Death on Demand

by Carolyn G. Hart

  Max jerked his head toward Capt. Mac, then rubbed his neck. “Ouch. Capt. Mac’s the murderer. He tried to jump me. Didn’t you see it?”

  Parotti grumbled, “I was down below, but you people are making enough noise to raise the dead.”

  Capt. Mac kept trying. “Saulter, I was going to make a citizen’s arrest. Darling’s the man you want. He’s—”

  “Give it up,” Max advised. “I’ve got the pictures, McElroy, showing you on Elliot’s steps. Harriet had a talent for photography.”

  Capt. Mac slumped back against the police car, his face stolid.

  Max yanked on his pullover sweater which had twisted around his chest in the struggle. The whirling red light on the police car revealed an ugly scratch on the side of his face.

  Annie was preparing to move forward, offer a handkerchief, and make sympathetic coos when Saulter, snapping handcuffs on Capt. Mac’s wrists, said, “So you solved it, Darling.”

  She stopped in midstride. “Oh, no,” she objected energetically. “I solved it. I figured it out and came to save Max’s life.”

  “Save my life! Hell, I knew it was Capt. Mac. Why do you think I rammed the door against him? I probably dented the hell out of it—”

  “You just stopped in the middle of the road, and he was getting ready to cosh you. If it hadn’t been for me—”

  “For God’s sake, I had to stop. He called out that he had you at his place, and if I ever wanted to see you again, I’d better cooperate.”

  “You just looked at Harriet’s pictures,” she said derisively. “I deduced it.”

  “Oh yeah! How?”

  She described the third watercolor at Death On Demand. “And, of course, once I thought about it, it was easy. It had to be Capt. Mac.” She leaned forward to explain. “You see, it was just as Hercule Poirot always says. The character of the victim is all-important.”

  “Look, Annie, admit it,” Max urged, “you made a lucky guess.”

  “Guess, my monocle. It was an exercise in reason. One: Uncle Ambrose was smart. He was writing a book about murderers. He knew how dangerous killers are. He spent his life putting them behind bars. Would he turn his back on somebody he thought was a murderer? Hell, no. So that meant he wasn’t afraid of the person who killed him. Two: What was Uncle Ambrose going to do the very next week? He was going to make a trip to do some research on his book. His first stop was to have been in Florida. Silver City.” Annie turned to look toward the heavyset man in handcuffs. “You told us you didn’t have anything to do with the Winningham investigation. You know something, Capt. Mac, I’ll bet that’s not true.”

  McElroy’s face looked like a slab of rough-cut stone in the whirling red flash from the police car. He stared back at Annie with an ugly glint in his eyes.

  “He trusted you. And you killed him.”

  “You don’t have any evidence,” Saulter objected.

  “When you investigate, you’ll find out,” Annie insisted. “Once you know where to look, it will all come apart.”

  “A lucky guess,” Max repeated disdainfully. “I’m the one who figured it from information we received. Emma Clyde was the key. Obviously, she was being blackmailed. That’s the first thing she expected when Annie pretended to know what Morgan was going to spill Sunday night. And Carmen insisted Elliot wasn’t a blackmailer. So where did that leave us? There was a blackmailer on Broward’s Bock. And who was the only person in that bookstore Sunday night who lived in a two-hundred-thousand-dollar house and didn’t have fat royalties to pay for it?” He pointed at the sullen figure of the ex-cop. “There he is. Living in a rich man’s house—but retired from a police force. Where did he get the money to buy a place here and live like a man of leisure? I wonder how much Winningham paid him? Somehow he knew something that would convict Emma of murder. He lived like a king by keeping things quiet for money. That’s what Morgan figured out. If an investigation into McElroy’s finances ever began, he would be finished.”

  “Yeah.” Saulter nodded. “I finished up going through Morgan’s papers tonight. He’d gotten a copy of the Coast Guard report on the investigation into the drowning of Emma’s husband.

  “It didn’t mean anything by itself. But it fits into your theories real nice. Guess who was in the boat anchored next to Marigolds Pleasure? Guess who told the Coast Guard there were no cries for help that night?”

  “So,” Max declared grandly, “I figured it out.”

  “Oh no.” Annie shook her blond head. “I did it.”

  Heads lowered, hands on hips, Max and Annie glared furiously at each other.

