Honeymoon With Murder

by Carolyn G. Hart

  So Annie and Max were out of the ordinary. Max leaned on the Maserati’s horn; Annie gestured frantically out the open window for the raising of the barrier.

  The freckle-faced guard punched the button to lift the white wooden bar. “What’s wrong? Somebody sick?”

  As the sports car leapt forward, Annie called back: “Police. Call the police! To Nightingale Courts.”

  The guard’s reply, if any, was lost in the high whine of the motor and the rush of wind through the open windows. Annie clung to a passenger strap above the door and remembered why it wouldn’t do much good to call the police. Chief Saulter was in Germany, where his only daughter was scheduled to have her baby within a week. That left only Billy Cameron, a stalwart but youthful patrolman, who had the largest collection of Dick Tracy comics on the island. (And he never missed a mystery novel by the present author of the Tracy strips, Max Allan Collins.)

  But something dreadful had happened to Ingrid, and Billy Cameron would be better than no one.

  Annie struggled not to imagine what might have caused Ingrid’s voice to rise in such fear and horror. “Faster,” she urged.

  But Max already had the sports coupe at eighty, and it took all his driving skill and a lot of luck to brake hard and avoid a collision with a bristly black boar that bared knife-sharp tusks before bolting back into the thick scrub. After dark, the island came alive with prowling, dangerous predators. But that was in the forests and swamps, Annie tried to reassure herself. It was still safe enough on Broward’s Rock never to lock a door.

  But Ingrid had screamed.

  As they careened around the last curve and the headlights threw the arch with its dark blanket of honeysuckle into bold relief, Annie felt an uncomfortable wash of déjà vu. Just as it had that morning, utter peace reigned at Nightingale Courts, although this was the somnolent and deceptive tranquillity of the darkest watch of the night. It is at night most often that three-foot cottonmouths rear their sleek heads above the water to glide in deadly pursuit of frogs and turtles, and sharp-teethed red foxes stalk marsh rabbits and nesting birds.

  The headlights briefly illuminated a central expanse of gritty grey dirt with a sparse crop of grass and the cabins curving in a semicircle along the marsh. As the car jolted to a stop, Max switched off the lights.

  All the cabins were dark. A lone lamppost to one side of the entrance arch cast a feeble golden glow that only emphasized the heavy pall of darkness. Out into the salt marsh and beyond into the sound, the presence of the water could be sensed rather than seen.

  “I don’t like this. Stay here, Annie.”

  As Max slid from his seat, Annie followed suit, not even bothering to reply.

  A heavy fluttering noise caused her to grab his hand, then drop it immediately as she recognized the passage of a great horned owl.

  She was right on Max’s heels when they reached Ingrid’s cabin.

  “Ingrid?”

  His call was soft, and Annie understood. It was so quiet. So still. Annie tried to batter down the horrid images that kept rising in her minds eye. Ingrid would have rushed to them, if she were there. If she were able. There’s nothing wrong, she reassured herself. Some scare that Ingrid will explain. You’ve just read too many mysteries. That’s why your heart is thudding.

  The screen door was closed, but beyond it, Ingrid’s front door stood ajar.

  This time Max didn’t speak. He took Annie by the elbow and pushed her firmly to one side, then eased open the screen, kicked the door wide, and groped for the light switch.

  Annie would never forget the scene that flashed into view: Max leaning forward in a crouch, his fists balled, ready to attack; the familiar shabby gentility of Ingrid’s living room, petit point cushions on the cheerful chintz sofa, linen drapes in cobalt blue with a design of white shasta daisies, an eighteenth-century whatnot with her treasured collection of redware, and bookcases everywhere, reflecting Ingrid’s many and varied interests—classic mysteries, Greek archeology, American history, Chaucerian England, Victorian antiques—and, in the center of the room, staring sightlessly up at the stippled plaster ceiling, the body spread-eagled on the blue-and-grey hooked rug. Even in that first shocked glance, Ingrid her prime concern, Annie recognized Jesse Penrick and wondered what in the hell he was doing there, clad as usual all in navy blue, except for his bare, white feet. A pair of sneakers and two socks lay beside him.

