It was a good deal more obvious that at least three of the people who were intimately associated with Corinne Webster knew about the cyanide of potassium: Gail Prichard, Bobby Frazier, and Tim Bond.
But she was cheering with every word. “So, of course, it doesn’t mean a thing that Bobby wrote those articles. Anyone could have known.” Then her eyes darkened with pain. “Besides, Bobby didn’t have a motive. When I talked to you the other day, I gave you the wrong impression about Bobby and me. We’re just friends. Nothing more than that.”
“Oh, for God’s sake!” Annie exploded. “Don’t be such a fool.”
She flushed. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I mean any idiot—including Chief Wells—can see that Bobby’s besotted with you. I don’t mean he killed your aunt, but you can’t be dumb enough to believe he doesn’t care about you.”
“He told me it didn’t mean anything.” Tears brimmed in her eyes. “He said—”
“Of course, he did. The boy’s trying to protect you. He’s doing his damnedest to keep Chief Wells from even looking your way. You’d have to be blind not to see it.”
Gail’s strained face reflected a series of emotions—shock, uncertainty, then burgeoning hope.
As the Porsche lunged away from the curb, Max shook his head chidingly.
“Well,” Annie said defensively, “I hate stupidity.”
“Sometimes, it’s better for things not to be quite so clear-cut.”
“Do you think he’s fooling Wells?”
“No. But he was fooling Gail.”
“So what’s good about that?”
“It kept her from worrying about him, didn’t it?” They arrived at the Museum right on the heels of Chief Wells.
He disposed of his chewing tobacco in a silver spittoon, then turned his watery blue eyes on them.
“Aren’t you people out of town yet?”
“I didn’t know I was free to go. Besides, we have the ball completing the mystery event tonight.”
“I know where to find you if I want you,” he growled. “What’re you here for?”
Max jerked his head toward the basement stairs. “We heard about the cyanide, too.”
“Yeah, the cyanide.” His eyes lingered on Annie for a long moment. “Since you’re so curious, you can come on downstairs, little lady.”
Said the spider to the fly, Annie thought. But they followed him down the steeply pitched stairs to the basement. The hollow echo of hammering led them to Tim, still crating his paintings. He looked at the Chief, and beyond him at Annie and Max, with no enthusiasm. “Look, I’ve told you everything I did on Monday, and I don’t see why I have to go through it again. And I don’t know anything about the old lady at the Inn.” Sweat trickled down his face and stained his paint-spattered work shirt. His chestnut curls lay limply on his shoulders.
Wells ignored his objections. “Where’s the poison?”
Tim led the way to the end of the corridor and a warped yellow door. The poster on it warned POISON. Tim unlocked the door and a heavy, sour smell of chemicals wafted out. He turned on the light. The trays and vats needed for electroplating were neatly arranged on a table against the back wall. A shelf to the right of the table held a number of bottles.
Wells found what he sought on the third shelf from the bottom, a large green stoppered bottled labeled CYANIDE OF POTASSIUM.
“Jesus Christ, there’s enough poison in that to kill every living soul in Chastain!” His heavy head swiveled toward the door. “That goddamn lock’s a joke.”
Bond looked at him in disgust. “We don’t feed it to anybody, Chief.”
“It killed Idell Gordon,” the Chief rasped.
If Tim Bond were acting, he exhibited considerable talent. His eyes went blank with shock, his bony jaw dropped. He took a step back, then said, “Hey, what the hell. Somebody’s trying to frame me.” His paint-stained hands clenched convulsively. “Listen, I don’t know what the hell’s going on, but nobody’s going to lay this on me.”
But Annie abruptly realized the Chief wasn’t watching Tim. Instead, those probing, hostile eyes were pinned on her.
“Tell me something, little lady.”
She tensed.
“Sybil told me you and your feller came down here and badgered Tim the other day. That’s right enough, isn’t it?”
“Is it badgering to ask a man who has a damn good motive where he was when the murder was committed?”
But Wells was intent upon his own train of thought. “Now, when you came down here, you couldn’t help but see this here yellow door with a POISON sign. Now, could you?”
