by Carolyn Hart
Pamela found a free ticket to the mystery cruise in her mailbox on Sunday afternoon. Pamela believed the ticket to be a gift from Annie.
Pamela fell (was pushed?) from the boat at approximately 10:40 P.M. Sunday. Emma Clyde reported that Pamela died early Monday morning at the hospital as a result of her injuries.
Meg Heath’s body was discovered by her secretary shortly after 9 A.M. Monday.
Max softly hummed Woody Guthrie’s “This Land Is Your Land,” which Annie would have recognized as a sign of rapid calculation. He started a new page:
Facts to Discover
What happened between Friday morning and Sunday afternoon to make Pamela’s death necessary?
Was Meg Heath likely to confide in someone as prim and proper as Pamela Potts?
Meg Heath was a very rich woman. Who inherits?
The phone rang. Max glanced at Caller ID. He yanked up the phone. “Hi, Ma.”
“Maxwell, dear”—his mother’s throaty voice always made him smile—“I understand dear Annie is once again violently tilting at windmills. I do urge—”
He raised an eyebrow. Surely Laurel wasn’t already aware of Meg Heath’s death and Annie’s intervention.
“—an emphasis upon creative synthesis. I am shocked by Meg’s death and so grateful Annie was there to prevent a miscarriage of justice—”
Max mentally tipped a top hat to his mother. He had no idea how she knew, but obviously her sources were impeccable.
“—although Emma—”
Aha! as Jan Karon’s Father Tim often exclaimed. All was now clear. Max doodled on his pad the blunt head of a shark with many teeth. A cell phone was pressed against the shark’s head. A dotted line snaked through space to a cell phone draped with a stethoscope.
“—is quite regretful that there can now be no possibility of working in the background without the murderer’s knowledge. Dear Annie, so forthright.”
There was a silence while she—and presumably he—acknowledged dear Annie’s unfortunate proclivity for forthrightness.
Max felt compelled to offer a defense. “Ma, she had to speak up. They were going to”—he paused, decided cart was not a graceful verb—“uh, take the body to the funeral home.”
“It would have been possible”—a gentle chiding laugh—“for the dear girl to privately contact Dr. Burford. However, be that as it may, we all must deal with the present situation”—her husky voice fell an octave—“a murderer en garde. Possibly poised to strike out at a pursuer.”
Max had a quick vision of a masked figure flailing a sword, a long, sharp, dangerous sword, at Annie. Not a pretty picture. He frowned.
“Maxwell”—the reassuring voice flowed over the line quick as balm applied to a burn—“we shall defend our Dear Child. Now, she will, of course, in her direct way seek facts.” Laurel’s tone dismissed facts as superfluous, unimportant, the small change of the petit bourgeois. “I urge creativity. If, as appears possible, dear Pamela and dear Meg were both victims, it seems clear the reason for the crime must have sprung from Meg’s life. Pamela’s placid existence was an open book. Meg’s unfettered exuberance, however, affords scope for inquiry. Therefore it is of the essence to understand Meg Heath. That, my dear Maxwell, is our charge. As Demosthenes observed: Though a man escape every other danger, he can never wholly escape those who do not want such a person as he to exist.” A reflective pause. Then the honey-smooth voice observed lightly, “And sometimes, ah well, a man can speak better to a man. I’ve heard that Meg once was very close to a charming fellow named Rodney St. Clair. A writer of sorts.” Another pause suggested myriad possible pursuits enjoyed by Mr. St. Clair. “Quite attractive to women. I understand he lives in Majorca. I suggest you have a chat with him. Apparently he and Meg were boon companions at one time. Meantime I shall seek visions of Meg, with the verve of a naturalist observing butterflies. Oh, the glory of monarchs and zebras, sulphurs and queens…. Ta ta.”
Max slowly replaced the receiver. He had that old familiar feeling often engendered by contact with his mother, as if he’d stepped into a spiderweb and was enmeshed in silken strands. But, with almost the inevitability of automatic writing, he added to his list:
4. Who was Meg Heath?
He swung about to face his computer, reached for the mouse, chose a search engine.
Annie heard her own voice, but the words sounded hollow even to her. “…so we’re sure”—Annie was sure—“Pamela was murdered. For Meg to die before anyone could ask her what she and Pamela did on Friday makes her death highly suspicious.”