  “Ingrid!” Annie pushed past Max, keeping to the left to avoid Jesse’s body. It was too late to help Jesse now. Circling to the kitchen, she flicked on the light. No one. Nothing. But the back door stood open.

  Max called from the living room. “No one in the bedroom or bath. Annie, she isn’t here.”

  They searched again, avoiding looking at the body and most carefully avoiding sight of the sword protruding from his chest. They looked behind the couch, opened the front closet, checked the bedroom closet, peered beneath the canopied rice bed.

  “I’ll get a flashlight from the car.” Max ran out into the darkness.

  Annie followed and stood on the low steps of the cabin. Now she didn’t give a damn about nighttime quiet. “Ingrid?” she shouted. “Ingrid?”

  Up the road a siren sounded. Lights began to flicker on. A door opened and a man’s slurred, deep voice demanded: “What the hell. What the hell?”

  Shouts. Calls. Billy Cameron’s dust-churning arrival. The slurred, deep voice rising again angrily, “Where’s Ingrid? What the hell d’you mean, a body? Goddammit, where’s Ingrid?”

  Lights spilled from all the cabins now, except Cabin One. Car headlights crisscrossed the dusty central area.

  Max took charge. “Everybody who has a flashlight, go get it and bring it back here,” he ordered. “We’ll start the search along the shore—”

  “Wait a minute, Mr. Darling. Wait a minute!” Billy Cameron backed out of Ingrid’s cabin and turned to face the milling crowd. His youthful face was pale. “Who’s missing? Who’re you hunting for?”

  A bulky man in his sixties tried to shove past Max. “What the hell’s going on here? Where’s Ingrid?” He glared up the Steps at Billy. “What’re you doing in her cabin?” Despite crumpled khaki trousers, a faded cotton sports shirt that looked slept in, and the whisky-slurred voice, the man had an air of authority. He lifted his hand, quieting the chattering cabin residents pulled from their beds by the siren and the shouts. “What’s all this about a body?” he demanded.

  Annie answered. “Ingrid called. At my house. Just after midnight. She was frantic—she asked for help, then the connection was broken, so my husband and I raced over here.” Annie gestured toward Max. Husband. “But when we arrived, Ingrid’s house was dark. The door was partially open. We went inside and found the body—”

  “Whose body, for Christ’s sake?” Her inquisitors nostrils flared. He was balding and bifocaled, with a large, moon-shaped fece, powerful shoulders, and stocky legs. Not a man to trifle with.

  “Jesse Penrick.”

  Max completed it. “He’s lying in the center of the living room on his back. There’s a sword stuck in his chest.”

  A low, shocked murmur rose from the watchers.

  “Where’s Ingrid?” The older man chopped off the words.

  “We don’t know,” Annie cried. “Not in the house. Not anywhere we can find.”

  “Then we’ve got to search,” he stormed. His blunt head swung toward Billy, and the lights from the patrol car glittered on his wire-frame glasses. “Goddammit, stop standing there! Let’s organize. We’ve got to find Ingrid.”

  Billy flushed. “Who’re you?”

  “Duane Webb. Cabin Four. If it matters a goddam. C’mon. You’ve got a flash in your patrol car.” Webb glanced toward Max. “You’ve got a flash. I’ll grab one from my place. That gives us three. We’ll split up.”

  “Women see quite as well as men in the dark,” an acidulous voice announced.

  “All right, Adele, you lead the women. Check down by the shore and the piers. You”�
�the commanding finger jabbed again at Max—“you go south. I’ll—”

  Billy yelled, “Wait a minute, mister! This is a murder investigation. You people are going to trample everything—”

  “Cop, you go cuddle the goddam body. Jesse wasn’t worth shit alive, and he’s not worth that much dead. We’re looking for a woman who’s probably being held hostage right this minute by a killer. You worried about warm flesh or cold?”

  Billy struggled to look as though he were in charge. Drawing himself up to his full six foot three, he said bullishly, “You people stay clear of this cabin. I’m going to radio to the mainland for help.”

  A motorboat roared to a stop at the far end of one of the piers. Everyone swung round to look toward a man in navy blue warmups who swarmed up a ladder, then jogged up to join them.

