Honeymoon With Murder

by Carolyn G. Hart

  “Shh,” a nearby woman hissed, frowning darkly at them.

  “We may safely leave the pursuit of the criminal to our inimitable Henny while we concentrate upon our task, finding Ingrid. Our situation: after midnight last night, Ingrid Jones telephoned her closest friend and long-time employer, Annie Laurance-Darling—”

  “Mrs. Darling,” Max growled.

  “—and indicated she was in jeopardy. Before she could continue, she screamed and line went dead. Mr. and Mrs. Darling—”

  “That’s more like it,” Max approved.

  “Shh.” Annie touched his lips with her finger.

  “—arrived to find Ingrid’s cabin unlocked.” Madeleine pointed to Cabin 3. “Inside, they found the body of Jesse Penrick, who lived in Cabin One. Search of premises revealed no trace of Ingrid Jones. Another resident of the courts, Duane Webb, organized hasty search. This search yielded no clue to Ingrid’s fate. During this time, the police arrived—”

  As if on cue, a squad car rolled up to the arch. Since the way was blocked, literally, by a hundred massed bodies, Posey was forced to clamber out of the car by the arch. He looked about as happy as a cotton farmer with a boll weevil invasion.

  Madeleine, obviously primed by Henny, gave a sidelong, satisfied glance and continued in a husky bellow. “And that is why we have had to organize to search for one of our own—the authorities have refused to seek Ingrid.”

  Posey’s face turned an interesting shade of puce, with perhaps a touch of orchid. Brusquely motioning onlookers out of his way, he picked up speed.

  “Mr. Circuit Solicitor!” She might sound like a foghorn, but every syllable rolled majestically across the courtyard.

  Annie began to have a good time. Her only regret was that Henny wasn’t there to see the success of her minions attack.

  Posey stood on Ingrid’s steps, his back to the crowd. But he knew there was a crowd. The politician warred with the prosecutor. It was no contest. He turned to face Madeleine, fury blazing in his eyes, but his mouth struggling for a smile. It was more revealing than he realized.

  “Yes, Mrs., uh—”

  “Madeleine Kurtz. Assistant director of the Broward’s Rock Search and Rescue Squad, presently serving as ad hoc director of the Citizens’ Search for Ingrid Jones. As leader of the volunteers, I demand to know what steps you are taking to investigate her disappearance.” Madeleine clearly intended to give no quarter.

  “As the prosecuting attorney whose duty it is to determine who shall be charged with the iniquitous homicide of your fellow island resident, Mr. Jesse Penrick, I am exploring the circumstances of his murder with all the facilities at—”

  “What about Ingrid’s abduction?” When Madeleine pursued a subject, she outdid a limpet.

  The puce turned to magenta, and his geniality collapsed faster than The Old Man in the Corner (Baroness Orczy’s famous detective) could untie complicated knots.

  “There was no abduction,” he thundered. “You people can search all you want to, but you’re hunting for a murderess who’s vainly attempting to escape the consequences of her crime. And I intend to swear out a warrant for her arrest this afternoon!”

  He turned, yanked open the door, and plunged into the cabin.

  Boos, hisses, and catcalls erupted from the crowd.

  Madeleine gave a thunderous tattoo on the pie tin. Her eyes blazed fanatically. “We shall not quail before our task! We shall hunt in the swamps, through the woods, along creek banks, in pastures. We shall remain faithful and committed, and all of us, from myself to Ingrid’s devoted employers”—heads turned toward Annie and Max, waves and smiles—“to our oldest living islander”—ninety-six-year-old Matilda Kraft smiled smugly—“shall be in force here, day and night, in this tent city, until Ingrid is restored to us.”

  Hurrahs. Stamping feet. Huzzahs. An Amen or two. The juiced-up recruits stormed to the command table and eagerly lined up in groups of four to receive their assignments.

  “Night and day. Day and night,” Max muttered.

  Annie scarcely heard him. She stared at the closed door to Cabin 3—and pulsed with fury.

  “Calling Ingrid a murderess! I’d like to murder him!”

  “Hush,” Max urged.

  “He can’t get away with this! It’s the most idiotic thing he’s ever done in a career that specializes in idiocy!” She started for the cabin.