  Chief Saulter stood just inside the bookshop door. He peered at Edgar.

  “Pretty nice place here.”

  Annie forbore to remind him that the last time he came in, he thought she was a murderess.

  “Nice cat.” Saulter reached out to pet Agatha. Instead of streaking away as any perceptive feline would, Agatha rolled over on her back and kneaded her paws.

  Annie leaned on the cash desk and pondered feline intelligence. Then she looked up and down the empty aisles of Death On Demand. Where were all those customers who’d thronged the place when they thought Annie was killer-of-the-week? Ingrid had opened the store that morning and left when Annie arrived because it was crystal clear the rush was over. There wasn’t a single person present to see Saulter eat crow.

  Saulter opened his mouth, closed it. Apparently crow wasn’t delicious.

  She was too kindhearted to let him suffer. “How’s Bud?”

  Saulter’s saturnine face twisted in a genuine smile. “Can’t be too uncomfortable,” he said drily. “Carmen Morgan’s got him in bed.” He paused and added stolidly, “Resting up from his head wound.”

  She and the chief looked at each other with mutual understanding.

  Saulter shifted his weight from one big foot to the other. “Thought I’d let you know everything’s falling into place against Capt. Mac. It’s just like you and that young man thought.”

  She started to bristle. How could Max try to take credit?

  “You figured it right. Capt. Mac couldn’t afford to let Ambrose go to Silver City. I’ve been on the phone this morning. You know how he told you he didn’t have anything to do with the Winningham investigation?” Saulter snorted in disgust. “Not much. He just ran the whole thing. Seems the chief then, Al Canady, why, he was a drunk. The city manager told me Capt. Mac was a great guy the way he ran the department and never seemed to mind that he was just the assistant chief.” Irritation roughened his voice. “Who knows how many times he got paid off? Course, he really hit it big with the Winningham case. Then he anchored next to Emma when she pushed her husband over. We’ll never prove that, ’cause Mac’s not saying a word. But its pretty clear she was paying off somebody, and we can bet it was Mac. That’s why Mac murdered Elliot. And he had to kill Dr. Kearney when she caught him at the clinic, stealing the—” He paused; it was still too hard to say. “—stuff. And Harriet was watching Elliot’s place and saw you and Mac arrive.” The chief shook his head disapprovingly. “Breaking and Entry. You shouldn’t of done that, Ms. Laurance.”

  “I know,” she said humbly. “But you seemed so suspicious of me, I felt I had to look out for myself.”

  “Guess you were pretty upset about the investigation,” he said uncomfortably.

  She toyed with the spike holding phone messages (four from Mrs. Brawley).

  He peered intently at the floor. “I really liked old Ambrose. Kind of lost my cool when I figured somebody pushed him overboard. Should have known it wasn’t you. I always did wonder why nobody heard a splash in the harbor. Think I’ve figured that out, too. Ambrose must’ve gone over to McElroy’s house that night for a drink. Bet Mac hit him from behind, then dumped him into his saltwater pool to drown. When he was—when he was finished—he hauled the body out and took it to the harbor.” He rubbed the back of his hand against his nose. “Anyway, should’ve known you didn’t do it.”

  Annie surprised herself
. She reached out and patted his arm. “I can understand. Uncle Ambrose was a wonderful person.”

  The chief finally looked at her directly. “So anyway, no hard feelings?” He stuck out a callused hand.

  She shook it. “Chief, what about the others?”

  “We’re scratching around. I’ve got the Tahoe people looking for a grave by that cabin, but I don’t expect anything to come of it. Too much territory. Fritz Hemphill—he got away with murder, I don’t doubt it. It’ll never be proved. As for Mrs. Clyde—Capt. Mac won’t say a word, so she’s still out of our reach. I sent the district nurse to talk to the Farleys and Miss Rizzoli. The Farleys have agreed to some counseling. That Miss Rizzoli—she’s a nut case, isn’t she? Some little group of friends you had there.”

  He squinted at her. “You intend to have any more of those Sunday night meetings?”

  “God. I hadn’t thought about it.”

  She ticked the survivors off in her mind: Emma, the Farleys, Fritz, Kelly, and Hal.

  Saulter grinned. “There’ll be more writers coming to Broward’s Rock. I’ll bet you can start them up again in a few months.”

  She knew that was the most generous gesture he could have made.