  As he came into the light from the patrol car, Annie waved hello and saw total surprise in his eyes. Which was understandable. The last time they’d exchanged glances was at the reception, when he’d lifted a glass of champagne in toast to her and Max as they danced by They knew him only casually, but they’d invited all the harbor merchants and their employees to the wedding. He worked for Betsy Raines at the Piping Plover Gallery, one of the shops that faced on the plaza side. Alan. That was it. Alan Nichols. The newcomer looked past Annie at the young patrolman. “What’s going on? A boat out? I saw the lights from across the inlet. My cabin’s over there. Can I help?”

  Clearly, Billy Cameron wished the earth would swallow up at least a half dozen of these interfering bystanders. Before the policeman could explain what little he knew, Duane Webb accepted the offer. “Ingrid’s missing, Alan. We’re going to search. Be glad of your help.”

  “Sure thing. Do anything I can.”

  Billy said sharply, “Stay clear of this cabin,” and started for the squad car.

  He was intercepted by a plump little woman wearing a turban and a housecoat with cardinals fluttering among thumb-thick green vines. “Officer, Officer, is there a dangerous maniac running loose? Who’s been killed? What’s happened? I told Ingrid there was a black cloud. I could see it drooping above her head. It was so real I could almost reach out and touch it.” Her voice rose into a keen. “Black. Black. The color of death.”

  “Ophelia, shut your goddam mouth,” Webb snarled. “You’re a bore and an idiot, and we don’t need any of your witless maunderings. All right, let’s get started, everybody.” He wheeled around and headed for Ingrid’s cabin.

  “Mister. Hey, mister, you stay the hell out of that cabin!” Billy’s face was red now with frustration.

  Webb stumped toward Ingrid’s carport, shouting over his shoulder. “Coing to look in the damn car, then search the goddam premises. Which should have been done immediately.”

  The young policeman started after him, then whirled and ducked back into the squad car, leaning in to grab up his microphone.

  Annie felt a quiver of dread. The microphone. Calling for help from the mainland. Oh, my God. Hurriedly, she poked her head in the squad car’s open back window. “Billy, don’t worry. I’ll stand guard over the body.”

  He flashed her a grateful glance, then, as static crackled, turned back to his microphone.

  Max was staring at her in surprise.

  Annie gave a tiny jerk of her head, and Max followed her out of earshot.

  She stood on tiptoe and whispered: “Help hunt for Ingrid. I’d better see what I can find out in her cabin. Because you know what will happen when Posey takes over.”

  Instant comprehension registered on his handsome face. “Oh, God,” he muttered. “I hadn’t thought about it. Of course. With Saulter out of the country, the world’s premier ass, Circuit Solicitor Brice Willard Posey, will swoop across the sound. We’ll never find Ingrid, he’ll be so busy posturing. Right.”

  “Come on, come on,” Webb shouted from the shadows near the cabin.

  Max gnawed unhappily at his lip. “Annie, I hate to see you stuck in there with a corpse. But I don’t want you out in the boondocks with a killer loose.”

  “I’m not worried about that. Only a very dumb killer would still be hanging around, after the massive amount of noise and confusion erupting here. I want to give that cabin a once-over, while I have the chance. Posey’s such an idiot he wouldn’t recognize a clue if it ran up and hugged him.”

  “True enough. Okay, honey. Have at it.” He took time to give her a swift kiss on the cheek.

  As he turned to go, she stared out through the darkness toward the inkier splotch that was the marsh. “Max, what’s happened to Ingrid?”

  He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached out, gave her shoulder a hard squeeze, then pivoted to follow Webb.

  Annie shot a quick glance at Billy, still talking rapidly on his radio, and moved swiftly toward Ingrid’s cabin.

  She wouldn’t have much time.

  She wasn’t sure what she was going to do, but she had a deep-down, gut feeling that she’d better be prepared to figure out what had happened in Ingrid’s cabin. Finding Ingrid was priority No. One, but Brice Posey had a genius for getting everything wrong. He was quite capable of deciding Ingrid’s disappearance was immaterial to the murder investigation. She could hear him now, his piglike eyes bulging, his nose flared, “Irrelevant and immaterial, Miss Laurance.”

  Again, that funny little shock of surprise. She wasn’t Miss Laurance any more. Mrs. Darling. Mrs. Maxwell Darling. Annie Darling. Annie Laurance-Darling?

