Two hundred twenty thousand dollars missing, as well as Betsy.
“Do they think she was robbed by a client?” Annie asked.
“A client, somebody she met in a bar, who knows? There are a lot of people in San Francisco, and so far they haven’t connected her to anybody. Not a soul. The only person who remembers seeing her is the hotel maid.” Max rustled some papers. “Yeah, here it is. Estrelita Muñoz was cleaning the west wing on Thursday. ‘A lady came out of 1113, carrying an overnight bag. I wouldn’t have remembered but she didn’t see a room service tray right next to her room and she kind of tripped. I hurried to see if she was okay, and she just laughed and said she always had her head in the sky and she needed to pay more attention. I did her room next and it was real neat, the suitcases unpacked, the clothes hanging in the closet. That case everybody’s asked about was on the desk, but it was closed. All I did was dust there and set it toward the back. I don’t think anybody went in that room again, because the bed wasn’t used when I opened it the next day. I told the desk, but she had a reservation through the week, so nobody did anything.’”
So Betsy Raines walked down a hotel hallway on Thursday and was not seen again. Had she walked into the mists of time along with Jimmy Hoffa?
Max sighed. “I called Ruth Jenson, told her. It wasn’t any fun.”
“I’m sorry, Max. But you’ve done everything you can. Did you call Billy?”
“Yes.” A pause. “He sounded very uptight.”
“I’m not surprised.” She recounted her conversations with Billy and Mavis.
Max agreed that the young couple had plenty of reason to be nervous, and obviously they had to be high on any list of suspects. “Actually, Billy seemed glad to talk about something besides Jesse and Ingrid. He said he’d get right on the phone to the San Francisco cops. I’m afraid it really looks bad. He thinks her daughter’s right; somethings happened to Betsy.”
Everybody seemed ready to focus their energies on Betsy, Annie realized after she hung up. So who was going to keep on worrying about Ingrid? Grimly, she turned back to her papers. Adele’s printout lay beside her open notebook. Her glance moved across that odd map of Jesse’s—then it froze. She reached out, touched an address, then scrambled for her phone book.
Beryl Ford lived at 926 Blue-Winged Warbler Way.
Annie scarcely breathed as she scanned her copy of Jesse’s map. Yes, 926 Blue-Winged Warbler Way was listed. It was not circled.
She tapped her fingers thoughtfully against the wooden bar, then dialed the Ford number.
A maid answered.
Annie affected a British accent. “This is Maureen Smithers, secretary to her Ladyship Alexandra Ventnors, calling from London. May I speak to Mrs. Ford, please, on behalf of her ladyship.”
Beryl Ford must have flown to the telephone. It took only a moment to remind her of a titled party she’d met on a yacht during her most recent visit to Cannes. (And, of course, how could Beryl be expected to remember everyone’s name? But she certainly did recall her ladyship.)
From there, Annie trying hard to recall Lady Antonia Fräsers accent, it was smooth sailing.
“Her ladyship is considering the purchase of a home near yours on Broward’s Rock, a residence at 924 Blue-Winged Warbler Way, and her ladyship would appreciate it so much if you could provide us with some particulars.”
Beryl Ford was only too happy to recall everything she possibly could about the house, its vantage point on the sixteenth green, the dramatic entry with a cascading waterfall, and the stunning robbery that occurred two years ago.
“Of course, we hardly ever have break-ins here. It occurred when the Clintons were out of town. I always have a house sitter. It’s just common sense. And when will Lady Alexandra be in the States?”
“Within a month or so. And you recommend hiring a house sitter. Oh, a Mrs. Prescott. And have other homeowners used her?”
Annie scrawled down four addresses.
216 Sandspur Lane
901 Spanish Bayonet
58 Sea Urchin Place
17 Ghost Crab Lane
And, after many protestations of extreme appreciation and a promise that Lady Alexandra would shortly be communicating with Mrs. Ford, Annie was able to sign off.
Parched, she gulped down the rest of her coffee, then dialed again.