ANNIE DUMPED THE envelopes out on her bed, then stared at them in dismay. How could there be so many? She looked at her watch. Almost four o’clock. Where had the day gone? But she knew. It had fled as they fought their way through the clogged streets (Friday featured a Fried Chicken Cook-Off, a China Painting Exhibition, and the finals in the Chastain Speedboat Classic), seeking more information about Idell Gordon, cyanide of potassium, and the whereabouts of all the suspects between 9 and 10 P.M. Wednesday evening. She’d had two more acerbic run-ins with Chief Wells and made another abortive visit to Miss Dora’s shuttered home. Now she had only a few hours before the Denouement Ball began—and she’d damned well better have a denouement in hand, or she would be attacked by a band of enraged mystery buffs. And the prizes for the five best costumes—she rummaged frantically in the bottom of the clue box, then heaved a sigh of relief. There they were, five certificates, ranging in value from $5 to $25, good toward any purchase at Death on Demand. So, all she had to do was figure out which team, if any, had named the murderer of the Sticky Wicket Mystery. If more than one had come up with the right answer, then it would come down to which team turned its answer in first. The mystery winners and costume winners were to be announced at the stroke of midnight.
She stacked the envelopes by day and felt the beginnings of panic. Could she possibly read and digest all these answers in time? It had all seemed so reasonable when she and Max planned it. But they hadn’t counted on two real murders.
Max tapped on the door and poked his head in. “Let’s go down to the Courier and see what we can pick up.”
She flapped her hands distractedly. “Tonight. I haven’t checked the entries. No time. Go ahead.”
He leaned against the doorjamb and chuckled.
She turned on him with slitted eyes. “Can’t you see?” She pointed at the four untidy stacks of envelopes. “I’ve got to read all of those.”
“Oh hell, just throw them up in the air and pick a winner.”
She glared at him, horrified. “Do you honestly think Mrs. Brawley wouldn’t catch me?”
“I guess you’re right. But relax, love, you’re a speed reader.” Kissing her lightly on the cheek, he departed.
It didn’t take as long as she expected. For one thing, only two or three teams each evening came up with the right name. Of those, a Monday night team, No. 2, had the right answer for the right reasons, and the time on the envelope was 8–04–36. When she read the name of the team captain, she didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. There was a winner from last night, ringing in at 8–04–37. The Team Captain was—she stared at the list of team members for a long time, then took her pen and carefully altered the time to 8–04–36.
How about that. A tie.
At six-fifteen, she changed into her costume for the Denouement Ball. Max, too, was dressed for his part when he knocked on her door. They grinned at each other.
“That the twain never met was a grave error on the part of the Stratemeyer Syndicate,” she said.
He was a marvelously handsome and clean-cut Joe Hardy as he nodded in agreement. “Right on, Nancy. But it might have hacked Ned Nickerson.”
They slipped away to Confederate House for an early dinner. As they climbed gray wooden steps to the refurbished barn that overlooked the river, Annie clutched his argyle sweatered arm and pointed to the placard.
> “Before the occupation of the area by Federal troops in 1863, work began here on earthwork fortifications. The last remnants of Ft. McReady were washed away in the hurricane of 1893.”
Annie peered into a thicket of southern red cedars. “That woman is haunting me.”
“I’d say she’s the least of your worries.”
They settled at a wooden planked table on a gray porch, and Max unloaded the latest.
“Bobby said Wells had his men print practically every square inch of Idell’s office, and he’s having the lab check any latent prints against yours, his, Gail’s, and Tim’s. If he finds a match—”
“There I never was. So maybe he’ll finally give up on me.” She studied the fake parchment menu. Should she go for Daufuskie crabs or duck, oyster and sausage gumbo? “How about the others?”
“They all claim they’ve never set foot in Idell’s office.”
Then Max dampened even her appetite.
“One grim note. Apparently, a hell of a lot of cyanide of potassium is missing from that bottle.”
What a difference a day made. Whether it was simply the number of hours that had elapsed since Idell’s murder or whether the Mystery Night participants were willing to risk all to discover the identity of the Sticky Wicket murderer, the night’s turnout was excellent and the mood upbeat. The variety of dress for the ball amazed her. She spotted two Inspector Maigrets, four Hercule Poirots, a sharp-visaged Dick Tracy, and a prim Miss Silver complete with knitting needles, fluffy pink wool, and a brooch on her bosom.