Two hostile and angry women stared at her. Red stained Jenna’s pale cheeks. Claudette’s hand clung tightly to her pearl necklace.
Annie wasn’t surprised that her accusations of murder—Pamela pushed overboard, Meg a victim of some kind of drug or poison—produced shock and resentment.
Jenna twirled a silver bracelet on one wrist. “Nobody said anything last night about Pamela being pushed overboard. And even if somebody did push Pamela, what would it have to do with Mother?”
Annie turned to Claudette. “Pamela came here every morning. Did she read the Gazette to Meg?”
Claudette slowly nodded. “Yes. What difference does that make?”
“Perhaps there was something in the Sunday paper that someone was determined to keep from Meg.” Annie wished she had Emma Clyde here to explain her theory. It sounded so unlikely that she rushed ahead.
“Or perhaps Meg had told Pamela something….” She trailed off.
Jenna and Claudette looked at Annie with similar expressions. Their faces didn’t hold contempt or dismissal, they held sudden knowledge.
Annie felt the same thrill a treasure hunter experiences when a lump beneath the sand is unearthed to reveal the dark gold of a Spanish doubloon. That instant of comprehension was hidden abruptly behind carefully bland expressions. But Annie knew what she’d seen.
“Something happened to Meg this weekend.” Annie’s voice was confident now. She knew she’d stumbled on the truth, a truth these women knew.
Silence held for an instant too long, then Jenna tossed her dark hair. “I’ll tell you what happened. She went on that stupid mystery cruise and overdid. She got too excited.”
Once again there was a ring of truth. Something had excited Meg, but Annie knew it wasn’t the mystery cruise. Jenna looked at Claudette, a wordless glance that held a meaning Annie couldn’t fathom.
“Yes, she got too excited.” Jenna spoke loudly.
“That’s what happened. That’s all that happened.” She glared at Annie. “She died because she had a weak heart, and you’re here trying to make it a mystery. That’s your business, isn’t it? But you aren’t going to capitalize on Mother’s death. I won’t let it happen.” For an instant, her face was warped by sheer misery.
“Mother would hate it.”
Annie didn’t back down. She doubted she’d be able to convince Billy that these women knew something important about Meg’s last weekend, but she was certain she was on the right track. “Pamela and your mother. Their deaths have to be linked.”
“Meg had congestive heart failure.” Claudette was peremptory.
“I know. But don’t you both want to be certain that’s why she died?” Annie looked from Claudette to Jenna.
Jenna’s face was stony. “Of course that’s why.”
Claudette half turned to look up the stairs toward the room where Meg had lived and died. There was an odd, considering expression on her face.
Jenna’s breath came in quick-drawn gasps. “I’ll call the hospital. I’ll stop this.” She swung away, her shoes clattering against the metal, taking fast steps, heading up the stairs.
Claudette’s voice was shaky but strong. “Jenna, wait.”
Jenna stumbled to a stop, whirled to stare down at Claudette. “You don’t believe her?” It was a plea for reassurance. She didn’t glance toward Annie.
Claudette stretched out her hands. “Jenna, we have to find out. We have to
be certain. If someone killed Meg and we didn’t do anything about it, she’d be furious! You know how she hated to be cheated.”
“But why would anyone—” Jenna broke off, and once again she and Claudette exchanged wordless glances. Jenna’s voice was harsh. “She got too excited and her heart gave out.” Jenna darted up the stairs, her shoes clacking on the metal steps.
Annie started after Jenna. If Jenna called Dr. Burford, Annie wanted to hear what was said. She heard Claudette coming up the stairs behind her.
Jenna hurried through the open bedroom door, then stopped, her eyes on the rumpled bed.
Claudette came past Annie, slipped her arm around Jenna’s shoulders. “She looked like she was asleep.” Her voice was soft.
Her face a mask of misery, Jenna clutched at her throat.
Annie’s gaze once again swept the long room. This end was a bedchamber with a delicately feminine white bedstead. A low line of bookcases, the book jackets bright swaths, separated the bedroom from a magnificent living room. All the furniture in the living area was white with crimson and navy cushions. A woven white carpet covered the floor. Artwork included a huge brass gong, vivid Chinese ceramics, and glass sculptures of shells and crescents and spokes. Plump-cushioned sofas formed a semicircle facing the sea.
