Honeymoon With Murder

by Carolyn G. Hart

  The signature came as no surprise. George Bagby’s Inspector Schmidt, he of the aching feet and patient pursuit of evildoers.

  Annie dismissed Henny’s charades from her mind and focused on her information. She knew much of it, of course, and a good deal of it seemed extraneous. But the wedding anniversary card—

  She came up beside Webb. “I stopped by your cabin earlier, but you weren’t there.”

  “Nobody asked you to drop by,” he said sourly.

  “I just had a question, something you didn’t mention yesterday. Surprised me. Maybe it’ll surprise the police.”

  He pulled his gaze away from the sound, focused on her. She wished the thick bifocals didn’t magnify his eyes so, giving them an almost daunting power.

  “Yeah?”

  “The anniversary card—how angry did it make you?”

  She had her answer. Not in words, but in the burning fury of those blue eyes, fury quickly controlled. Duane Webb, for all his bristly speech and manner, had himself well in hand. The flame subsided, and he turned back to his survey of the sullen waters. “Don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  Adele Prescott stopped pacing and strode to the command table to glower down at Madeleine. “Is this your doing?” she demanded. “Arranging for all of us to be fingerprinted?”

  “Why should you object?” Madeleine retorted, equally aggressively.

  “I’m not a criminal, and I don’t appreciate being treated like one.”

  “Honest as the day is long. Right, Adele?” Webb said in mock admiration. “And you can’t help telling everybody so, can you?”

  “I’ve established a reputation for trustworthiness. It’s essential in my business.”

  Webb gave her a contemptuous glance. “Hell, I’d rather have a house robbed blind than have you stay in it for even a day. Ophelia’s a fool, but she’s right about one thing. Ugly spirits contaminate their surroundings.”

  Adele’s face purpled. She jammed her hands deep into her windbreaker pockets. “You don’t even have a house anymore. If you’re so smart, why do you have to live in a rented cabin? You drank yourself out of house and home and murdered your wife and daughter, to boot.”

  An ugly grin made him look like a malevolent moon. “Touché, you old bitch. But you don’t have a fine home anymore, either, do you? How much do you enjoy being a caretaker of other peoples houses? Adele Prescott, house sitter. That’s a far cry from the days you used to lord it over everybody as the mistress of Hounds Hill.”

  A muscle twitched in Adele Prescott’s jaw.

  “Ugliness begets ugliness,” Ophelia murmured sadly. “Hatred sows hatred.” She pressed her fingers lightly against her temples. “Somewhere out there, Ingrid’s spirit seeks us, but we cannot hear her if our ears are filled with a discordant jangle.”

  “Screws up the messages, huh?” Duane asked sarcastically.

  Sudden tears brimmed in Ophelia’s eyes. “None are so blind as those who think they can see.”

  Laurel fluttered near her. “My dear, you must conserve your emotion. You know that we are near a critical juncture.”

  Ophelia sniffed raggedly. “Oh, I know. I must not become upset. I must not. I must not.”

  “You’re all crazy. That’s what you are, nutty as a Christmas fruitcake.” Mavis Beeson’s eyes swung from face to face. “I don’t know why I ever came to live in this horrible place.” At her tone, Kevin’s small arms tightened around his mother’s neck. Her lips trembled, but she lifted a reassuring hand to smooth back a curl from his face. “I wish I didn’t have to see any of you ever again.”

  Webb looked at her pityingly “If wishes were horses, the sun would still shine on many a golden kingdom.” His voice was weary.

  Mavis stared at him uncomprehendingly, then her face changed. Eagerness warred with uncertainty in her eyes as Broward Rock’s sole police car pulled up to the honeysuckle-covered arch.

  Annie darted up to meet Billy Cameron. She didn’t want to be overheard. “Billy, can I visit with you for a minute?”

  He loomed over her. Although he had to be around her own age, he’d always seemed younger, younger and unsophisticated, like an awkward St. Bernard puppy. But today his normally open, friendly face had a new hardness. He didn’t look young, friendly, or bumptious. He looked like a very large and very wary man.

