Design for Murder

by Carolyn G. Hart

  “Sybil, sit down. There. By Edith. Corinne, you get yourself up to the table and start this meeting.” She swung toward Annie and Lucy. “And you two. Take your places over there.” Everyone did just as instructed.

  Corinne reached the lectern and began to riffle through a thin sheaf of papers. Her breathing was rapid and shallow. The room pulsed with hostility.

  Lucy Haines’s low, pleasant voice was in odd counterpoint to the seething atmosphere. “Corinne, we should introduce our guests.”

  Corinne looked at her blankly.

  “Mr. Frazier and Miss Laurance.”

  Corinne’s eyes narrowed, but, after an instant’s pause, she brusquely presented them to the Board. “And our members: Gail Prichard, Roscoe Merrill, Sybil Giacomo, Edith Ferrier, Dr. John Sanford, Dora Brevard, and Lucy Haines.”

  Dr. Sanford. Annie looked at him with interest. The corner of his ascetic mouth turned down in disdain. He had floppy gray-streaked dark hair that curled untidily over his ears, a hawk nose, and impersonal eyes. He sat at the end of the table beside Edith Ferrier, but he ignored her. Edith watched Corinne somberly, and her dour expression contrasted sharply with her cheerful, almost girlish dress, a cyclamen-pink floral print.

  Sanford brushed back a drooping lock of hair. “Can’t we get this show on the road? I’ve got to get back to the hospital.”

  Definitely a Type-A personality. She wondered why he’d become involved in a historical preservation group, which might be expected to pursue a leisurely course guaranteed to drive a man of his temperament mad.

  Corinne cleared her throat and briskly described the progress of plans for the tour week. She had herself well under control now. Only the tiny white spots at the corners of her mouth indicated her anger. As her introductory comments wound down, Annie picked up her green folder. She was going to have one swell audience, no doubt about that.

  “And now it’s time for us to hear from Miss Laurance, who will explain the program she has put together for our house-and-garden-week tours. Miss Laurance.”

  Still not calling them Mystery Nights. The thought ignited Annie’s smouldering anger. How infuriating! Corinne Prichard was such a meddlesome know-it-all that she’d taken over the mystery program, but she still refused to even mention the word mystery. How obnoxious. She had to take a moment, when she reached the lectern, to tamp down her explosive juices.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Webster.” It wasn’t easy to say, and her voice sounded like thin steel. “It’s a pleasure for me to be here.”

  Fun, fun, fun, the imp in her mind chanted.

  “I’m looking forward to the Mystery Nights. I believe we can offer a program that will attract a great many participants.”

  “How many?” Dr. Sanford barked.

  “About a hundred a night,” she shot back. The Board members looked startled, but, by God, she’d had enough. “The evenings will begin at six with a tour of the three houses and gardens, followed by a buffet supper on the lawn of the Prichard House. Promptly at seven, the participants will divide into teams and go to The Scene of the Crime. The teams will then study evidence available in the police tent, interview the suspects, and confer to decide who they believe is the murderer.”

  Dr. Sanford cracked his knuckles. “All right, all right. The mechanics seem sound. Give us a rundown on the murder, then we can okay it.”

  “It’s a Southern Mystery.” Not my mystery, she wanted to say. She flicked a brief glance toward Corinne. “We must thank Mrs. Webster for our plot. Our victim is Mrs. Meddlesome Moneypot, owner of the fabulous Familytree Plantation. Mrs. Moneypot is extremely proud of her social position and determined that everyone in her family shall behave as she believes they should. She ruined her brother’s romance. She’s alienated her husband and niece, and has also made many enemies in town. Her husband wanted to have a career in the foreign service, but she made him resign and come home.”

  A sharply indrawn breath was magnified by the taut silence.

  Annie paused. Was her sardonic reading alienating her audience? Damn it, the room quivered with hostile vibes. She tried to smooth out her tone. “Her husband’s been drinking too much for years, but everyone in town is whispering that he’s met another woman. Mrs. Moneypot’s niece is seeing a man she considers very unsuitable, and—”

  A chair moved against the planked flooring, making a sharp high squeak.