The sea was everywhere visible through floor-to-ceiling sheets of glass that served as walls. Blinds controlled by a switch were embedded between the panes. The blinds facing the sea were open. Two archways decorated with Moorish tiles led to balconies. Beyond glass doors were screen doors so the room could be open in fall and spring to prevailing breezes. The room bespoke luxury, taste, and a passion for freedom.
“Meg loved this room and the balconies.” Claudette absently brushed a piece of lint from the back of a sofa. “It didn’t matter that she was ill. Here she could see forever. Ships and birds, storms with the waves crashing. If she couldn’t sleep, she watched the moonlight on the sea and opened the doors to the balcony to hear the surf.”
Annie walked across the white woven rug, her steps making no sound. She stopped at the first arch, opened the door. The screen wasn’t latched. Annie looked back across the room. “This door isn’t locked. Or the screen either.”
Claudette looked surprised. “Why lock them? It’s the second story.”
Annie pulled open the screen and stepped onto the balcony, bright with terra cotta planters of begonias and white wicker furniture with yellow cushions. At one end of the balcony there was an opening in the railing for a small elevator. Annie looked at it in surprise, then realized it had probably been added to the house after Meg became ill and was no longer able to climb the stairs to the house.
Annie walked to the railing, looked down. Metal fretwork, painted the signature white of the house, decorated the columns all the way to the ground.
Any fairly agile person could climb a column to the balcony.
One chair was close to the railing. A shawl lay across a footstool. A wineglass with a small residue sat atop a glass table next to the chair.
Annie stepped back into the long room, closed the door behind her, stood in front of it. “There’s a wineglass on the table outside.”
“Meg always drank a glass of sherry at bedtime. We were out late, of course, but I saw her light on after I went to bed. I’m sure she went out on the balcony to drink her sherry.” Claudette’s voice was bleak. “I’ll get the glass—”
“No.” Annie held up a hand. “Don’t touch anything.” Her eyes scanned the living area, stopped at a sideboard. A crystal decanter held richly russet wine.
“Can we lock this room, keep everyone out?”
“We could.” Claudette looked at the gleaming crystal and its dark contents.
Jenna, too, stared at the sherry. “That’s dreadful.” She spoke in a bare whisper. “You think someone poisoned Mother.” She shuddered. “I’ve got to go to Jason. Tell him.” She whirled, hurried from the room.
Annie looked once more toward the balcony and the single glass resting on the small wrought-iron table. “I’m going to call the police.”
Six
“ANNIE”—MAVIS CAMERON was hurried but definite—“Billy said to tell you he’s busy.”
Annie’s hand tightened on the cell phone. Although Mavis was an old friend, her job at the police station made her the guard at the gate. Of course, Billy probably thought Annie was calling to voice her opposition to a verdict of accidental death at the inquest.
“I’m not calling about Pamela.” To herself she amended silently, not exactly. Annie kept her voice level, though she knew she was about to toss the equivalent of a stick of dynamite. “I’m calling about Meg Heath. She died last night and Dr. Burford has authorized an autopsy. I’m at her house. She drank a glass of wine before she went to bed and I think the contents of the decanter and the glass should be analyzed.”
“Hold on.” Mavis’s voice was steady but excited.
There was silence on the line. Annie held and braced for a confrontation.
A click. “Stay there. Billy’s on his way.”
The transatlantic connection crackled, but the sense of time and space was bridged by the vigor of the acidulous voice. “My dear boy, it’s like asking me to capsulize the sinking of the Titanic. Let me see.” A musing tone. “The greatest ship ever launched met an iceberg and went down while the band played on. There you go. In a sentence. To sum up Meg Heath: beauty, elegance, fascination. Every man who ever met her was enchanted. Meg”—his sigh was regretful—“was the one woman I never forgot. I actually asked her to marry me.” Remembered surprise lifted his voice. “And marriage was never my aim with women. No, dear boy, if an old man can give you a bit of advice: Love them. Leave them. Promise the world and have a ticket to Singapore in your pocket.” His chuckle was rich and unaffected.