  Very wary.

  “What do you want?”

  Annie hesitated, then said irritably. “Look, I haven’t told anybody about you and Mavis.” She kept her voice low.

  But he darted a hunted glance at the waiting group. “There isn’t anything to tell,” he said roughly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Mavis and I hardly know each other. If you say anything else, it’s a lie, cause you’re trying to protect Mrs. Jones.”

  So he was going to brazen it out. Couldn’t he see that lying would only make it worse?

  “Billy, listen to me. You want to find Penrick’s murderer, don’t you?”

  “The real murderer, yeah.”

  “Then tell me this: Did the laboratory find pine needles sticking to Jesse Penrick’s clothing?”

  THIRTEEN

  Mid-morning Monday

  Agatha was not happy. In fact, Agatha was furious. Her amber eyes glistened balefully and her tail whipped with increasing velocity.

  There were those who would scoff at imputing such emotion to a cat, deeming it anthropomorphic.

  Annie knew better. And even though she was going to have to race to reach the ferry on time, she scooped up the sleek, taut-muscled feline and murmured, “I’m sorry, love. I know you’ve been ignored. I know just how you feel—and I’ll understand if you make a report to the SPCA. Come on, now”—and she nuzzled her cheek against her pet’s neck—“lighten up.”

  Agatha was, gradually, calmed and appeased, and grudgingly appreciative of a tasteful serving of salmon.

  As a result of that essential interlude, however, Ben Parotti’s ferry was giving its final whistle, indicating impending departure, when Annie roared aboard, the last car to make it. Simultaneously, the storm struck, the first large drops pelting the Volvo’s windshield. Annie gave a whoosh of relief and switched off the ignition. Ben, sensibly clad in a bright yellow slicker, leaned out of his high cabin to yell, “Annie. Hey, Annie!”

  Annie grabbed her umbrella (no Broward’s Rock inhabitant ever traveled without one), slipped out of the car, and struggled against the wind and rain to the ladder at the base of the tower. She peered up anxiously. Ben was a fanatic about his schedule. What could possibly impel him to delay the ferry’s departure to talk to her?

  He bent over the railing, his grizzled, leprechaun face both irritated and impatient, his eyes narrowed against the force of the wind. “Listen here, why’re those damfool women out in Max’s speedboat in this kind of weather?”

  It would not be wrong to say that Annie felt a distinct sinking sensation, though the ferry rocked sturdily beneath her.

  Ben’s finger stabbed the air. “You’d think any man would know better than to let damfool women out in a boat like that, even in good weather. But how could we tell his mother she couldn’t take it?” Ben was grumpy, anti-establishment, always wore tobacco-juice-stained coveralls, but he had a corner on some of the most thriving markets in town, his combination beer hall and bait shop, the ferry, and the only covered boat slips on the island.

  “Laurel’s out in this?” Annie cried, and she gestured at the driving rain and at the white caps glittering atop the choppy waves of the sound. Laurel and Ophelia must have driven across the island like demons, too.

  “She and that damfool woman in a turban. Took the boat out about five minutes ago. You tell Max I think he’s a damfool, too.” Parotti punctuated his disgust with a piercing shrill of the whistle, and the ferry lurched away from the dock.

  Annie was drenched by the time she reached her car. She’d planned to marshal her thoughts for her upcoming attack on Posey. Instead, she gripped the steering whe
el and stared grimly out at the rough water. Where the hell were Laurel and Ophelia, and what did they think they were doing?

  Barbie sounded regretful. “You’ll just have to hang on, Annie. He’s on long distance.”

  Static crackled. “Tell him I’m on a short fuse—and I’m about to drown.”

  “About to town?” Barbie yelled. “It’s hard to hear you.” Why do people always yell when they can’t hear you?