  “—there are people in town who have reason to hold a grudge against her. She’s trying to ruin the life of a young artist—” Annie stumbled over that sentence. How odd. “—she’s threatening the marriage of a prominent attorney, the career plans of a doctor, the club election of a society woman—”

  Annie paused. Something very peculiar was happening to her audience. As she well knew from her earliest acting days, every audience has its own personality. She would always remember the summer night when she played Honey in “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?” in an outdoor amphitheater in Dallas. It was sultry and thunder rumbled in the distance. The smell of dust, freshly mown grass, and buttered popcorn hung in the still, hot air, but the audience responded on an elemental level to the passion on the stage. It was an audience linked soul to soul with the players, and it was as near exaltation as Annie ever expected to reach.

  That was the pinnacle. There had been other memorable audiences, for good or ill. But there had never been an electric silence quite like this. What the hell was going on?

  She stumbled to a stop and stared at her stunned audience. Gail pressed the back of her hand against her lips. Roscoe, looking like a watchful turtle, assessed Annie very carefully indeed, his pale brown eyes narrowed to slits. Sybil was frankly delighted, wide mouth spread in her malicious smile. Edith glared furiously, a bright patch of red staining each hollowed cheek. Dr. Sanford scowled, his restless hand spread flat against the table top. Miss Dora peered at Corinne. Lucy shook her head, as if bewildered.

  Corinne’s face was as white as ivory, and her dark blue eyes blazed. She pushed back her chair so abruptly that it tumbled to the floor. “I’ll sue you,” she shrilled at Annie. “You and that disgusting creature.” She whirled toward the stocky reporter. “This is your work—and I’ll make you pay for it.”

  Frazier cocked a black eyebrow. “Not me, lady. This isn’t my show—but it’s a hell of a lot of fun.” He turned toward Annie. “Listen, I need a copy of your script. Maybe the Courier will run the whole thing.” He smiled gleefully. “I’ll say you’ve come up with a Southern Mystery. What did you say the victim’s name was? Mrs. Rich Bitch? And who’re the suspects?” He looked around the refectory table. “The leading lights of the town?”

  The room exploded.

  Sybil crowed. “Oh, you got it this time, Corinne. Jesus, I love it. Hey, I didn’t know Leighton was up for grabs. I’ll have to take a look. He’s always been a good-looking man, and if he’s developed a backbone, he’d be worth at least an afternoon.”

  Miss Dora’s wizened face turned plum colored. “Sybil Chastain, don’t you know your mama’s turning in her grave right this minute, hearing you talk like a harlot.”

  “I hope she’s spinning like a dervish,” Sybil said coolly.

  Dr. Sanford looked like an enraged eagle. “I don’t know what kind of attack is being mounted. But I don’t intend to tolerate it. My professional reputation is unassailable.”

  Gail flushed to the roots of her auburn hair and averted her gaze from Bobby.

  “I find it quite unbelievable that I should be held up to public ridicule.” Edith’s voice trembled with outrage.

  “Please, please everyone.” Lucy’s well-bred voice rose above the babble. “There must have been a mistake of some kind.”

  Roscoe pounded on the table, calling for quiet.

  Not even the urbanity of a John Putnam Thatcher could salvage this board meeting.

  “It’s a conspiracy. That’s what it is. A conspiracy to embarrass me. Well, I won’t let them get away with it.” Corinne flung out a hand toward her n
iece. “Don’t you see how vile he is?” She glared at the reporter. “He’s behind it. He and this girl. He’s probably been sleeping with her, and they—”

  “Mrs. Webster, you’d better stop.” Annie had never realized that she could bellow. “And you’d better apologize—or I’m the one who will sue. I don’t know what the hell is going on here. What’s wrong with everybody?”

  That brought a moment’s stunned silence.

  Finally, Lucy spoke apologetically. “It’s your murder victim, Miss Laurance. Corinne thinks you’re talking about her. It’s such an odd coincidence.”

  “Coincidence!” Corinne’s narrow chest heaved.

  “Just a few home truths about Chastain’s leading bitch—” Sybil began.