Billy was downright agreeable, when her request appeared to have nothing whatsoever to do with Jesse, Ingrid, Mavis, or himself. This time she wrote down the addresses of eight homes that had been burglarized within the past five years and the dates of the robberies:
214 Sandspur Lane, May 6, 1982
903 Spanish Bayonet, September 13, 1983
60 Sea Urchin Place, November 9, 1984
110 Quahog Lane, February 8, 1985
3 Turkey Wing Road, June 8, 1985
18 Terrapin Terrace, January 2, 1986
924 Blue-Winged Warbler Way, October 3, 1986
15 Ghost Crab Lane, May 10, 1987
Annie picked up the map.
How extremely interesting that robberies occurred on the blocks where Adele had house sat.
To round it off, Annie made a few more calls. Soon her list was complete. Adele had stayed at a residence—on every block where a robbery later occurred.
No wonder Adele Prescott had so many, many lovely antiques—and paid Jesse such nice sums every month.
Had Jesse pressed for more money than Adele was willing to give?
Wait till Max saw this! Annie grabbed up her papers, slipped into her raincoat, and headed for the front door.
She was almost to Confidential Commissions when a deep bull-toned horn sounded in the harbor. And sounded again. And again, a clarion call of urgency.
Annie darted through the rain toward the harbor.
FIFTEEN
Late Monday afternoon
Max’s crimson speedboat sliced through the choppy water. The horn now blared unceasingly.
Max caught up with Annie as she plunged down the stone steps to the docks.
“Something must have happened,” Annie gasped. “Why else would she blow the horn?”
But Laurel, her wet hair sleek against her aristocratic head, appeared unhurt, and, as a matter of fact, joyously in command behind the wheel. She lifted one hand to wave, then cut the boat precipitously toward them.
Annie covered her eyes. A murmur of concern swept the watchers gathering above at the harbors edge.
Max grabbed her elbow. “Regatta class,” he said. “Never worry about Laurel.”
As Laurel climbed out of the cockpit, Annie decided to take Max’s advice. Although his mother was drenched, hair plastered to her head, her oatmeal-colored robe clinging, she looked stunning. Her beautiful eyes glistened like a Valkyrie en route to Valhalla. But she began to gesture, and she was clearly calling for help. Turning, she pointed toward the boat. Annie looked past Laurel and a wobbly, green-faced Ophelia at a blanket-wrapped figure slumped in the cockpit.
Billy Cameron stood beside the closed door to room 215 in Broward’s Rock Municipal Hospital. “She’s in protective custody. That’s what Posey said to do, and that’s what I’m doing.”
Max was as tough as John J. Malone (but, of course, much better looking). “Ingrid has a right to talk to a lawyer.”
“Fine. You go get a lawyer for her. But she’s not going to talk to anybody else—and that means you people.” Billy’s glance swept the motley crew clotting the hallway.
“You aren’t even trying to find out who abducted her,” Annie said furiously.
Henny joined in, hands on her hips (Hildegarde Withers?). “Disgraceful. A miscarriage of justice. I want you to know, we aren’t going to rest until Jesse Penrick’s murderer and Ingrid’s kidnapper—obviously one and the same insidious person—is apprehended.”
Alan, who had joined the group at the harborside and followed them to the hospital, said pacifically, “At least Ingrid’s okay. At least she’s all right.”
Ophelia, her arms c
rossed tightly over her ample abdomen, sneezed explosively.
“Gesundheit,” Laurel blessed.
Annie stalked up to Billy. “I have to talk to Posey. I have all kinds of information about this case. He doesn’t know the half of it.”
Billy shrugged. “As far as Posey’s concerned, this one’s solved. He’s busy investigating that new murder.”
The door to room 215 opened, and Dr. Samuels stepped out. A barrage of questions met him.
Annie stood on tiptoe, flapping her hand. Dr. Samuels was a good customer, especially fond of obscure divine detectives such as Father Bredder, Sister Lucy, Soeur Angele, and the Reverend Joseph Colchester. “Doctor, is Ingrid all right?”
“Sure, sure.” A big, burly, informal man (star fullback, The Citadel, Class of ’56), Samuels delivered blunt opinions in a forceful, no-nonsense bark. “Tired. Woozy. Confused. Be fine tomorrow.”
“What did she say happened?” Henny demanded.
“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Billy objected. “Any information the doctor has should be given to the police.”
Samuels’s bristly eyebrows drew down in a dark frown. “My God, Billy, haven’t you ever heard of doctor-patient confidentiality?”