  The first phone Annie had found was outdoors, of course, and her umbrella was more a sop to convention than a protection. Her cold, wet skirt clung to her legs like plastic wrap; she began to shiver.

  Five moisture-laden minutes crawled soddenly by before Max came on the line.

  “Hey, Annie, I can’t talk long. It looks like Betsy Raines is missing for sure. She wasn’t on the flight to Atlanta this morning, and I just talked to a maid at the hotel. Said the last time she saw the woman in 1113 was about noon Thursday. Nobody’s seen her since. The bed was just used the first night, but all her luggage is there, except the maid remembered she was carrying an overnight case.”

  Annie tried to assimilate this unexpected news and keep her teeth from chattering. What a hell of a time for Laurel to cause trouble!

  “Max, I—”

  “So I’ve got to—”

  “Max, wait! Your mother. Laurel. She’s out in the speedboat. Now. Out on the sound somewhere. She and Ophelia.”

  A moment’s pause. “Isn’t it raining?”

  “Raining! My God, it’s a deluge. I’m standing at an outdoor phone, and I’m wetter than a damn duck. Yes, it’s raining.”

  “Well, I guess they’ll get wet. Listen, I’ve got another call—”

  “Max, Max, aren’t you going to do anything? Send out help? Look for them?” A sudden gust pulled the umbrella ribs straight up. Annie felt like a bucket of cold water had been dumped over her head.

  Max, who, of course, was sitting snugly in the warm and dry environs of Confidential Commissions, chuckled. Annie thought it quite the most odious sound she’d ever heard. “Annie, honey, relax. Laurel can take care of herself. She’s regatta class. She doesn’t mind a little rain.”

  On that, Annie hung up.

  She was still fuming as she tried to do something about her appearance in the basement women’s room of the county courthouse. Part of her distress sprang from a welling uneasiness. How could Max not be worried? Didn’t that indicate that her husband of—she drummed her fingers—her husband of not quite two days was not really in touch with reality? She tried not to think how spacey his mother was. It wasn’t profitable to think along those lines. Moreover, at the moment, she could only cope with so much stress. She sighed and looked without pleasure in the discolored mirror. Not that she was vain. But it was hard enough to deal with Brice Posey without looking like a leftover extra from Les Miserables.

  Still shivering, she gave her lank hair one final swipe. God, she looked like a cross between Celia Montfort in The First Deadly Sin and Claudia, that charming baby bloodsucker in Interview with a Vampire. Maybe she’d scare Posey to death.

  Cheered at the thought, she fished in her purse, found her small notebook and flipped it open.

  Five minutes later, she surveyed her list with satisfaction.

  EVIDENCE:

  Penrick suffered a contusion on the back of his head.

  There was nothing upon which he could have struck his head if he were standing in the center of the living room when stabbed, and there is no indication the body was moved after death.

  Pine needles are present on the rug where his body was found.

  There are NO pine needles elsewhere on the rug or, indeed, anywhere in the living room.

  The police laboratory reports pine needles adhering to Penrick’s clothing. (Posey might not be happy at Billy Cameron having revealed this information, but he couldn’t dispute it.)

  CONCLUSIONS:

  Penrick was rendered unconscious prior to his death. Otherwise (if stabbed where found, and lividity indicates this is so), he wouldn’t have suffered a contusion on the back of his head.

  Penrick’s unconscious body must have lain on a carpet of pine needles.

  Penrick was transported to Mrs. Jones’s cabin and then stabbed with the sword which occupies a prominent place in her living room.

  This method of murder indicates prior planning, so the selection of Mrs. Jones’s living room as the murder site is obviously part of a plan to implicate Mrs. Jones.

  This information indicates indisputably (surely an attractive word to Brice Posey) that Penrick’s murderer must have observed the disagreement between Mrs. Jones and Penrick on Saturday morning.

  Therefore, the conclusion is inescapable that the following must be seriously considered as suspects in his demise: All residents of Nightingale Courts and any others in its vicinity about 8 A.M. Saturday.

