Idell was suddenly less absorbed in the flowers.
“Oh, yes, of course. Known her forever!”
“How did she seem the last time you spoke to her?”
“She was impossible. No wonder she got murdered.” Idell yanked viciously at a dead bloom. “Always trying to cause trouble. She said the Board was going to have to bring me into court if I didn’t shore up the fence between the Inn and the Society Building. Claimed it was unsightly for visitors. Well, why couldn’t the Society help? I need every penny I can get to keep the Inn going, with utilities going up every year and people using air conditioners even in April. I told her I couldn’t do it, and I didn’t have the money to go to court. Oh, she was a mean person.”
“I guess it did make it hard, having the common boundary with the Society.”
Idell looked at her gratefully. “Well, you run a business. You can understand. And the Inn is all I have.” There was a note of fear in her voice, the spectre of old age and no money and all her assets gone. But there wasn’t the least bit of concern about her quarrel with Corinne. Obviously, Idell didn’t see herself as a potential suspect. So scratch that dark horse.
A sudden thought struck Annie. “You’re right next door to the Society. Did you happen to look out that way—” She paused and thought. “It was one of three nights in the middle of March that we think the letter was typed next door. The nights of March 19th, 20th, and 21st. I don’t suppose you saw anyone going in or coming out of the building after hours?”
Idell’s eyes slid away from Annie. Then she shook her head vigorously. “No. But I remember the middle of March.” She touched her jaw. “Oh, I had an awful toothache.”
Annie stood in the middle of the room, holding the large cylinder of cardboard that contained the five Death on Demand mystery prints, and checked to see if she’d forgotten anything. Max had already taken down the stacks of mimeographed sheets with the Mystery Night information, the autopsy report, the suspects’ original statements to police, and the clue box. She was walking toward the door when the phone rang.
“Hello.”
“Miss Laurance.”
Chief Wells’s voice reminded her of gravel being dumped from a truck. Annie gripped the receiver tightly and knew her voice was strained when she answered. “Yes, Chief?”
“Got a tip on the murder.”
She waited.
“Got a waiter here from a restaurant over on Broward’s Rock. Says he thinks he’s got a description of the killer. Cute blonde about twenty-three or so, gray eyes, good figure.”
“Oh, now wait a minute—”
The heavy voice rumbled over her protest like a steamroller squashing rocks. “Know what he overheard? Girl said she’d decided to bash the lady with a croquet mallet.”
“I was talking about the Mystery Nights plot,” she said furiously.
“So you admit that’s what you said?”
Annie phrased it very carefully indeed. “On the occasion in question, I was describing to Mr. Darling the means by which the mythical murderer in the mythical Sticky Wicket murder intended to attack a mythical victim.”
He wheezed loudly. “So you say.”
“So I say.”
“You’ll be at the Prichard House tonight?”
“I’m not fleeing to Timbuktu, if that’s what you’re asking.”
There was a long pause, and she thought she detected the juicy mastication of a tobacco wad. She wondered if there were a Mrs. Wells.
“Smart ass talk won’t get you far, young lady.”
“I understand you haven’t even bothered to talk to Sybil Giacomo and Tim Bond.”
His voice scraped like flint on a fire rock. “I can manage my own investigation, young lady. And I’ll tell you this much, if I can prove either you or that reporter had a handkerchief on Monday, I’ll arrest you.”
“A handkerchief?”
“Yeah. Think about it, Miss Laurance.”
Annie thought about it as she introduced the suspects for Wednesday’s Mystery Night. She thought about it all evening, between frantic moments of the Mystery Night. Why a handkerchief? As a matter of fact, she never carried one. Which would distress her maternal grandmother, who expected a lady always to possess a dainty, lace-edged hankie. But hankies went out with garters and girdles. Who, today, carried a handkerchief? Apparently not Bobby Fraizer, either. If the killer carried a handkerchief, that narrowed the circle indeed. At one point, she whispered her query to Ingrid, who with a true librarian’s skill could be expected to find the answer to any question. She came back in less than half an hour with this news: Leighton, John Sanford, and Roscoe, as might be expected, always carried handkerchiefs in their left hip pockets. Tim Bond, also as might be expected, owned not a single handkerchief, although he occasionally wore a ragged red bandana. Gail didn’t carry handkerchiefs, but sometimes Edith, Lucy, and Sybil did. Miss Dora, of course, was always equipped with one.