  To forestall another furious outburst from Corinne, Annie held up her hand. “Let’s get a few things straight. I didn’t write this murder plot.”

  “Oh, yes, you did—you and that despicable muckraker!”

  “Mrs. Webster, I gather you don’t care for Mr. Frazier. That’s your problem. I’ve never met him, never talked to him, and he had nothing whatsoever to do with this murder plot.”

  “You do too know him. I saw him smile at you outside.”

  The little flicker of fury lapping at her control blazed higher. Annie moved away from the lectern, pushed past the reporter, and stood inches from Corinne.

  “Listen very closely. I’m going to say it once. I had never seen this man until I arrived here this morning. He likes pretty girls, so he smiled at me. I smiled back. That’s too innocent and genuine an action for you to understand, isn’t it, Mrs. Webster? Now, let me make myself perfectly clear. I don’t like you, but I also don’t like being used. Clearly, I’m the patsy here today. I was set up for this.” Moving back to the lectern, she picked up the plan she had received from the Chastain Historical Preservation Society. “Somebody sent this to me. I thought it came from you. The cover letter’s signed with your name.”

  Corinne snatched the six typewritten pages, then scanned the cover letter. “That signature is a forgery.” She looked around the room. “This was written on Society stationery.”

  The implication was plain.

  Lucy objected immediately. “That doesn’t mean a thing. Everybody in town drops in here from time to time.”

  “No member of the Society would do such a dreadful thing,” Miss Dora insisted.

  “I’m going to find out who did this.” Corinne’s voice was metallic with determination. “And when I do—”

  “Best thing is to let bygones be bygones,” Roscoe Merrill interjected persuasively. “It doesn’t do to take this kind of thing too seriously. You know, women get their noses out of joint, and—”

  “What do you mean by that?” Edith demanded shrilly.

  “Not a thing, not a thing,” he said quickly. “Obviously, this has been a foolish prank.” But his voice was worried and tense.

  Annie eyed him with interest. Roscoe obviously didn’t like this situation at all, and he was determined to get past it.

  He held both hands up. “I suggest we get back to the object of this meeting. Our guest has been put in an extremely difficult position. We will have to hope that she will overlook this episode. Ms. Laurance, we agree that you have been victimized, but hopefully we can go forward from here. As I see it, the main problem—”

  “The main problem is to determine who perpetrated this outrage.” Corinne glared again at the reporter.

  Frazier spread his legs and rocked back on his heels. “Nope. Guess again. I wish I’d thought of it. More fun than a whorehouse on Saturday night. But you’d better look among your snooty friends, Mrs. Webster. Who knew enough to dig all this dirt?”

  “Young man, your attitude is reprehensible,” Miss Dora scolded.

  Corinne bit into an idea and clung. “Why did you come this morning,” she demanded of Frazier, “if you didn’t have anything to do with it?” Then she bent a sharp look at Gail, who began to shake her head in negation.

  Frazier’s good humor fled. “So now you want to slice Gail up, too?”

  “Bobby, don’t,” Gail pleaded.

  He ignored her. A vein throbbed in his neck. “Listen, lady, I’d rather stack crap than have anything to do with you. I’m here today because the city editor got a note in the mail saying all hell was going to break loose. Frankly, I thought he had a screw loose. You people are usually about as interesting as yesterday’s obits.”

  “A note in the mail,” Corinne repeated sharply.

  “I’ll look into all this.” Peacemaker Roscoe held out his hand for the letter. “I promise you, Corinne, I’ll get to the bottom of it, if at all possible.”

  But Annie reached out and plucked the letter from Corinne’s hand. “Nope. This letter was sent to me. It’s mine. And I’m going to do some investigating myself.”

  “Young lady, I appreciate your concern, but this is a matter for the Board,” Roscoe insisted, flushing.

  Who did he think he was? Antony Maitland?

  “We can all investigate,” she said drily. “I’ll send you a copy of it.”

  “This is all very well and good, and I understand why Corinne and Roscoe and Miss Laurance will pursue this matter, but I do think we must face up to our immediate problem,” a reasoned voice urged.

  Everyone looked at Lucy.

  “After all, the Mystery Nights have already been advertised as part of the house-and-garden tours. I mean, we have only a little over a week before the festival begins.”