  Annie paced the small anteroom of the women’s lounge. This next part was tricky. She didn’t want to end up in the county jail for housebreaking, but how, without indicating her own forage through Jesse’s cabin, could she successfully sic Posey on to those very interesting folders in Jesse’s pine desk?

  “Oh, oh, oh,” she said aloud, and practically broke into a tap dance. Of course, of course. Quickly she scrawled the final lines.

  OBVIOUS LINES OF INVESTIGATION:

  An immediate search of Penrick’s papers should be instituted by authorities to garner more information about the dead man’s activities and to look for possible motives for murder.

  Even though Posey didn’t like her, how would he be able to resist that pompous passage?

  Penrick’s relationships with all the residents of Nightingale Courts must be explored.

  A door-to-door canvass should be instituted along the inlet to see if residents have any information about Penrick or his activities. (He was observed on Wednesday night returning to the Courts in his boat while looking very pleased in an unpleasant way)

  Annie gripped the notebook like a lance and hurried out the door. Annie Laurance-Darling off to war! But she did wish her shoes would stop squishing as she walked.

  “God, was it that much?” Max whistled.

  “That’s what Hagerty said. And it was damned hard to get it out of him—until I explained why I was calling.” Buddy shoved a hand through tousled brown curls. “You know how bankers are.”

  Max did indeed. Hardly any banker would enjoy divulging that he’d loaded a customers attaché case with $220,000 in unmarked twenty-dollar bills.

  “He said he’d told her it was a big risk, taking cash. He wanted her at least to put the money in a cashier’s check.” Alan looked miserable. “I told her, too, cause I knew it was a lot. She just laughed. Jesus, do you think she got hijacked?”

  “I don’t know. But we better get somebody to check and see if her attaché case is in that hotel room.”

  “Not here?” Annie never thought the news that Brice Willard Posey was unavailable would strike such dismay in her heart.

  “The circuit solicitor is at present actively engaged in an ongoing murder investigation on behalf of all residents of the county.” The hatchet-faced secretary was leathery skinned and adenoidal, but she spoke in a ringing tone that sounded suspiciously like the intro at a campaign contributors’ dinner.

  “That’s why I need to talk to him,” Annie said insistently.

  The secretary pushed rimless glasses higher on a beaked nose. “Are you a member of the press?”

  Annie got the point. She pulled her notebook out of her purse, leaned against the desk with one hip, and said breezily, “Right. Island Gazette. Beverly Gray at your service.”

  As she figured, old horseface had never thrilled to Clair Blank’s stirring stories about Beverly Gray, who met mystery everywhere from the college campus to the Orient. Horseface had probably arrived full-blown, rimless glasses intact, as a forty-year-old virgin.

  “Of course, Miss Gray.” She picked up a mimeographed sheet from a stack on the
corner of her desk. “The circuit solicitor, as always, attempts to keep the people’s representatives fully informed of his efforts on behalf of the citizens of this county. The telephone number at the bottom of the page will provide hourly updates as further information is received.” She concluded with a toothy smile that rivaled the shark of Jaws for awesome display of dentures.

  Annie smiled in kind. “Thanks so much. But I do love to talk to Mr. Posey in person. He adds so much to a story. Do you have any idea when he’ll return?”

  “Oh, I just can’t say. I believe he’s gone to the scene of the crime and may be out there for hours. Despite the inclement weather.”

  “That’s very brave of him,” Annie murmured.

  There was an instant of suspicion in the reptilian eyes, but Annie bore it with choirboy innocence. (Anyone reading Joseph Wambaugh would know just what a multitude of sins that description could cover.)

  “If you want to leave the name of your paper, I will give him the message when he gets in.”

  Annie decided not to push her luck, though she was tempted to provide the number of Death on Demand.

  “That’s all right. I’m going to the scene of the crime myself. I’ll find him there.”

  Out in the hall, she glanced down at the mimeographed sheet. Though why Posey would be back in Ingrid’s cabin—