Honeymoon With Murder

by Carolyn G. Hart

  Her chances of being taken seriously by the San Francisco police ranked right around zero. Max didn’t tell her that. Instead, he said, “You might get a private investigator there to look into it. It’s a big city, and the police probably have to have more to go on than you can give them.”

  In a moment, her voice once again firm and controlled, she said, “I will. And thank you, Mr. Darling.”

  After he hung up, Max doodled restlessly on his legal pad. He’d thought this would be a quick call, marking an end to this distraction from his efforts to find out more about the residents of Nightingale Courts. Instead, he was growing increasingly anxious about Betsy Raines.

  Ruth Jenson had had every reason to expect a telephone call that never came.

  Was she wrong in a daughter’s estimation of her mothers character? Had Betsy Raines looked for love in all the wrong places?

  His legal pad looked like a war zone, slashes, cross marks, arrows, circled names (Jesse Penrick, Ingrid Jones, Ophelia Baxter, Duane Webb, Adele Prescott, Mavis Beeson, Tom Smith), and now heavily inked question marks boxing Betsy Raines.

  He glanced down at his watch. Almost four. He wished Annie were here. Although her thought processes were often something on the order of Mexican jumping beans (erratic but interesting), he felt in desperate need of a Watson to bounce his thoughts off of, then maybe the day’s work wouldn’t seem quite so fruitless.

  Hell, he didn’t even know where Annie was! He began to feel aggrieved. Why wasn’t somebody (besides Laurel) evincing any interest in his efforts?

  He didn’t believe in sulking.

  He believed in action. Once again, he lifted the telephone receiver.

  Annie took another big bite of the candy bar—mmh, sheer delectable energy and to hell with blood-sugar levels—and stared at the note Madeleine Kurtz had given her.

  Henny was busy, that was for sure. But what good she thought she was accomplishing—Annie shook her head and reread the message:

  My dear chap! Oh, my dear chap! I am once again reaffirmed in my simple faith in facts. I abhor imagination; I just believe in evidence.

  Reggie Fortune, of course, H. C. Bailey’s plump, youthful-appearing, bighearted sleuth, who enjoyed all the good things of life, including his Rolls-Royce.

  In a more humdrum mode, the note continued:

  Traced Jesse’s activities Saturday morning. Appeared at Shangrila Travel Services about 10 A.M. Requested information on round-the-world cruises, departed with handful of travel brochures, NEVER KNOWN TO TAKE ANY JOURNEYS. Such a departure from routine must be significant!

  Annie drank deeply of her slushy from the Gas ’N Go. Henny was really reaching, although it did cast a different light on Jesse. It was the first fairly normal thing she’d learned about him. But, much more significant, in her mind, was Adele Prescott’s interesting revelations about Jesse’s propensity to play cruel jokes.

  Annie finished the last bite of candy and began to walk toward Cabin 7. The more she discovered about the residents and their tangled relations, the more certain she felt that the answer to this murder lay near, very near.

  Max was beginning to feel thwarted. Very thwarted. No word from anybody and no way to find anybody, meaning specifically Annie and Henny. Finally, he left messages at the command table for each to get in touch with him. What were they doing?

  From the mailboxes, Annie learned that Tom Smith lived in Cabin 7. She realized, as she knocked, that no one had mentioned Smith, and so far as she knew, she hadn’t met him. What was he doing when all the excitement erupted last night?

  When the door opened, she smiled. “Mr. Smith. I’m Annie Laurance. Darling.” She’d master it one of these days. “I’m a friend of Ingrid’s. May I talk to you for a moment?”

  His pale face stared at her with no change of expression. It wasn’t deliberately unpleasant. It was simply devoid of reaction. When she had almost decided he wasn’t going to let her in, he said dully, “All right.”

