’t waste his time in confrontations, no matter how interesting it might have been.
Parotti grinned in return. “I figured it would be better to find out what was goin’ on. I got a lantern and some tackle and a boat. Well, it took me a while, but I pulled it out, almost a full set of them wooden sticks with heads that the rich folks use to hit a wooden ball around. And they like to dress all in white.”
It was Parotti for croquet.
“The missus is thrilled.” Parotti basked in the glow of remembered approval. “She thinks maybe I should clear some ground to the side of the grill and people can whack the balls. She’s plannin’ to make herself a white outfit.”
“Play croquet,” Max murmured.
Parotti nodded vigorously. “Yeah. That’s what she said, croquet. Sounds kind of like some kind of fish to me.”
Max asked quietly, “Is there a mallet missing?”
Parotti looked at him blankly.
“One of the sticks.” But why else would Brian Yates slip through darkness to the harbor? Did he know a croquet mallet had been found not far from the van? After Dr. Burford took Ruth to the hospital, had Brian searched the garage, afraid of what he might find, terrified of what he did find? Or was it colder and harsher than that? Had Ruth told him about the mallet and he’d set out to hide any link to her?
Parotti’s nod was quick and bright. “I looked ’em over. I can make one to match.”
“Ben”—Max’s tone was grave—“I’m afraid you have to call Chief Garrett. Had you heard that Kathryn Girard was killed by a croquet mallet?”
Ben’s mouth dropped open. “I’ll be damned. But a parson?” His tone was scandalized. “Well, I never.”
Max knew this might be the final push to convince Garrett to arrest Ruth Yates. Maybe she should be arrested. Whether Ruth was arrested or not, Max still had some serious questions about the deaths of Arlene Ellis and Lynn Pierce. As Lieutenant Farriday said, either could have been murder. Max didn’t know which was more suspicious, Arlene’s death on a stormy day or Lynn’s death on a perfect day for sailing.
Parotti squinted at Max. “You mean I got evidence here?”
“Maybe, Ben.” Max didn’t often consider the force of serendipity. If he hadn’t come to see Parotti, perhaps no one ever would have known about the cast-off croquet mallets. On the other hand, there was another maxim which often came true: Nefarious deeds attract interested eyes, or, the perils of surreptitiousness in a small town. “But maybe not. Call Garrett. If he takes the set away, I’ll see that you get another one.” After all, Jolene Parotti was making an all-white outfit.
“Done.” Parotti gave a quick salute.
Max made a mental note to see about a set of croquet mallets. And now it was time to ask Parotti for knowledge only he might have.
“Ample” would be an excellent summation of Jessica Greer, shining golden hair in smooth poufs, plump pink cheeks, a bosom with Wagnerian soprano proportions and a smile broad as the horizon. “Annie!” Her rich, deep voice ooozed contentment. “Look what I’ve found.” She held out Beverly Gray’s Career and Beverly Gray on a Treasure Hunt.
“Wonderful!” Annie exclaimed. And it was wonderful what some customers were willing to pay for first editions of various Beverly Gray or Nancy Drew or Hardy Boys titles. “Are you trying out for anything this fall?”
The segue might not rank as her most graceful, but Annie knew her customer.
Brown eyes sparkling, Jessica beamed. “My dear, the Little Theater is putting on Arsenic and Old Lace and I’m Martha Brewster.” She clapped a hand to her chest and dust puffed from the book. “I do hope Henny is on the mend. No one else could possibly play Abby as well and rehearsals start next week.” Jessica peered at her anxiously.
Annie patted Jessica’s arm reassuringly. “Henny’s doing fine. She’ll be there.”
Jessica screwed her face up like a child missing a favorite doll. “I wish you and Max had tried out for Elaine and Jonathan.”
Annie wouldn’t have tried out for a month’s supply of Godiva. She didn’t have cheerful memories of playing those roles several years ago in a most murderous presentation of the play. “Oh,” she said vaguely, “we keep intending to get active again, but you know how it is, you get really busy. You know, I was talking to Henny the other day”—Annie felt as creative as Emma—“and we were talking about some of the people who are really good that you don’t see anymore. She said she remembers Marie Campbell especially. And Gary. I gues
s Henny has that right.” Annie looked at Jessica. “I didn’t even know they’d been in local theater.”
“Oh well”—Jessica’s sigh expressed sheer happiness—“I can tell you everything about the Players. My dear, I am a charter member—1947. My first year on the island.” She looked about for a place to sit and tugged loose a cowhide footstool from beneath a mound of musty sheepskins which slid over a collection of Tupperware. Jessica pointed at a sawhorse painted in red and black stripes. “Doesn’t that show spirit! Drag it up, my dear.”
Annie perched on the sawhorse.
Jessica daintily spread her crinkly multitiered skirt. “Oh, the Little Theater. My, we’ve had some great ones. You wouldn’t have known Roderick Ransome. So good-looking. Hair as golden as a splash of sun. And brown eyes. Now, that’s a combination! Big dark eyes with eyelashes an actress would kill for. My husband didn’t care at all for some of our love scenes.” A throaty chuckle. “I was happily wed but Roderick was quite a kisser. Well, my husband put an end to that but I…”
Ten minutes later, Annie plunged into the river of reminiscences. “The Campbells. Marie Campbell. Gary Campbell.” Annie enunciated each syllable.
Jessica’s mouth formed a perfect O. Her eyes widened. “The Campbells! Why, that’s what made me think of Roderick. Though he was a good kisser. And I always remember them. Roderick might have been the best. I’m sure that’s what Marie thought.” Just for an instant her tone was sharp.
Annie had a quick sense that she was as near to grasping quicksilver as she would ever come. The words shimmered in her mind. Roderick. Kisser. Marie. And old Mrs. Campbell’s unrelenting dislike of her second daughter-in-law and coldness to her granddaughter.
Annie’s tone was casual, with no hint that she might be linking a long-dead love affair to a recent murder. “I suppose that’s why Marie and Gary quit the theater.”
Jessica’s eyelids fluttered. “There one night, gone the next. Left us with an understudy for Marie in No, No, Nanette. There was a lot of gossip at the time. And as it turned out”—she lifted plump hands in a dramatic gesture—“why, they could have stayed. Roderick had a chance to go out to the Pasadena Playhouse and he jumped at it.”