Billy flushed.
“Fact of the matter,” the doctor continued brusquely, “I didn’t ask. Woman needs rest. We’ll see how she feels in the morning.”
“She’ll be fine,” a golden voice announced pleasantly.
Samuels eyed Laurel irritably, then with growing appreciation. (But, as Norma Gold would say …) Her wet gown was drying to her in a very flattering fashion.
“Fine and dandy,” he boomed in agreement, “but for right now, she needs rest. Visitors prohibited.” He started down the hall, but looked back twice at Laurel, who smiled winsomely.
Annie’s eyes narrowed in thought, then she edged closer to Ingrid’s door. Without warning, she leaned forward and shouted, “Ingrid, keep quiet till we get a lawyer! Don’t worry, we’ll take care of everything!”
Billy Cameron jumped like he’d been stung with a cattle prod. “Annie, stop that! If you don’t, I’ll throw her in jail right now.” He glared at the hostile circle. “You people get out of here.”
A nurse hurried toward them. “What’s going on here? You’ll have to be—Oh, hello, Mrs. Brawley, I didn’t see you.”
At her sudden change of tone, Annie remembered that Henny was not only director of Volunteer Services, she was on the hospital board.
“Hello, Iris,” Henny replied. “I know, we mustn’t disturb the patients. I’ll take our group into the boardroom for a meeting.” Gesturing for the others to follow, she led them to a private lounge in the east wing. In astonishingly short order, she had everyone disposed around a conference table and dinner ordered from the hospital cafeteria.
Max looked across the table at his mother. “Laurel, how did you and Ophelia find Ingrid?”
Henny held up a commanding hand. “Not until after dinner, Max. Then we’ll attack our problem in logical order.”
Dinner, when it came, was welcome, even if a little unimaginative—boiled whitefish, buttered carrots, spinach, and tapioca pudding. Alan eyed his plate unenthusiastically. Ophelia picked at her food.
As an orderly removed the plates and served fresh coffee (which couldn’t compare to that at Death on Demand), Henny cleared her throat.
“One of our major tasks has been accomplished. Ingrid has been restored to us, thanks to Laurel and Ophelia.” She nodded at them appreciatively. “However, our work is far from finished. Ingrid faces a murder charge!”
There was an aura of stateliness about Henny, a demeanor of calm and authority. Something about the droop of her eyelids reminded Annie—Oh yes, yes, of course. Commander George Gideon of Scotland Yard, without doubt.
“There is no need to be concerned,” Laurel soothed. “Dear Ingrid will be fine. Ophelia says her aura is excellent—almost golden, which is the very best color—and all will be well.” Her complacent smile enfolded them. “How can we question destiny, when it has been so richly fulfilled? Just as Ophelia predicted.”
They all looked at Ophelia, a shapeless blob still shivering as she sipped at her coffee. The turbaned psychic managed a wan smile. “Moogwa assured me that we should find safe harbor, but I never dreamed it would be such a bumpy ride.”
“Ophelia’s never raced,” Laurel observed in a tone of mild surprise.
“Moogwa?” Annie knew better than to ask, but she couldn’t resist.
Laurel, of course, was delighted to explain. “My dear, the most remarkable celestial visitor. Not here physically, of course, but he speaks to us through Ophelia. She is such a wonderful channel. Moogwa—he lives on Alpha Centauri—is always so positive, absolutely an inspiration. He led us to Ingrid, just as we knew he would.”
Alan whispered to Annie, “What the hell’s she talking about?”
Henny forgot the heavy-lidded calm of Commander Gideon and rolled her snappy black eyes briefly heavenward. “Led you to her? Flares? A dotted line on the sound? Protoplasm marking the spot?”
Laurel wasn’t fazed. Her patrician face patient, she smiled kindly. “Henny, my dear, it was nothing quite that direct. A more subtle guidance. But I understand your puzzlement. I know how hard it is to dismiss earths shackles. I, too, was once bound to the commonplace, a prisoner of convention, my soul stifled.”
Max was shaking his head and his dark blue eyes messaged, Not on your life, to Annie. She nodded.
Ophelia looked reproachfully at Henny, sniffled, and said, “Divine clues”—she paused to sneeze soppily—“must be interpreted.”