Her head spun.
A hand tugged at her arm. “Miss Laurance, there’s a discrepancy.”
It was hard to say whether Mrs. Brawley was delighted or offended. Her nose wriggled with eagerness.
“What’s wrong?”
“Last night Lord Algernon said that he gave Miss Snooperton the ticket to Venice on the Orient Express before they played croquet. Tonight, he said he gave her the ticket after they played croquet.” She waited eagerly.
“Very good,” Annie praised. “We’d better take care of this at once.”
Mrs. Brawley padded happily alongside Annie to the Suspect Interrogation Tent. Annie patted her on the shoulder, then stepped up to Max and whispered in his ear.
He grinned and said firmly, “I gave the ticket to Miss Snooperton before we played croquet.”
Annie and Mrs. Brawley exchanged satisfied smiles. Annie moved slowly around the tent. She paused behind Lucy, who still wore her navy dress and white gloves. She looked bone weary, but perhaps all of this at least took her mind off of the murder for awhile.
Sanford continued to play his role with panache.
Mrs. Brawley’s team (No. 7 tonight) clustered around him. This time, Annie noted with amusement, Mrs. Brawley was Team Captain, and savoring every moment of it. She leaned forward, finger waggling, a picture of ruthless inquisitorial determination.
“Mr. Hoxton, have you ever before been a guest at a country home where a jewel theft has occurred?”
Sanford stroked his chin. “Ah, my dear lady, perhaps. It’s so hard to remember when one is so often a guest.”
“You can remember,” she snapped.
“I do believe there was one instance. At Lord Healy’s home, Castle-On-The-Thames. I think I recall the disappearance of a diamond brooch.”
Mrs. Brawley stalked nearer. “Was that theft ever solved?”
“I don’t believe so, dear lady.”
“Did you then enjoy a spurt in your income, Mr. Hoxton?”
He registered shock. “That is an unwarranted assumption.”
Mrs. Brawley raised a hand. “It is time to demand a search warrant of Reginald Hoxton’s room and its contents.”
Her group stormed triumphantly after her and received this information: In the pocket of Hoxton’s trousers worn that afternoon, the police laboratory (with emphasis on the second syllable) discovered a fragment of gold, apparently from a jewelry setting, and a trace of putty.
Smiling, Annie moved on to Edith, playing Miss Susannah Greatheart.
An eager questioner demanded, “Isn’t it true that Miss Snooperton had stolen Nigel Davies from you, and you quarreled with her shortly before her murder?”
Edith dabbed at her eyes with a crumpled linen handkerchief. “Oh no, I never quarrel with anyone, and I felt certain Nigel would come to his senses when he discovered that Miss Snooperton was involved with Lord Algernon.”
“And how did you know this?”
“Why, dear Lord Algernon felt I would be sympathetic to his problems. He was trying his best to be rid of
Miss Snooperton. He thought her a dreadfully fast young woman, who had tried to ensnare him with her wiles. I do find Lord Algernon to be such a gentleman.”
After a hasty consultation with his team, Team Captain No. 3 brayed, “We demand a search warrant against Miss Greatheart.”
The warrant revealed: A ruby necklace stuffed in among Miss Greatheart’s lingerie, and a bloodied croquet mallet thrust deep in her wardrobe. Upon investigation the necklace was declared a replica of the missing Red Maiden, and the mallet was identified as the murder weapon.
Taxed with these facts, Miss Greatheart broke down, declaring she had been framed. “Someone must hate me very much.”
Team No. 3 stampeded to surround Lord Algernon. The intensity of their questions delighted Max, who responded with élan.
“I had broken off my involvement with Miss Snooperton. Fact of the matter, gave her a ticket to Venice this morning, then wrote her a note I couldn’t meet her at the arbor after tea.”
“Was it your note that was found in her pocket?”