Annie wandered among the tents, eavesdropping.
“Asey Mayo” confided to “Inspector Roderick Alleyn,” “This is more fun than The Mystery of Edwin Drood.”
“Oh, that was fun,” “Miss Pinkerton” replied. “But my all time stage favorite is Arsenic and Old Lace. It’s always funny.”
In the distance, sheet lightning flickered. They’d been so fortunate with the weather all week. April, of course, was a spring month, and heavy storms rare. Gentle rains were not. She crossed her fingers. If they could just make it to shortly after midnight, it could rain as much as it pleased. She felt uneasy, and was uncertain whether to attribute it to the ominous weather or to the evening.
The mystery enthusiasts were having a wonderful time. The Sticky Wicket cast members were not. They had all dutifully come and mingled with the guests, but their generally stiff and distrait appearances singled them out. Although they knew Wells’s suspicions were targeted on Annie and Bobby, they were like horses sensing a coyote’s presence. Wells had talked to all of them, once or more. They all knew he had charted their movements to the Inn on Wednesday night. It put an edge to their voices and wariness in their eyes.
Rumors abounded.
Edith insisted to Annie that she’d heard Leighton had been arrested.
Roscoe said that was all wrong, a warrant was being charged out against Bobby.
Max disappeared for awhile and returned with the news that the lights were still burning in the forensic lab at the police station.
Even Sybil and Tim showed up, and Tim said loudly that he didn’t know what the hell was going on, but Bobby Frazier’d gone into detail with him about the chemicals he used in electroplating.
It was just short of midnight when Annie looked down from the speaker’s stand at a black-clad figure leaning on a silverheaded cane, staring with a death’s-head face at the Sticky Wicket suspects as they gathered for the finale. Annie’s hand closed on her sheaf of papers. Miss Dora! She took a step toward the stairs, then St. Michael’s bell tolled midnight. As lightning blazed in the east, the old woman turned and melded into the deep shadows beneath a live oak tree. Annie hesitated, then faced the audience. Her heart was pounding. The band played a drum tattoo. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is the moment you’ve all been waiting for.”
A vigorous burst of handclapping and cheers was almost lost in the roll of thunder.
“And I believe we just may make it under the wire before the storm breaks. But it is my pleasure first,” Annie cried, “to announce the winners of the costume contest.”
Max was leading a pleased and excited line of participants to the stage.
“Our fifth place winner is—” She waved her hand and glanced at the card in her hand. “Mrs. Harrison Frankfurt of Savannah, who came tonight as the inimitable Miss Maude Silver, complete with a shawl and brooch.”
Mrs. Frankfurt came on stage.
“Our fourth place winner is Mr. Michael Forbes of Charleston, who you will undoubtedly recognize as the greatest sleuth of all time, Sherlock Holmes:”
Forbes was tall enough and lean enough to look the part of the master detective in his deerstalker hat and Inverness cape. He waved his Meerschaum pipe and bowed to the cheering crowd.
“Our third place winner is Jeremiah Winston of Hilton Head Island. Let’s give him a hand for his portrayal of Sam Spade.” Winston slouched on stage in a loose tweed overcoat. A hand-rolled cigarette dangled from his lip.
“Our second place winner is Mr. Bill Brown of Atlanta.” A little man with a truly egg-shaped head bounded up the steps. He wore spats, a European-cut suit of the 1920s, and he twirled a sleek drooping mustache with pride. “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Monsieur Hercule Poirot.
“And, finally, our first place winner, America’s favorite detective, Miss Marigold Rembrandt, as portrayed by her creator, America’s most popular mystery writer, Emma Clyde.”
Cheers, stomping feet, and thunderous applause erupted.
Annie passed out the Death on Demand certificates, shook everybody’s hand, allowed Emma to kiss her on both cheeks, and turned back to the mike.
The costume winners filed down, and the Mystery Night suspects mounted the platform.
Annie saw Bobby Frazier standing in front of the platform, notebook in hand. His face was somber, and he needed a shave, which made him look almost unsavory.