  Max and Alan hurried behind her, Max warning, “Now, Annie, cool it. We can’t do Ingrid any good by making him madder,” and Alan asking, “What’s going on? What’s with that guy? Annie, what are you going to do?”

  Undeterred, Annie stamped up the cabin steps and pounded on the door—then kicked it for good measure.

  Posey yanked open the door. “Ms. Laurance—”

  Max leaned over her shoulder. “Mrs. Darling.”

  “Posey, don’t be an ass!” Annie shouted tactfully.

  Posey’s cheeks puffed out.

  She charged ahead. “You have no right to call Ingrid a murderess. If somebody’s killed her, it’s going to be your fault. You haven’t even tried to find her, and we’re citizens, and I demand you help look for her. Get some helicopters; call out the national guard.”

  “Ah, Ms. Laurance.”

  “Mrs. Darling,” Max said insistently.

  Posey ignored him. “It is a felony to impede an officer of the law in the pursuit of his duties.”

  “Then you ought to be arrested,” she fumed. “Who killed Penrick? Why? When? Get the answers, and we’ll know who took Ingrid—and then we can find her.”

  “Oh, we’ll find her, Ms. Laurance. Don’t worry about that.” And he slammed the door in their faces.

  “Mrs. Darling!” Max yelled after him.

  But Annie wasn’t paying attention. She stood on the steps, her fists clenched, her face flushed, her eyes fiery.

  “I’ll find out,” she snarled after Posey through gritted teeth. “Just you wait and see. I’ll find out.” She whirled toward Max.

  Her husband, his face grave, looked at her and slowly nodded agreement.

  “It’s up to us, isn’t it?” she demanded, stalking down the steps.

  “Absolutely.” Max’s voice was crisp as he walked with her.

  Annie stopped and looked toward the command post and the tent city. Search parties were beginning to disperse. “There are enough searchers.”

  Again, Max nodded. “Penrick’s murderer knows what happened to Ingrid. And Posey won’t look for him. So we will.”

  Alan’s jaw dropped, and he stared at them in frank astonishment. He shoved a hand through his unruly chestnut hair. “How the hell can you do that?”

  “Just like the police do,” Annie said briskly. “Fact by fact. The first thing to do is hold a council of war on Jesse.”

  “He’s dead,” Alan observed blankly.

  “Sure,” Max agreed. “But why? That’s the question.”

  Annie picked up the refrain. “Who hated him? Who was afraid of him? Who was he?”

  “Oh, didn’t you know him?” Alan asked. “He was a runty little guy, about five foot three, weighed maybe a hundred twenty pounds max, soaking wet. Had a mean face, rode a schlocky old green bike everywhere.”

  “I know that.” Annie was impatient. “I used to see him prowling around in the alley behind the shops. A scavenger. Always looking for anything thrown out that he could use or sell. You knew him, didn’t you, Max?”

  Max nodded. “I’d seen him around. Somebody told me he used to work at Hennessey’s Marine.”

  “But we must find out more about him,” Annie continued. “What was he really like? What kind of man was he?”

  “A talky old bastard,” Alan offered. “Used to hear him at Parotti’s bar. ‘People are no damn good, no damn good.’”

  Annie looked at Alan in surprise. She’d only heard Jesse speak once or twice, but Alan had perfectly caught the oily high voice with its thick undercurrent of unpleasantness.

  “Oh, that’s wonderful
,” she said admiringly.

  He gave a modest shrug, but followed up quickly with a gruff rendition of Humphrey Bogart and a mellifluous Ronald Reagan.

  “Fantastic,” she cried.

  Max’s eyes narrowed to slits. “But not really on point. How did you happen to know Jesse?”

  “Just saw him around. I live over there.” Resting one hand on Annie’s shoulder Alan pointed across the inlet at a cabin just visible through clumps of bayberry and sea myrtle.

  The pressure of his hand was perhaps just a shade too friendly. Max’s face congealed like Sgt. Buck’s when he observed Col. Primrose with Mrs. Latham. The hand gave another squeeze. Annie gracefully slipped free and stepped a little closer to Max, who still looked like Agatha eyeing a field rat. Damn, married life was complicated. She would have to explain to Max that Alan couldn’t help it. She’d seen him at work at Betsy’s shop, and he was one of those kind of men who automatically come on to any women between thirteen and seventy. And he did have an undeniable charm. But this was no time for Max to get bogged down in hostility.