  He held the door for her. When she was inside, he turned and walked to a worktable and sat down. He picked up a miniature accordion and bent toward it. The room smelled of cloth, leather, paste, cigarette smoke, glue, metal, wood, paint, turpentine, and, faintly, underscoring them all, the unmistakable scent of marijuana. An entire wall was covered by shelving filled with every kind of assorted material. Another wall held shelf after shelf stacked with miniatures: tiny cracker barrels, ironing boards, wash tubs, canned goods, minute telephones, 1870 typewriters, dairy products, furniture of all American eras from colonial to art deco, hats, musical instruments, figures from an America that existed now only in yellowed photographs (Oliver Wendell Holmes as a private in the Fourth Battalion Infantry, Tallulah Bankhead in a flappers dress, Franklin Delano Roosevelt straining to stand with canes in the well of the House of Representatives), petite street cars, a wooden oil derrick, Model-T Fords, everything necessary to recreate a Lilliputian vision of the past.

  It was as if she weren’t there. Annie cleared her throat. “Do you fill orders, or just make what you want to?”

  He was absorbed in pasting tiny white keys. He bent over his work, his fingers moving with delicate precision. He was a spare man with once-reddish hair, now greying and thinning, pulled back tightly into a pony tail. His worn blue work shirt opened at the throat to reveal a knobby neck. The shirt showed signs of neat darning. He put the last sliver of ivory in place, then looked up at her, not so much hostile as uninterested.

  “Both. I fill orders and pick my own projects.” He spoke in a lifeless tenor, each word receiving equal weight. He capped the cement tube, carefully cleaned a tool that looked a little like a dentists pick, replaced it in a wooden case, then turned toward her.

  “Do you want to order a scene?” He made no effort at salesmanship. He merely looked at her from empty pale grey eyes.

  “You don’t know who I am?”

  “No. I’m sorry. Am I supposed to know you?”

  “I’m a friend of Ingrid’s. It was my husband and I who came last night and found Ingrid missing—and the body in her cabin.”

  “Oh.” That was all he said. No questions. No comments. No exhibition of concern over Ingrid or expression of interest in the fact that a man’s death had occurred not more than two hundred yards from where he lived.

  “Didn’t you hear all the noise last night?”

  He nodded slowly.

  “Did you come outside?”

  He studied a spot several feet to her right. “I thought there might be a fire. But I looked, and decided nothing was burning”

  “What did you do then?” She longed to grab his hunched shoulders and give them a vigorous shake.

  “I went back to bed.”

  “You didn’t come out to see what was happening? Or help in the search?”

  “No one asked me to,” he said simply. He dropped his gaze to his hands, which lay limp and unmoving atop the worktable.

  She was determined to break through his passivity. “Did Jesse Penrick threaten to turn you in for smoking pot?”

  This time he looked directly at her, but his grey eyes were still blank and incurious. “No.”

  “Did you ever talk to him?”

  He didn’t respond immediately. One bony hand lifted and tugged at his lip. “He was at Parotti’s sometimes.”

  “You talked to him?” Clarence Darrow couldn’t have been more persistent.

  “Sometimes.” His hand reached out for a cigarette.

  “What did you think of him?”

  He lit the cigarette, watched a coil of smoke drift upward. “I didn’t think about him.”

  “Did you like him?”

  “Like him?” Those pale grey eyes revealed nothing. “I never thought about him.”

  “Did you know that he snooped around?”

  There was just the merest flash in his eyes. And she could have sworn it was amusement. Then it was gone. “Did he?” Smith asked mildly.

  Annie hated to admit defeat. Inspecto
r Slack would never have given up. But she doubted that he would have done any better. Tom Smith was either just what he appeared to be, strange, remote, and passive, or he was as wily and devious as anyone she’d ever met. Helen McCloy would have had an instinct for the reality. Annie didn’t.

  She made a final effort. “What do you think happened? Who could have killed him?”

  “I don’t know.” He yawned. “I think it’s almost time for my dinner.”

  Annie’s neck prickled.

  He rose then, stiffly, as if he had been sitting at the worktable for many hours, and turned away from her. “I always fix my dinner at five.” He shuffled toward the kitchen.

  Annie didn’t bother to say good-bye. She swung around and hurried toward the front door. As she opened it, she glanced over her shoulder. Tom Smith stood in the kitchen doorway. She felt a shock of surprise when she realized, as their gazes locked for an instant, that he no longer looked vacant. Instead, those pale grey eyes blazed with fear.

  She plunged out the front door and down the steps, questions whirling in her mind.

  “Mrs. Darling. Hey, Mrs. Darling!”