“Must have been.”
“You say you were finished with Miss Snooperton. Was she finished with you?”
“Felt like Nigel had taken me off the hook there, getting himself engaged to her. Damn disgusting the way he was treating Miss Greatheart. Tried to cheer her up.”
“Isn’t it more, Lord Algernon, that you were exhibiting your longtime weakness for members of the opposite sex other than your wife?”
“Oh, that’s a rum suggestion. Besides, Alicia’s a sport.”
He finally admitted, though he downplayed its significance, that he’d had a few angry words with Miss Snooperton at the rose arbor, but he insisted that he left her alive with the clear understanding their affair was ended, whether or not she accepted the ticket to Venice.
Team Captain No. 8 demanded a search warrant against Lord Algernon, and these facts were unearthed: A packet of angry letters from Miss Snooperton threatening to reveal their affair to Lady Alicia unless he made a substantial settlement upon her. One letter stated: Cough up or sweet Lady Alicia will learn about our weekend in Nice.
From there Team Captain No. 8, a mild-mannered professor of medieval poetry at Chastain Community College, bounded across the grass to attack Lady Alicia.
Jessica Merrill, stately this evening in an ankle-length pink-and-white dimity dress, faced the barrage of questions with haughty disdain.
“Was I aware of an involvement between Algernon and Miss Snooperton? Why, of course not. That is truly absurd. And, of course, even it it were true, I would merely pity the poor boy to have become entangled with such an unattractive and predatory woman.”
“Didn’t you earlier say Miss Snooperton was a dear girl?”
“Oh, did I? Perhaps. I’ve no real opinion in the matter.”
“How much money did you owe Reginald Hoxton, my lady?”
“Merely a small debt between friends.”
“But how could you hope to pay it off? You have no money of your own, have you?”
“There was no pressing need to resolve a trifle between friends over a card game.”
“But Miss Greatheart says she heard him threaten to tell Lord Algernon if you didn’t pay up?”
“She must have misunderstood. Such an insipid young woman.”
Jessica Merrill refused to buckle beneath the spate of questions. Lord Algernon had harummphed and said Lady Alicia was a sport about his extra-marital activities. How would Jessica Merrill feel about her husband’s involvement with a predatory lady lawyer?
Every so often, to the enormous disappointment of the besieging detectives, one or another of the English Manor suspects would hang a Back Soon sign in their chair and slip away for a few minutes of rest or refreshment.
When Jessica took her break, Annie followed her out to the main sidewalk. As she hurried to catch up, she overheard a middle-aged woman returning to the detection area tell her friend, “This has just been the most fun I’ve had since I was seven and my mother gave me The Clue In the Album. Doesn’t the investigation remind you of the house party at Lady Billington-Smith’s in Georgette Heyer’s The Unfinished Clue?” Her companion nodded energetically. “Oh Hetty, I know just what you mean. I keep remembering Chayning Court in Gladys Mitchell’s Speedy Death.” Buoyed by her eavesdropping, Annie spurted ahead and called out, “Jessica,” as her quarry turned into the inn.
“Oh, hello, Annie. Decided I needed a drink. God, it must be exhausting to actually be a suspect in a murder investigation.”
Annie settled for an enigmatic, “I suppose so,” rather than a query about Roscoe’s emotional temperature.
They settled in a corner of the coffee bar, which offered a very limited drink list, coffee, house wine, white and red but provenance unspecified, and a bottled wine cooler. They both opted for the last.
“One more night,” Jessica sighed.
“It’s good of you to keep up, considering the circumstances.”
Jessica poured the cooler slowly over the ice, then picked up her glass. She looked very self-possessed, her dark hair curling softly away from her face, her large, attractive eyes meticulously outlined in eye shadow. She smiled at Annie. “It’s been difficult, of course. Corinne has been our friend for many years. I know she would have wanted the garden nights to continue, and, of course, as a member of the Board, Roscoe certainly feels a responsibility to see that the Society’s efforts aren’t damaged.”
“Did you like Corinne?”
Those large eyes returned Annie’s gaze steadily. “That is a remarkably tactless question at the present time.”