  “Our job is to find out everything we can about Jesse,” she said firmly, to recapture Max’s attention. “Max, why don’t you get started rounding up information on Jesse and everyone living around here. And I’ll sniff around here.” She glanced at the stuccoed cabins, glistening pinkly in the morning sunlight. They looked as serene as pop art. She wondered how Miss Seeton might have sketched them.

  “Sniff around here?” Alan repeated.

  Annie smiled encouragingly. After all, Alan didn’t have their background.

  “Sure,” she said confidently. “This is just the case for a P.I.”

  Alan still looked lost.

  “A private investigator,” she explained kindly. “You know. Like V.I. Warshawski.” (If she wasn’t ignoring the snow on her morning five-mile run to Belmont Harbor and back.) “Or Mark Savage.” (If he would take the time from his amorous pursuits.) “Or J. D. Mulroy.” (She could always be counted upon to know what string to pull for helpful information.)

  Their number was legend, and anything they could do, Annie could do better.

  Maybe.

  EIGHT

  Sunday morning

  The onshore breeze didn’t make a dent in Madeleine’s tightly coiffed iron-grey hair. She saw off the last of the searchers, some armed with poles to prod the five-foot stalks of cordgrass near the shore, then swung smartly about and marched toward Annie and her companions. Madeleine wore a brown T-shirt that sported a golden halo over an upraised but obviously feminine fist. The legend read: SURE, GOD LOVES MEN. SHE CAVE THEM WOMEN.

  “Ho there,” she greeted them.

  Annie smiled a welcome and noted looks of bland recalcitrance on the faces of Max and Alan. Chauvinist pigs, without doubt. Maxwell Darling would hear about this.

  “Bully turnout,” Madeleine bellowed happily. “Cracking good outfit.” She pointed with pride at the command table, covered with ordnance maps and a full aerial view of the island. Three khaki-clad women talked intently over field telephones. Occasionally, they turned to give information to two workers standing before a blackboard, marking the location of search parties.

  “Henny reorganized the Search and Rescue Squad when she took charge. This the first opportunity for all-out call to volunteers. She is pleased. Well, now, let’s see.” Madeleine rummaged in the front pockets of her baggy camouflage pants and triumphantly pulled out a list in crabbed printing, spiked with abbreviations. “Know you’re on here. Oh, yes. Det. info.” She jammed a hand into a hip pocket, pulled out a folded sheet of notepaper and handed it to Annie.

  Annie recognized the handwriting at once. What was Henny up to?

  “Good hunting,” Madeleine bellowed. “Keep in contact with command center. Henny will send all messages through us.” Giving a brisk salute, she swung away.

  Annie opened the note and read aloud:

  “On the trail. Jesse’s boat (battered metal rowboat) missing!!! Fisherman (Jed Gates) noticed it in place at sundown Saturday. Know this will add to Posey’s harebrained conviction Ingrid fled. Nonsense, but will refute when all is known. Continuing to seek out Jesse’s whereabouts Saturday. If I only had a bloodhound, who knows what I might discover! But fear not, we three sleuths shall triumph. H.

  P.S. More later.”

  Alan’s blue eyes were bewildered. “What good would a bloodhound do with a boat?”

  Annie wondered how to explain to Alan that Henny was, in her usual fashion, drawing upon a fictional sleuths thoughts, in this case, Anna Katharine Green’s Violet Strange in The Golden Slipper.

  She decided the explanation was beyond Alan, said vaguely, “Oh, just a figure of speech,” and moved on to the next postscript, with a worried glance at Max.

  Clearing her throat, she read in a rush, “P.P.S. Actually, we five sleuths. Laurel and Ophelia in psychic consultation. And who knows? Maybe ESP works.”

  “Oh, God,” Max moaned. He looked accusingly at Annie. “I thought Mother was at Death on Demand.”

  Annie scarcely felt that Laurel’s actions, wherever they might be taking place, were her responsibility. Since she couldn’t quite think of a nice way to phrase that, however, she remained silent.

  Max sighed. “I wish to God Mother wanted to save the whales. Or even chinchillas. I don’t see why she has to be into this mind-expansion thing!”

  Annie studiously looked down at Henny’s note.

  “I mean”—and his tone was aggrieved—“why can’t she be like other people’s mothers?”