“Before we reveal the perpetrator of our Sticky Wicket murder, I want to introduce our suspects to you in their own right, so that you may thank them for the splendid efforts they’ve made this week to provide you with a challenging mystery and a pleasant evening.
“Lord Algernon has been played by my good friend and coconspirator, Max Darling.
“Lady Alicia is Mrs. Jessica Merrill, who has worked very hard for the Historical Preservation Society of Chastain.
“Roscoe Merrill, a member of the Society Board and a Chastain lawyer, has played the role of Nigel Davies.
“I’m sure many of you recognized Edith Ferrier, another active clubwoman in Chastain, as Susannah Greatheart.
“And Dr. Robert Sanford has served most capably as the dastardly Reginald Hoxton.
“Finally, Miss Lucy Haines, a very active member of the Society, is Agnes, Lady Alicia’s maid.
“A round of applause for our players, please.”
Gail stood on the side of the platform opposite Bobby. She was clapping for the suspects, but her eyes were on Bobby. Annie wondered if the damned fools had talked honestly to each other yet.
“Now, for the real story behind the Sticky Wicket Mystery.” She paused dramatically, but her eyes skimmed the crowd for Miss Dora.
“These are the clues which should have led you to the correct solution:
“The broken piece of gold link from a necklace which was found in Reginald Hoxton’s trouser pocket.
“The telltale mound of wood shavings on the workbench in the toolshed.
“The smudge of putty in Reginald Hoxton’s pants pocket.
“The discovery of real rubies secreted in a croquet ball.
“The imitation necklace discovered in Susannah Greatheart’s lingerie.
“The attempts of Lady Alicia’s maid to scatter suspicion among the guests.
“Lord Algernon’s partiality for a pretty face, other than that of his wife.
“What happened at the Gemtree Court on this fateful Saturday? We have a group of guests with some rather dark secrets. Reginald Hoxt
on is known about London as a man who plays cards too well and too often. Lady Alicia owes him 3,400 pounds, and he is pressing her for payment.
“Miss Matilda Snooperton is a rather unattractive lady, with a penchant for blackmail and illicit liaisons. She has managed to snare a rather unworldly University don, Nigel Davies, but at the same time she is carrying on an affair with Lord Algernon, who has wearied of it. He tells her Saturday that they are through and the best he will do is give her a ticket to Venice.
“Miss Susannah Greatheart is enamored of Nigel Davies and very bitter over his involvement with the insidious Miss Snooperton. She is quite pretty and rather naive and doesn’t realize that Lord Algernon has taken a fancy to her.
“Agnes, the maid, is fiercely loyal to her mistress and quite eager to pass on to the police any information she has that would compromise the other guests.
“Lady Alicia professes to have no interest in Miss Snooperton, terms her a dear girl, but she is quite snide about Susannah Greatheart.
“So who did the dastardly deed?”
“Hoxton,” a voice rumbled.
“Susannah Greatheart! She’s a thief.”
“Daves, that’s the ticket!”
The Mystery Night participants exploded in chatter. It took Annie a couple of minutes to quiet them down.
“Here is what actually happened. Saturday morning Miss Snooperton sees Lady Alicia in a clandestine meeting at the gazebo with Mr. Hoxton. Lady Alicia gives him her ruby necklace, which is famous throughout England. Miss Snooperton threatens to tell Lord Algernon unless Lady Alicia pays her a substantial sum. Of course, our gambling Lady Alicia is strapped, or she wouldn’t have agreed to give the necklace to Hoxton in the first place. She tells Miss Snooperton to meet her at the arbor after tea. They meet, Lady Alicia snatches up a croquet mallet, and that is the end of Miss Snooperton’s career in extortion. Lady Alicia’s motive, of course, is twofold. Lord Algernon mustn’t learn that the necklace has gone to Hoxton, and she is furious over Algernon’s involvement with Miss Snooperton. To pay off Hoxton without discovery, she had recently had a copy made of the necklace. However, now she knows there will be a murder investigation. She decides to confuse the issue by pretending that her necklace has been stolen, in hopes the murder will be linked to the robbery. In the excitement after she announces the robbery, she takes Hoxton aside and tells him that she returned to her room, found her copy gone, and had no choice but to reveal it had been stolen.
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