“Being one of two primary suspects in a murder investigation has put tactfulness pretty low on my priority list.”
Jessica sipped at her cooler. “Roscoe doesn’t think anyone will be arrested. Apparently, there is no direct physical evidence linking any one person to the crime scene, and he says it’s very difficult to sustain an arrest or obtain a conviction without clear-cut evidence or a confession.” She smoothed her softly waving black hair back from an unlined forehead. “It will probably be one of those famous unsolved mysteries.”
“That’s pretty lousy for everybody. Me included.” And especially, Annie thought, for Gail and Bobby, and Leighton and Peggy. “And I’m not at all sure Wells won’t jump on Frazier or me, just to quiet the newspapers.” Annie thumped her glass onto the cocktail table. “Dammit, Wells won’t even talk to people who could have done it. Like Sybil and Tim.” Then she glared defiantly at Jessica. “Or Miss Dora.”
To her surprise, Jessica was neither shocked nor outraged. Instead, her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Miss Dora.”
Annie tried to interpret Jessica’s Madonna-like face, so smooth, calm—and masklike.
“It’s funny you should think of Miss Dora. She’s such a fixture around Chastain that no one even sees her, despite those outlandish clothes and her hats.” Jessica smiled, but her brown eyes were serious and intent. “Miss Dora has spent her life trying to preserve Chastain’s history. That is all that matters to her, that and family. She opposed almost every innovation Corinne proposed for the Society. Miss Dora hates these garden weeks. She thinks Chastain should belong to its own and never to outlanders.” Jessica toyed with her lapis lazuli necklace. “But, of course, it’s absurd to imagine her creeping up behind Corinne and striking her down.”
Annie almost corrected Jessica. No one had crept up behind Corinne. Corinne had turned to walk away. But it didn’t really matter.
Jessica took a last swallow, smiled. “Well, I suppose we’d better get back—or the detective teams will track me down here.”
As they rustled in their purses for money, Annie asked quickly, “Had you talked to Corinne recently?”
Jessica’s hand momentarily froze, then she lifted out her billfold. “Yes. Last week.” Her voice was placid.
Annie added her portion to the tray. “What about?”
“Nothing special. She called me to ask if we should add a new l
ine of reproductions at the Museum. I’m rather an authority on colonial glassware. She wanted my opinion.”
It was so smooth, so easily delivered, and, Annie felt certain, absolutely false. Especially when she looked into those eyes, now curiously defiant.
“You and Roscoe have a wonderful marriage.”
Jessica didn’t challenge the non sequitur. She merely nodded as she pushed back her chair.
Annie rose. “I don’t suppose the same could be said of Corinne and Leighton.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Rumor has it that Leighton was involved with a young woman.”
Jessica forced a smile. “That happens, doesn’t it, when men reach a certain age. It usually isn’t of any importance.”
And with that, Annie realized that Jessica Merrill knew full well about Roscoe’s lapse, and, if the matter were ever raised, would dismiss it as unimportant. The corollary being, of course, that if it didn’t matter to her, it certainly couldn’t provide a motive of any kind for Roscoe to silence Corinne.
But had Roscoe known—in time—how his wife felt?
The detective teams swarmed into the Suspect Investigation Tent full of last-minute questions.
“Miss Laurance, did the lab report say that footprint by the body belonged to Nigel Davies?”
“Yes.”
“How about that broken lock on the tool shed? Did it have any fingerprints?”
“No. It was wiped off.”
Fingerprints. Wiped off. Why did Chief Wells want her or Bobby to have a handkerchief?
A high squeal of sheer excitement erupted from Mrs. Brawley when her team received a search warrant to Reginald Hoxton’s car. In the boot was found one of the croquet balls. It had been tampered with, and secreted within it was a handful of red rubies.
She was marking times on the last envelopes, when Bobby poked his head in at the main opening. He looked around, glared, and left.
Max plumped the final box down next to the wall. “Next time you plan a Mystery Night, I’ll hire a pack horse.”
“Next time I plan a Mystery Night, you can buy me a one-way ticket to El Paso. It would be more fun.”
Design for Murder Page 21