  It took Annie a minute to realize she was being hailed. A smiling young woman in a khaki skirt and pink cotton knit top hurried toward her.

  “Mrs. Darling, I’m Heather Frank. Freelance feature writer. You found the body, didn’t you?” A slim, tanned hand poised over a notebook, and bright green eyes regarded her hungrily. “How did you feel? Was it horrifying? Exciting? Has it put your wedding night on hold? What can you tell me about Ingrid Jones? Do you think she’s an escaped murderess? A victim? Could she be suffering from amnesia?”

  Going over Reichenbach Falls would be a snap in comparison with fending off these pointed and dangerous queries. And Annie didn’t have Holmes’s arrogance as an armor. But if she didn’t answer, she could see the lead: Mrs. Darling refused to comment upon the possibility that her matron of honor went directly from the ultra-ritzy champagne reception to a rendezvous with death in the living room of her modest cabin….

  “How long have you known Mrs. Jones? What is her relationship with the murdered man? Do you know who the secret love in his life was, the owner of the ring he wore on the chain around his neck?”

  “The secret love of Jesse’s life?” Annie demanded, startled. “What ring? What are you talking about?”

  Heather looked like a cat guarding a bowl of cream. “Maybe we could exchange information. If you could tell me more about Mrs. Jones, how well she knew Penrick, I could tell you what I’ve learned from the autopsy report.”

  And if Annie declined to talk, she could project the continuing story: Mrs. Darling was reluctant to discuss the relationship between Mrs. Jones and the stabbing victim….

  Of course, she could deflect all attention from Ingrid and ignite a fire under Posey if she told this word-predator about Mavis Beeson and her lover, the young Broward’s Rock policeman. And suggested the reporter inquire why it took Billy Cameron so long to reach the scene of the crime.

  Too long. There was a definite lag in time from the call made by the checkpoint guard to the arrival of Billy Cameron. Where was Billy all that time on this very small island? Had his beeper aroused him at Mavis’s and he’d hurried back across the island to get the police car? Or had he not been at Mavis’s cabin or at home? Could Billy have decided to get rid of the threat to Mavis? Was he the killer?

  Annie’s mind churned. What, if anything, should she say to this reporter? And how could she pump her for information?

  “Look”—Heather Frank radiated charm, while those greedy emerald eyes remained alert—“let’s just have a little visit off the record. Don’t you want Ingrid’s side to get out? Posey’s down at your bookstore right now, talking to your mother-in-law, getting a blow-by-blow account of Ingrid’s fight with Penrick.”

  Annie wished she could have seen Posey’s first encounter with Laurel. Somehow, though she knew it ultimately would do little good, she had a feeling—Laurel might even call it a presentiment—that Posey might have met his match, and probably hadn’t prized a helpful word out of motor-mouth Ophelia, because Laurel liked Ingrid.

  Of all times for Chief Saulter to be gone! And with Billy Cameron suspect, they had no access to information about the investigation. But, obviously, this ambitious young lady had an inside track. Trust Posey to cozy up to the press. Still, two could play that game. After all, Amelia Peabody Emerson used the press to her own advantage. Why couldn’t Annie? She suppressed the niggling suspicion that Max would not be delighted at a discussion of his honeymoon as a source of entertainment from coast to coast. If he grumped like Amelia’s husband, she knew the remedy to that, too. (Reading mysteries did provide such moral education. See selected passages, The Curse of the Pharaohs.)

  Annie smiled at her inquisitor and said warmly, “Do you know, I hadn’t thought about the power of the press to present the viewpoint of the persecuted. Heather, it’s wonderful of you to give me a chance to tell you how outstanding Ingrid is and how absurd it is for anyone to even consider her as a murder suspect.” (She hoped she wasn’t overdoing it, but true to Max’s oft-expressed conviction, “You can’t lay it on too thick,” Heather was nodding in modest appreciation.) “Let’s walk out on the pier, where we can have a really private talk.”