Max tilted back his chair, crossed his feet, and prepared to enjoy his visit with Rodney St. Clair, roué, world traveler, and long-ago friend (the word can encompass many meanings) of the late Meg Heath. “She turned you down?”
“Scruples.” He tossed up the word like a juggler spotting an exotic interloper among his dancing objects. “And it was such a small matter. A lady wrote me some indiscreet letters. I was quite willing to return them, and I saw nothing wrong with accepting a bit of a gift from her. Actually it was a substantial sum, enough for Meg and me to enjoy a lengthy stay in Monte Carlo. We could have had such fun. As for the lady, she was exceedingly grateful that her husband was spared reading the missives. I thought Meg’s response was rather unkind. Certainly it wasn’t a matter of blackmail. Simply a quid pro quo. The fellow was most disgustingly rich, so nobody suffered. That’s what I told Meg. In fact, I was rather proud of how I brought it off. But Meg said, ‘Rodney, you are great fun but you have on blinders when it comes to right and wrong.’ She made me give the money back. Funny. I wouldn’t have done that for anyone but Meg.” His pause was thoughtful. “Now you say someone may have eased Meg out the door. You know, you might look about to see if Meg pointed out the error of his ways to the wrong chap.”
For the second time that morning Annie stood in the sun—hotter now, the moist air steamy—at the base of the corkscrew stairs and listened to an approaching siren. She wondered if Billy was coming hell-for-leather to arrest her. She hadn’t even had a chance to explain. Her eyes widened. Not one siren, two.
Billy slammed out of his patrol car. The forensic van pulled up behind him, Lou Pirelli driving, Frank Saulter his passenger. Lou was stocky with curly dark hair and a pleasant face. He looked like a nice girl’s big brother, which, in fact, he was. Lou was Billy’s sole staff since the call-up of the reserve unit had taken not only the chief, Pete Garrett, but the force’s second patrolman. Lou’s passenger, Frank Saulter, was the retired chief with whom Billy had worked for many years before Pete’s arrival. Frank was always willing to help out on a volunteer basis. Frank’s face beneath an iron-gray crew cut was furrowed in tight lines, he struggled with dyspepsia, and he had a
short fuse. He was one of Annie’s oldest and best friends on the island.
“I don’t understand.” Claudette peered toward the car and van. “Why have so many come?”
Annie didn’t understand either. It wouldn’t take every lawman on the island, past and present, for Billy to tell Annie she was out of line.
Billy didn’t have his pugnacious look. Annie breathed a little easier. In fact, he looked serious, intent, and purposeful. He strode toward them, stopped a scant foot away, looked from Annie to Claudette. Lou and Frank came up on either side of him.
Annie made the introductions. “…Claudette was Meg’s secretary. She found Meg this morning.”
“And you came—” Billy gave her a sharp look.
“We’ll get into that later. How did you know she didn’t die of natural causes?”
“She didn’t?” Abruptly everything clicked into place, Billy’s arrival, the forensic van. “You’ve talked to Dr. Burford.” Billy wasn’t here because of Annie’s call. He was here because the results of the toxicology tests had caused Dr. Burford to contact the police.
“What killed her, Billy?”
“A bunch of tranquilizers. Valium. Too many to be an accident.” He looked toward the secretary. “What’s her mood been lately?”
Claudette was slow in answering. “Meg was ill. She’d been ill for a long time. She had”—a cautious pause—“overdone this weekend. But her mood was quite good last night. Are you suggesting Meg might have taken something deliberately? Committed suicide? That”—again a thoughtful pause—“would not be likely.”
Annie watched Claudette. She had a sense of struggle within. The secretary struck her as a precise, careful woman with a strong core of honesty. She wouldn’t take the easy route of blaming Meg’s death on suicide.
Billy hooked his thumbs into his belt. “No signs of depression, anything like that?”
Claudette lightly touched her pearl necklace. Her face was composed, her eyes shadowed. She chose her words carefully. “She had a serious heart condition. She was often quite weak and tired, but she lived every day to the fullest.” The tone was almost, but not quite, admiring. “She insisted on going on the mystery cruise and she had a wonderful time. Of course, she was terribly tired when we got home. You say it couldn’t have been an accidental overdose. But she might have made a mistake….”