So Julie Smith’s Jewish-feminist lawyer-heroine, or at least Henny’s version of her, was hot on someone’s trail. Annie would have grinned, but right now she was having a hard time breathing.
Shortly before ten, the postman and two sunburned, middle-aged tourists entered Death on Demand.
Annie nodded good morning at Sam Mickle, who didn’t look big enough to hoist the large leather mail pouch slung over his shoulder. He plopped down a thick batch of circulars, magazines, bills, and—yes, there it was, the small padded envelope with the Death on Demand address penned in handwriting copied so meticulously from Carla’s address book.
Sam paused, cleared his throat, and bent close to her, speaking softly so he wouldn’t be overheard. “Miss Laurance, just want you to know, I think this arrest of Mr. Darling is a bad thing. A damn bad thing.”
Annie felt as jittery as a second-story man perched on the sharply tilted tile roof of a French chateau. Lord, if there was ever a moment when she didn’t want to be spotted in confidential conversation with her postman, this was it. She was aware of a shadow at the used-book window. If the murderer saw this … “Thanks, Sam. It will be all right.” She stepped back. “Sorry, I’ve got customers.”
He nodded and turned away.
Annie forced herself to look pleasant as she turned toward her unwanted customers. “Yes, can I help you?”
But if she felt thwarted, how must the murderer feel, peering through the window, and seeing the telltale envelope lying on the cash desk?
The husband, a skinny six-footer with thick-rimmed wire glasses, a nose smeared with sun block, and a querulous look, confided, “I’m always on the lookout for books about codes.”
“Codes?”
“Cryptanalysis. You know, pigpen ciphers, chronograms, one-time pads, vigenère ciphers.” His peeling brow wrinkled in irritation. “You do realize there is a subgenre of mysteries based on codes?”
“Oh, yes, yes, of course. Right over here.”
“And I don’t have all the Elizabeth Peters. Can you help me?” his wife chirped.
Annie had never helped anybody quite so quickly. In less than eight minutes, she was ringing up her sales and shepherding them out the door, the man clutching Spy in the Room, The Cipher, The Spy and the Thief, and Code Name Sebastian. His equally sunburned wife carried Crocodile on the Sandbank, The Curse of the Pharoahs, The Mummy Case, The Jackal’s Head, Borrower of the Night, The Copenhagen Connection, and Die for Love.
And they were out the door and on their way wondering perhaps why they hadn’t browsed a little longer.
No more customers, Annie prayed.
The doorbell sang.
Annie looked up and panic flooded her.
Oh, dear Lord, she should have known. She should have known. There hadn’t been a phone call since last night.
Laurel swept inside, a slender, ethereal blonde in flowing blue … draperies. And that was as near as Annie could come to a description of her gown, which, exotic as it was, shimmered with elegance and style. She held out both hands, beaming, her blue eyes filled with a childlike warmth and delight.
“Annie, my dear child, I am here!”
Another figure slipped in behind Laurel, moving swiftly to disappear behind the True Crime section.
Annie rushed out from behind the cash desk and gripped Laurel’s arm.
A faint fragrance of lavender swirled in the air like mountain mist.
“Laurel.” Annie’s voice was breathless. What could she say? How could she deflect Max’s mother, protect her from the menacing figure poised—and Annie sensed a caged, feral impatience—behind the bookcase?
“Annie, my dear, I am here to stay. I shall just take my place in some nook or cranny here in your delightful shop, and I shall be responsible for everything. You needn’t worry again. You will be free to bend your every gallant effort to gain—”
“Laurel, you are wonderful to come. You are just in time.” Annie’s grip tightened, and tried to edge the willowy form toward the door.
Without any overt action, Laurel resisted and they were locked in a frozen tableau a scant two feet from the entrance.
Desperately, Annie reached far into her heart and said brightly, “You must go at once to see Mrs. Crabtree. We have reached the ultimate moment of decision—and you may have carte blanche.”
“Carte blanche?” The dulcet voice rose in delight. “Oh, Annie, my love, you will never regret taking this great step forward for mankind.” The swift cool touch of lips on her cheek, a rustle of silk, and Laurel was through the door and gone.
Annie closed the door and turned back to the cash desk. She reached casually for her mail, began to thumb through it, stopping at the one particular envelope and staring at it in simulated surprise. As she began to open it, footsteps sounded lightly on the parquet floor.
Annie turned.
She wouldn’t have recognized her visitor if she hadn’t expected her. It was, Annie thought in a remote corner of her mind, astounding the way women could alter their appearance through dress.
The murderer wouldn’t have caused notice on her bike ride. After all, many women now avoid the sun as much as possible, now that skin cancer is an ever-present specter. She wore a pomegranate-red and violet-blue flowered shift. An enormous sun hat was tied beneath her chin with yellow straps, and huge silver-tinted sunglasses obscured her eyes. In that garb, she was as effectively hidden as a mud-brown cottonmouth on a creek bank.
But Annie knew who she was.
The shiny sunglasses turned toward the central aisle.