  Since there obviously was no good answer to this, Annie continued to stand mute.

  Max shoved a hand through his thick blond hair. “Of course, she means well.”

  Annie thought about that well-paved road to hell. But she didn’t need a marriage primer to remind her to continue to keep her mouth shut. As in tightly closed.

  Alan saved the day. “Five sleuths? Hell, make that six. I’ll help.”

  It did deflect Max’s attention from the note. “That’s all right. We can handle it.”

  But Alan wasn’t to be dissuaded. “No kidding, I think Posey’s a jerk. I’ll do anything I can.” He glanced at his watch. “I have to open the gallery this afternoon. Betsy’s in San Francisco, so there’s just me. But I’ll come back tonight, so count me in.”

  Max was about as thrilled as Sam Spade with an invitation to a debutante ball.

  Annie said warmly, “That’s great, Alan. We’ll look forward to seeing you.”

  Max waited until he was out of earshot, then said grumpily, “Like a hole in the head.”

  “Max, jealousy doesn’t become you.”

  “I didn’t get married to spend every waking moment with some hot-handed refugee from a perfume factory draping his paws all over you.”

  Annie grinned. “I didn’t know you could wax so eloquent.”

  “I could do more than talk, if we could get out of here for a little while.” His handsome face suddenly took on a look of cunning. “Listen, maybe we could slip away to your place. Just for a little while. I mean, I have to shave. And nobody’ll miss us for—”

  It must have been something on the order of great minds working as one, for Madeleine bore down on them, waving bath towels that looked like Army issue. “Annie! Max! Henny thinks of everything! She’s delivered your luggage so you won’t have to take a minute off from the hunt. And Lavinia Melton’s just finished rigging up the outdoor showers.” She paused. “Men’s Side and Women’s Side, of course.”

  Annie didn’t look at Max. Some sights are better left unseen.

  Freshly showered and attired in a mint-green cotton top, white skirt, and white flats, Annie surveyed Nightingale Courts in the mid-morning sunlight and fought a wave of lassitude. She was so tired. Actually, she’d slept little for several days before the wedding, there was the high pitch of excitement of the wedding day, the trauma of Ingrid’s disappearance, the restless and very short stint of sleep in the communal tent. She fel
t too tired to put one foot before the other. But Kinsey Millhone never surrendered to fatigue.

  She looked toward Cabin One. Drawn window shades gave Jesse Penrick’s home a dark, closed look, despite the pink stucco exterior. She remembered the last time she’d seen him. He’d worn his inevitable dark blue turtleneck pull-over and tight dungarees. His beaked nose, thin greyish lips, and squinty blue eyes with their malevolent cast created an unpleasant impression. He looked sullen, hostile, and angry, the kind of man people might well not like. But it took more than dislike to fuel murder.

  She glanced toward Cabin 3. Ingrid’s drapes were drawn, too, but that was only because she wasn’t there to open them and let the sun shine in. Brilliant orange and yellow marigolds flourished in a front flower bed that glistened with pine needles, neatly herded there by a blower. Beside the carport, sweetgrass bloomed in pinkish masses like cotton candy. Beneath the carport sat Ingrid’s car, a new blue Pontiac. The presence of the car brought a sudden ache to Annie’s throat. Ingrid had been so proud of her car, the first one she’d ever bought brand new.

  By golly, Ingrid was going to have the joy of that car for years to come! Determination burned within Annie. What was it about Jesse Penrick that had caused his life to end so violently? It was up to her to find out. She felt a surge of energy. Michael Gilbert’s Henry Bohun rarely slept more than two hours a night, and look what he achieved as an investigator! Lifting her chin, Annie strode toward Cabin 2. Frilly white curtains hung in the windows, and green ceramic frogs perched on the front steps. Annie peered at the bright pink card taped beside the brass number. It read: OPHELIA BAXTER in black Gothic letters and Psychic Consultant in script. Oh, yes. Laurel’s gateway to the beyond. A pudgy guru in a red and green housedress and black turban. With chartreuse hair.

  The brass knocker was shaped like a pyramid.

  Annie knocked, waited a moment, knocked again.

  No answer.

  A sudden movement drew her eyes to the left-front window. The curtain rippled, then a gorgeous, furry face peered at her.

  “Anybody home?” Annie called.