  “And that boyfriend of yours can help keep everybody in line. Especially if he sets up down the boardwalk from you.”

  “Sets up?”

  “Yeah. He’s measuring the empty shop right now.”

  “What for?”

  “His detective agency.”

  As Saulter left, Max came in, grinning smugly and carrying a tape measure and notepad. The two men exchanged chummy greetings in the doorway. Saulter promised to take Max fishing.

  Annie opened her mouth to attack, but Max spoke first.

  “I’m only doing what you asked me to.”

  He was odiously pleased with himself. He draped the tape measure around Edgar and tied it in a bow, then grinned at her.

  “I asked you—Max, I never asked you to be a private detective. That’s ridiculous. You can’t be serious. How could a private detective agency have any business on a little island like this?”

  “Why not? When word gets around how ingeniously I solved these murders when the authorities were stymied, people will flock to my agency.”

  He solved the murders! She’d get to that absurd proposition in a minute. “Dammit, Max. You are impossible. When we talked about you doing something, I meant something real. This is just the same old thing. Max, can’t you be serious?”

  He reached out and took her hand and drew her near.

  She came reluctantly.

  Then a little closer.

  “Max,” and her indignant voice was muffled against his shoulder. “Why can’t you—”

  “Annie—”

  The bell above the door jangled. They leapt apart guiltily as Mrs. Brawley poked her head inside. Her foxlike nose twitched and her bright eyes glinted, but there were more important matters than love. She darted to Annie, took her firmly by the sleeve, and started down the central aisle toward the coffee bar.

  Annie was irresistibly swept along, and Max followed.

  “… called and called. I know I’m the first one. Now, here’re the answers.”

  Mrs. Brawley pointed to the first watercolor.

  “That’s from Easy to Kill. And the next one’s Funerals Are Fatal. Then Murder at Hazelmoor; The Moving Finger, and Remembered Death. All Agatha Christies. My dear,” she chided, “is that quite fair?”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CAROLYN G. HART is the author of Dead Man’s Island and Scandal in Fair Haven, featuring Henrietta (Henrie O) O’Dwyer Collins, and nine “Death on Demand” mysteries, including Something Wicked, for which she won an Agatha and Anthony; Honeymoon with Murder, which won an Anthony; and A Little Class on Murder, which won a Macavity. She lives in Oklahoma City with her husband, Phil.

  If you enjoyed DEATH ON DEMAND, you will want to read Carolyn’s mystery, MINT JULEP MURDER. Available now!

  Here is a special look at MINT JULEP MURDER.

  MINT JULEP

  MURDER

  A Death on Demand Mystery

  by

  CAROLYN G. HART

  Annie Lawrence Darling almost sideswiped a cleaner’s van when she neglected to yield at the Sea Pines traffic circle. Although she didn’t know how anybody could be expected to master the intricate give-and-take of the circle, in her view as complex as the instructions for assembling a computer. In a word, the damn traffic circle wasn’t user-friendly. Despite its evident problems, however, island residents tenaciously refused to approve a change to stoplights. Annie gritted her teeth and lifted her hands briefly from the wheel in a mea culpa apology to the indignant driver of the cleaner’s van. If bumper-to-bumper cars weren’t bad enough, the island’s stubborn retention of the two traffic circles at the beginning and end of Pope Avenue hopelessly aggravated the problem.

  But she managed to make the swing around and peel off onto Pope without smacking into another vehicle, even taking time to notice the ducks who inhabited the small pond and the sign cautioning traffic to watch for crossing ducks. She glanced at her watch and picked up speed.

  She would be making this trip a tot today, each time with an author. She tried to see the landscape with a stranger’s eye and smiled with almost proprietorial pride at the dense pockets of huge pines, the always appealing compact palmettos, the blooming oleanders in the grassy median, the carefully homogenized commercial buildings in shades of beige, tan, and lime.

  She would have enjoyed taking her charges to Broward’s Rock with its quiet lanes and equally gorgeous beach, but Hilton Head, though bustling, was just as lovely. May was a perfect month on any of the Sea Islands. The air was balmy, the temperature in the seventies, and no humidity. Hilton Head’s fourteen miles of beaches were never really crowded, even at the height of the tourist season.