“Not too busy today, are you?” It was so quiet in the store that the tick of the grandfather clock sounded like hollow footsteps in an alley. Annie wondered suddenly if she were hearing her own heartbeat. Even though she knew Chief Saulter waited at the back of the shop, her sense of threat, of evil unleashed, was so strong that she had trouble answering.
But the words she managed, a faltering, “Customers come in bunches,” fell away, because there was to be no pretence, no skirmishing, no chance of survival for Annie Laurance. She knew, when she looked down at the gun held so steadily in the gloved hand, that the decision had already been made. Annie Laurance was to die.
“Put up the CLOSED sign and lock the front door.” Sheridan’s voice was as cool and self-possessed as when she’d greeted guests at her party.
Stiffly, Annie moved toward the entrance.
“If you try to open the door, I’ll shoot you.” Not a flicker of concern in that well-modulated, confident voice.
Annie’s chest ached. She mustn’t trigger the attack, because she had to get the right words on tape, the words that would free Max—no matter what happened. She locked the door, turned the sign, and came back to the desk.
She reached out for the envelope with Carla’s name on it. “You killed Carla!”
It hung in the balance. Would Sheridan shoot, or would she talk?
But she had a killer’s egoism. Sheridan smiled. “Of course I did.” Then the smooth face hardened. “She was such a fool.” Sheridan moved between Annie and the door, keeping the gun aimed at Annie’s heart. “Give that to me.”
Clutching the envelope, Annie took a step backward down the center aisle.
Sheridan pressed forward. As Annie retreated, she repeated, “Give me the envelope, Annie.”
“What’s in it?” Annie demanded. “What did Carla know?” She shook her head in bewilderment. “But you had an alibi. Chief Saulter said it was good. What did you do, bribe Harley?”
“Of course not. My alibi is superb, unbreakable. I planned it that way.”
Annie knew, but to hear it in Sheridan’s voice sickened her. She continued to edge backward down the aisle. She was even with the caper-comedy shelving now. Another ten feet to go and Chief Saulter would have a clear aim at Sheridan.
“Then how did you kill Shane?”
Sheridan laughed. It was a soft, throaty, satisfied sound that sickened Annie. “Annie, you’re so stupid. I
didn’t kill Shane. Carla killed him—all for the love of me. Isn’t that wonderful?”
“For the love of you?”
An eyebrow quirked above the mirrored sunglasses. “Dear, naive Annie. You have so much to learn. It’s too bad you’ve run out of time.”
“You had an affair with Carla? Persuaded her to murder Shane?”
They had reached the coffee area now, past the horror-sci-fi shelves, and Sheridan stepped to one side. No one looking into the shop would be able to see her. Annie had no trouble foreseeing the future: one quick shot, the envelope retrieved, and a departure through the rear door into the alley.
As if in confirmation, Sheridan glanced toward the storeroom with the EXIT placard above the door, then she said contemptuously, “Dear Carla was so suggestible. And it worked beautifully. I’ve always been good at planning, you know. She shot him when she went downstairs for a few minutes. She hid the gun outside, behind the steps by the third entrance to the football stands. I came for it very late that night. I thought it might come in handy. And didn’t it! Let your Max explain away that gun.”
“You planned all of it? But you couldn’t have! How could you be so certain Carla would cooperate?”
“Oh, I knew.” Sheridan gave a little shiver beneath the voluminous folds of her dress. “The idea came to me when I heard about the play. It was perfect. I knew Shane could get the role. He didn’t want to, of course. God, he was so lazy, bone lazy, but we’d planned his drowning by then, and I convinced him that there might be suspicions he’d disappeared rather than died since it was a double indemnity policy. I told him no one would think he’d run away if he were involved in a play. God, he didn’t want to bother to learn his lines.”
“You set us up after the murder, didn’t you? You knew that Shane was lying at the party about my chasing after him.”
The wide-brimmed sun hat quivered with her laughter. “I loved it. It was so nice of him to provide such a luscious motive for his own death.”
“You had Carla kill him during rehearsal Tuesday night because he was to capsize his boat that night—and he had to die before then.”
“Wasn’t it wonderful? Shane dead, two million in insurance, and a widow who could never be suspected because she was in bed with another man at the time of the murder.”
“But it devastated Carla when she found out about you and Harley.”
The cherry-red lips thinned. “Carla was so tiresome. I told her that Harley didn’t mean a thing to me. It was an alibi. But she was jealous. So stupid of her. I couldn’t take a chance on her after that.”
“You took the belt from Max’s condo before you ever talked to her. You were going to kill her even before you knew she was upset.”
Sheridan gave a little shrug. “It occurred to me. I like to keep things tidy.”
Her thumb caressed the trigger.
The black mass hurtling through the air made a tiny whistle and Sheridan’s mouth opened as the heavy weight slammed into her, knocking her backwards. Then the bowling ball thudded heavily on the wooden floor. A flash of navy blue, a neat tasteful woman’s suit, sprang across the room, and a sensible black shoe with low heels stamped down on Sheridan’s hand, kicking free the gun.
Chief Saulter yelled, “What the hell?” Then he was there, snapping handcuffs on a writhing, screaming Sheridan.
Absolutely stunned, Annie gasped at the chief, then turned to the newcomer.