  Annie used the edge of her blue linen jacket to grasp the screen-door knob, trying not to smudge any prints. Of course, Max had touched it already and so had Billy Cameron. She used her shoulder to nudge the door wide enough to slip inside, then took a steadying breath.

  It was time to stop ignoring the body.

  Jesse’s wasn’t a prepossessing corpse. The face was a waxy yellowish color. Deeply grooved lines led from the sharply curved nose to thin lips, stretched now in a mockery of a smile. Locked in an upward glare, the lifeless eyes glittered, as if they’d once delighted in taunts and now enjoyed a final, malevolent triumph. But there was something oddly vulnerable about the pale white of his bare feet. Had he taken off his sneakers and socks? If so, why? Although Annie wasn’t of a housekeeperish turn of mind, she observed that the thick bluish crew socks were once white cotton, tossed into too many washes with Jesse’s perennial navy blue turtlenecks.

  Annie shook her head impatiently. Time was fleeting. Posey might arrive at any moment and toss her out of the cabin. So, she’d better get busy. The first task of any detective was to describe the scene. What would Inspector Luke Thanet do?

  She scrabbled in her purse, found a crumpled paper napkin (Annie & Max), smoothed it out, and drew a quick sketch, which she labeled SCENE OF THE CRIME.

  She found a second napkin, headed it DESCRIPTION OF CRIME SCENE, and rapidly listed the following:

  Murder victim found in living room in the residence of Ingrid Jones, manager of Nightingale Courts.

  (Oh, Ingrid, dear Ingrid, where are you? Are you frightened? Hurt? Alive?)

  Living room measures approximately—Annie stepped it off—twelve by fourteen feet.

  Deceased found in center of room lying on back atop a hooked rug. Fully dressed except for bare feet. Sneakers and socks next to body.

  Victim identified as Jesse Penrick, a resident of Nightingale Courts. Identification made by Annie Laurance.

  She was ready to make her next notation when she paused and added Darling to the last line.

  Front door open when discovery made.

  Back door open.

  Criminal not apprehended at scene.

  Occupant of death residence missing. Search begun.

  Annie stopped writing and lifted her head, listening to faraway shouts of “Ingrid? Ingrid?” It made it hard to maintain her impersonal tally, but she kept at it.

  No indication of a struggle. Couch cushions in place, chairs in accustomed locations.

  Drapes drawn for the night, hanging straight an
d unruffled.

  Overlapping magazines on coffee table arranged with precision.

  Telephone in place on table next to kitchen door, receiver resting snugly in cradle.

  Hooked rug unscuffed on pine floor.

  She chewed reflectively on her pencil. If someone had struggled with Jesse—and surely he hadn’t stood there tamely, barefooted, and permitted his chest to be used for sword practice—why wasn’t the rug rumpled and scuffed?

  And a sword, for God’s sake?

  A sword.

  Annie felt a tightening in her chest. Her head swung to the left, and her horrified gaze sought the mantel behind the couch. Ingrid kept mementos there, a blue brush pot of Canton ware from her trip to China, a knobby chunk of driftwood from Carmel, a ceramic sheepdog from Ireland.

  Pride of place, however, was reserved for the highly polished oblong of mahogany above the mantel. Mounted upon it was the sword that Ingrid’s great-grandfather carried at the Battle of Gettysburg.

  The plaque was there.

  The sword was not.

  Annie looked back at the body.

  And the door creaked behind her.

  She spun around, then released her breath in relief as Billy Cameron hurried inside. He wiped his perspiring face. Billy had the wholesomeness of a rugby player, broad shoulders, strong, handsome features, and sandy hair with an appealing cowlick. “Posey’s on his way. I got to get started.” He whipped out a notebook, and it looked small in his hamster-sized hands. “Okay,” he muttered, “okay. Call from Halcyon guard at 12:41 A.M. Proceeded to site.” He looked up miserably at Annie. “God, I can’t explain all these people and the mess going on outside. Here I am, Chief Saulter gone, everything up to me, and if I don’t make a good report, Posey’ll laugh at us, say we run a hick outfit.” He shot a hostile glance at the corpse. “Trust Jesse Penrick to cause trouble, dead or alive.”