  Annie pulled into the Buccaneer’s parking lot. The Festival Committee couldn’t have assigned her charges to a nicer hotel. The Festival events were occurring at open-air, tented booths on the public entrance to Coligny Beach, just a short stroll from the Buccaneer. Authors were also quartered at the beachfront Holiday Inn and at several other luxurious beachfront hotels.

  The Buccaneer was one of Annie’s favorite holds. Small, elegant, and charming, it was built like an Italian villa with dusky mauve stuccoed walls and arched windows.

  She hurried up the oyster shell path between fragrant banana shrubs. Brilliantly flowering hibiscus flamed in clay pots by the side entrance.

  She had a hand on the door when the six-foot-tall pittosporum bush quivered. Henny Brawley darted out into the path. “Annie, I’m so glad to see you.”

  Broward’s Rock’s most accomplished reader of mystery fiction wore a scarlet linen suit. A slender gold necklace supported an oblong ceramic likeness of Agatha Christie. Henny’s gray hair was swept back in soft waves. Her expression of surprise mingled with delight would have (tone justice to Jessica Fletcher upon finding a corpse. Annie wondered how long Henny had lurked behind the bush, waiting.

  “How’d you know I’d come in by the side door?”

  Henny’s eyes narrowed, then she capitulated. “You had to park,” she said tersely. “Look, I wanted to give you this.” She thrust a two-by-three-inch piece of cardboard into Annie’s hand. “I know this will hit the bestseller list. I’m thinking a little book, with a single quote on each page. You know, like Life’s Little Instruction Book or Everything I Know I Learned from My Cat. A book doesn’t have to be big to succeed, just big in scope!” She nodded in undisguised self-congratulation. “The Quotable Sleuth can’t miss, Annie. You can leave a message for me at the desk. Room 403.” She smiled brightly and turned away, paused, called back, “I plan to use Miss Marple on page one: ‘The great thing to avoid is having in any way a trustful mind.’

  “Then at the bottom of the page, it will say: Jane Marple, A Pocket Full of Rye. Isn’t that wonderful? Annie, I’m so excited!”


  With a wave of her hand, Henny disappeared behind the pittosporum bush.

  Annie almost called out to tell Henny about a terrific collection, The Mystery Lovers’ Book of Quotations by Jane Horning. Then, with a decided headshake, she dropped the piece of cardboard into her purse. No reason to deflate Death on Demand’s indefatigable reader. Henny’s book would have its own flavor. Still, Annie had other things to do than focus on her best customer’s search for a publisher. Now all Annie needed to top off her morning would be for Miss Dora to be waiting inside.

  A long, cool hallway with meeting rooms—Snowy Egret, White Ibis, Great Blue Heron, Brown Pelican—led to the central lobby and a rectangular reflecting pool. Whitewashed walls gave the lobby a bright, fresh aura. Brilliant scarlet bougainvillea bloomed in yellow terra-cotta urns.

  Annie went directly to the desk. The assistant manager greeted her cheerfully. Jeff Garrett’s carrot-hued hair sprigged in all directions. Freckles spattered his snub nose. His wide mouth spread in an infectious grin that Annie returned despite her preoccupation. She felt she and Jeff had forged a bond, she’d been there so often in recent days.

  “Everything’s just as you ordered, Annie. Fruit baskets and a magnum of champagne in each room. And, let’s see, a manicurist will be up to Ms. Sinclair’s room at four, the six-foot pine board’s in place beneath Mrs. Kirby’s mattress, the foot massage appliance is in Mr. Crabtree’s suite.” Jeff paused, leaned forward, and his voice dropped. “Got a call this morning with a special request from Mr. Blake. I made a special trip off-island to pick up three ‘adult’ videos for his suite.”

  Annie merely nodded, but she felt a twinge of surprise. Alan Blake’s charming, boyish persona didn’t square with the X-rated video request. But as Miss Dora was wont to remark: You can’t always tell a package from its cover. In any event, Annie was glad Blake hadn’t asked her to get the videos. There was a limit to how helpful she intended to be.

  Jeff’s eyes widened. “Do you know how much those kind of movies cost? Wow. If my wife finds out I’ve been in that place, I’m in deep trouble”—he glanced down at a list—“and I’ve got the keys ready for you.” He pulled out a manila envelope from a drawer. “You’ll find the room numbers inside with the keys. And do you want the key to your suite?”