“What divine clues?” Annie asked pragmatically.
Ophelia pressed her hands to her turban, which further reduced its shape. Already soggy, it resembled an ill-used soufflé. Laurel more gracefully waggled one hand in a vague gesture.
Henny wriggled. “That’s fine. Don’t worry about explaining divine guidance to us. I can understand how difficult that might be. Just tell us what you did.”
Ophelia sneezed again. Laurel clasped her hands (the polish on her perfect nails glowed a Corinthian rose) in an attitude of sublime meditation.
Max gnawed on his lip to repress an indulgent smile, then said briskly, “From the time you took the speedboat, Ma. What happened?”
Ophelia clasped a hand to her substantial tummy and squeezed her eyes shut.
“Had our mission not been so serious,” Laurel said demurely, “it would have been an exciting outing. I’d forgotten how a boat thumps when you drive directly into the waves.”
Max’s eyes widened. So much, Annie thought, for regatta class.
“Really, it was almost as delightful as skiing the Matterhorn in a whiteout,” Laurel reported with a cheerful trill of laughter.
Ophelia shook her head miserably in remembrance.
“In any event, Moogwa had made it clear that dear Ingrid was a captive.”
Henny rolled her eyes again. “Obviously, she was either a captive or dead,” she muttered in disgust.
“I kept telling everyone she was alive,” Ophelia complained pettishly.
Laurel patted her plump shoulder. “You did indeed, my dear. But they of little faith—”
“You took the boat out,” Max prodded.
“We knew Ingrid was on water,” Laurel said simply.
There was a moment’s silence. Four pairs of eyes were on Laurel. (Ophelia was blowing her nose, lids clamped shut.)
“On water?” Annie asked finally.
Laurel nodded eagerly. “It was quite clear, from Moogwa’s point of view. He told us”—here her voice dropped to a sepulchral monotone—“‘Neither land nor sky/Up and down, by and by; Safely sheltered from the waves/In wise Phoenician ways.’”
Laurel looked at them brightly.
Alan tilted his head again toward Annie. “Is she crazy?” His whisper hung in the silence.
Laurel leaned across the table to pat his hand. “Of course, you have to
have experience. It was quite clear, really. Think about it. Those dear Phoenicians, such wonderful sailors, they always put into a bay or inlet when a storm threatened. They never tried to ride storms out at sea, if they had any choice.”
Ophelia massaged her temples. “I kept seeing skulls. Which would be a discouraging portent, but Moogwa emanated tides of warmth, reassuring me about Ingrid.”
“Skull Creek?” Henny ventured.
Laurel beamed in approbation. “My dear, you may become one of us! Had you only been with us this morning! Because we did have a little difficulty in deciphering Moogwa, though it should have been obvious. But we went first to Skull Plantation—and that’s on Broughton Creek—then we tried Skeleton Lagoon and I’m afraid we took the wrong channel and we were lost for a long time, but, finally, our search was crowned with success. We found Ingrid, adrift in a rowboat, far up Skull Creek.”
Henny was too appalled at her inclusion in Laurel’s select group to respond.
But Max frowned. “In a rowboat, Mother?”
“Do you mean she wasn’t tied up?” Annie demanded.
Ophelia sneezed resoundingly. “Jesse’s rowboat,” she sniffled.
With Max’s prodding and Henny’s direct questions, Laurel managed to keep almost to the point, with only a few sojourns into other byways. (The necessity of listening to celestial speakers with an innocent heart, the mystical properties of crystal, and the kinship of mankind to dolphins …)
When Laurel had finished, Max leaned forward. “Mother, let’s see if I’ve got it right. Ingrid was in Jesse’s rowboat. She wasn’t tied up. She had only one oar.”
“My dear, what a succinct summing up.” Laurel smiled admiringly at her worried son, and Annie wondered if she understood that Ingrid could be convicted of murder if a jury heard this.
“Mother,” he appealed, “what did Ingrid say?”
Laurel’s eyes widened. “Oh, my dear, Ophelia and I have long known that one must always let others share their thoughts in their own good time, as a flower unfolds when it is ready. But I must admit that in the delirium of our discovery, we so far forgot ourselves as to ask in great excitement what had transpired.”
Honeymoon With Murder Page 20