  It was quite cheerful on the end of the pier. Occasional sailboats passed in the sound, and the late afternoon sun was warm on their backs as they sat with their feet dangling. Actually, Annie enjoyed their talk. A Velda Johnston heroine could not have been more noble. With a bravely uplifted chin, she poignantly admitted to an eager Heather Frank that yes, indeed, she and her new husband were sacrificing their honeymoon to stay and seek their close friend, Ingrid Jones, whom she portrayed as a cross between Mother Teresa and Louisa May Alcott. She made a basic assumption that Heather’s readers were quite unaware of Louisa’s penchant for dashing off blood-and-thunder epics in between her children’s books. Heather snatched at her offerings greedily, and would, of course, have hurried away without a quid pro quo, but Annie was too wily for that. In fact, she clamped her hand on Heather’s arm.

  “You said you’d tell me about the autopsy report.”

  Heather shook free of Annie’s grip, scrabbled around in her shoulder bag, and pulled out a tattered copy.

  Annie took it eagerly She scanned it. Much she already knew No surprises about cause of death—stab wound—but this was new! Penrick had suffered a contusion on the back of his head.

  “Heather, do you suppose Penrick was unconscious when he was stabbed?”

  “It doesn’t say so. Maybe. What do you have in mind? That the murderer knocked him out, then stabbed him?”

  “Why not?” Annie asked.

  “Makes it premeditated,” the reporter cautioned. “Murder in the first degree. There’s always the chance of getting off with manslaughter, if a murder occurs in the heat of passion.”

  Annie understood the implication. “Ingrid didn’t do it!” she said hotly.

  “You know about her and Webb?” Heather’s green eyes glistened with satisfaction.

  Damn Adele Prescott. “There wasn’t anything to know,” Annie said staunchly. “I can assure you of that. I know Ingrid much better than anyone on this island, and her kindness to Mr. Webb was nothing more than that. Kindness.”

  But Heather was armed with Adele’s tart-tongued interpretation and quite aware that a hint of romance and passion would sell copy faster than any description of altruism.

  Once again, it occurred to Annie that she could direct the focus of the investigation away from Ingrid if she told the writer—or Posey—about Billy and Mavis. But she didn’t want to do that. She knew Ingrid wouldn’t want her to do that. Mavis’s peril was real. All too often a wife’s stories of beatings are discounted by both police and courts until it is forever too late for her. And what about the little boy who wriggled with happiness in his mother’s arms? Annie wasn’t prepared to risk their lives.

&nbs
p; But maybe there was another way to deflect Heather.

  “Where’s the stuff about a wedding ring? Nobody’s mentioned that.”

  A beautifully manicured hand pointed to the box on the form entitled EFFECTS.

  “Deceased wore no jewelry except for gold wedding ring found on neck chain also holding World War Two dog tags.”

  “Do you really think Jesse Penrick had a secret love?” From everything Annie had heard about the skinny, malevolent old miser, the notion seemed unlikely.

  Heather brushed back a lock of gleaming dark hair. “What does it look like to you? Maybe it was really a long-ago love. See, he still wore his dog tags—those are metal squares with his name and unit and other information stamped on them. That’s where the ring was, on the chain.” She grew more excited. “It all fits. They could barely make out the initials on the inside of the band, they were so worn down. They think the initials are E.P. They’re going to send the ring to a jeweler in Savannah to see if they can get a better reading.” Heather stared off across the salt marsh, apparently oblivious to the crimson splash of the setting sun across the darkening water. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. How about this: A longtime acquaintance of Jesse Penrick surmised today that the reclusive and often belligerent island resident carried with him to his death a dramatic story of love and”—she paused—“love and desertion.” She looked at Annie for encouragement.

  Annie’s eyes widened in astonishment.

  Heather surged ahead. “Penrick’s friend, who declined to be identified, indicated the World War Two veteran had never relinquished the identification tags that linked him to those long-ago days of danger and excitement. That the ring was found on this chain about the dead man’s neck indicated its importance to Penrick, according to his friend, who wondered aloud whether the loss of a woman’s love in those tumultuous days had twisted the Broward’s Rock resident, causing his well-known hostility to women.” The journalist asked eagerly, “What do you think?”

  “Who said all that?” Annie asked, confused.

  Heather waved her hand airily. “Oh, you know—that’s like saying a source close to the investigation or an unnamed principal or a spokesman for the administration. I mean, you have to hang a story on something, or the city editor’ll give you hell.”