  “Lucy is hewing to the main point,” Roscoe agreed. “Ms. Laurance, will you overlook this unfortunate contretemps and create a murder for us?”

  ANNIE REFILLED MAX’S white coffee mug (The Red Thumb Mark), then her own. Contrary to her usual habit, she shoveled a heaping teaspoon of sugar into her cup and stirred briskly.

  It didn’t escape him, of course. “Well, old dear, you must be frazzled.” He stretched out comfortably, tilting the straight back chair on its rear legs.

  Annie looked up from her ragtag collection of papers containing bits and pieces of possible Mystery Nights. “Have you been reading Sayers again?”

  He grinned. “Nope. But maybe you should.”

  “Civilized mayhem as opposed to Southern discomfort?”

  “Right.” Then his dark blue eyes grew serious. “Actually, why don’t you jump ship? Working for those people is like afternoon tea at a nuthouse.”

  “Quit now? Why, I can do any mystery I want to.” Visions of plots danced in her head. “Maybe a movable corpse. Like The Trouble With Harry. Honestly, Max, did you ever in your life see anything funnier than Harry? Every time somebody buried him, somebody else dug him up.”

  He rubbed his cheek with his knuckles. “It’s comments such as that which make me wonder about you sometimes.”

  “Oh, my God, it was wonderful.”

  “It wasn’t one of Hitchcock’s successes.”

  “Dumb audiences,” she said stubbornly. She took another swallow of the sugar-laden coffee. “Or I can do an academic mystery, something on the order of Seven Suspects.”

  “Not unless you want to bore everybody into a coma.” He took a big swallow of coffee.

  “Or I could go for a grim background, like Moscow in Angels in the Snow.”

  She suddenly felt warm and cozy. Was it the sugar and the caffeine, or the wealth of possibilities that lay before her?

  Max tipped the chair upright and leaned his elbows on the table. “What’s wrong with good old Thompson Hatfield, the late, unlamented president of the bank? You already had suspects, clues, et al.”

  “Oh, no. I’m not going to do any mystery where the victim or suspects could by the stretch of anybody’s wildest imagination have any relationship to anybody in Chastain, S.C. No, sir.” She shook her head decisively. Then she paused and rubbed an ink-stained finger to her nose, resulting in a distinct smudge. “You know, if I didn’t have so much to do for the Mystery Nights, I’d hit Chastain like Kinsey Millhone an
d shake some teeth until I got some answers.”

  His eyes glistened. “Would you wear tight jeans?”

  “Don’t be sexist.” But it was an absent-minded put-down, and her frown pulled her brows into a determined line. “Dammit, I don’t like being used—even if the end result was to take a cut at la piranha.”

  “Do you think it was a Board member?”

  “I don’t know. That was my first thought, but I talked to Lucy on the way out, and she said the Board had reported to the Society at the general meeting last month about the plans to have the Mystery Nights, and my name was mentioned then. I do think it must have been done by someone who belongs to the Society. Lucy said people drop in to the office all the time, but I’ll bet they parcel out their creamy stationery like gold plate. It’s that kind of place.”

  “Sounds like a good lead. Who had access to the stationery? Let me see the letter for a second.”

  She rooted around in her piles, found the green folder, and slid it to him.

  He read it carefully, then announced, “First, it was typed on a typewriter, not a word processor, because the capital B jumps up half a line and the lower case r is worn.”

  “Bravo.”

  He ignored her sarcastic tone. “Moreover, the typist isn’t skilled because the pressure is uneven, resulting in erratic inking.”

  “Ah, The Thinking Machine at work.”

  “The allusion escapes me, but I will assume it is apt. Even though machines don’t think.”

  “You, not the typewriter. The Thinking Machine was Jacques Futrelle’s detective.”

  He clapped a hand to his head. “How can I not know of him?”

  “Probably because Futrelle went down on the Titanic before he had time to write more than two volumes of short stories.”

  But Max was still analyzing the letter. When he spoke again, the lightness had left his voice. “This is heavy stuff. Somebody really doesn’t like your Mrs. Webster.”