Her gray hair neatly styled in a feather cut this morning (and Annie wondered how she managed all those different hairstyles), her dark eyes snapping, Henny Brawley smoothed down the rumpled blue skirt. Then she smiled cherubically at Annie. “You know, I’ve always loved mysteries.”
Sister Mary Helen, of course, the delightful sleuth created by Sister Carol Anne O’Marie.
17
A standing ovation greeted the triumphant cast of Arsenic and Old Lace as the curtain lifted for the third time. Cheers rose and feet stamped.
Henny stepped forward for yet another curtsey.
The play—and the players—were a smash. In the wings, Annie saw Burt beaming with delight as he and Harley Jenkins shook hands. Summer theater on Broward’s Rock was saved. And Sam hopped ecstatically in too-tight black dress shoes as Broadway producer Solomon Purdy clapped him on the shoulder.
As the curtain fell for the last time and cast members hugged and kissed each other, Henny threw both hands above her head, kicked into an exuberant rhumba, and cried, “Hurry, everyone. Let’s go to Annie’s party!”
Death on Demand was a mob scene, jammed with firstnighters. Annie tried to squeeze down the central aisle, hoping Ingrid had arranged for enough food. Time had evaporated during that weekend. After Sheridan’s capture, all of Saturday was absorbed with the attendant statements taken by a good-humored Chief Saulter and a suddenly sullen Circuit Solicitor Posey. Rehearsals picked up again at the crack of dawn on Sunday and continued through Monday. Annie had scarcely had time to eat and sleep, much less plan for the party, which she’d offered to host at a midwinter meeting of the players. Still, everything looked well. Obviously, the party was a smash. So what accounted for the uneasiness that plucked at her subconscious? No, it wasn’t concern about the party. It was an almost unrealized sense of something missing. Something she should have—
Laurel.
Annie realized with a shock, and she stopped dead, that she hadn’t heard from Laurel since Saturday morning.
Her unexpected halt caused Max to bump into her.
He bent and yelled in her ear (nothing less than a shout could be heard above the din), “What’s wrong?”
“Your mother! Where’s your mother? Have you seen Laurel?”
“Oh, I saw her somewhere.” He waved his arm vaguely. “Let’s ask Ingrid.”
They wormed their way to a flushed Ingrid, who was rapidly pouring champagne into glasses. At their question, she nodded and yelled, “She’s been here and gone. Took a load of books with her.”
“But she doesn’t read mysteries,” Max objected.
Ingrid grinned. “She does now. She asked if we had any books about weddings. I told her sure. I gave her So Long as You Both Shall Live, The Wedding March Murder, The Bride Regrets, and The Bride Wore Black.” She paused and downed a glass of champagne. “As she left, I heard her murmur something about red, not black.”
Annie’s eyes widened. Where was Laurel? What had she wrought?
Then a strong arm slid round her shoulder and Vince Ellis bent down to give her a wet kiss. “Annie, you were great tonight.” He reached out his other arm to embrace a pink-cheeked Henny, dramatic in white satin party pajamas. “You and Henny both. But what I want to know is how you two tracked down Sheridan?” With the skill of a professional journalist hot on an inside story, he maneuvered them into the relative calm of the storeroom, followed by Max, Chief Saulter, and an inquisitive Jed McClanahan, carrying two glasses of champagne, which he downed in quick succession.
“An inspired guess,” Max suggested, but his eyes twinkled over his champagne glass.
Chief Saulter shook his head. “Gutsy and smart, that’s what they are.”
Henny’s fox-sharp nose quivered with pleasure. “Actually, Ariadne Oliver has always been a great inspiration to me. She just knows who the criminal is.” For an instant, her geniality faded. “But actually, it’s character that makes the difference, you know. Sheridan had a bad character. Just like Jacko Argyle in Ordeal by Innocence. So, I didn’t care how good her alibi was, I knew that woman was somehow responsible. I decided not to let her out of my sight—and I didn’t, not for a moment. When she came sneaking out of her back door in that costume and got on her ten-speed, I knew she was up to no good. I followed her. And I had my favorite bowling ball in my front basket.” There was a curious pause. “Like running with hand weights,” she added casually.
Saulter was nodding with interest. “But—uh—what was the getup? I mean, I’ve never seen you ride a bike in a navy-blue suit.”
H
enny beamed. “I like to get in the spirit of things.”
Saulter’s face creased in continued puzzlement, and Annie made a mental note to explain to him Henny’s penchant for appearing as famous fictional sleuths—mostly geriatric and always female.
But for now, it was credit where credit was due. “So Henny saved me and Max both,” Annie said admiringly.
A red-nosed McClanahan (Annie wondered perhaps a trifle uncharitably if he’d come to opening night because he’d heard there was a party afterward with free booze) tried to steer the conversation his way. “Of course, I would’ve ripped ’em to shreds in court.”
Henny gave him a skeptical glance and generously shared the limelight. “Now, Annie honey, you tell us how you knew.”
“When I talked to Carla Thursday evening, she was obviously brokenhearted—and it had to be connected to Shane’s murder. After she was killed, I kept trying to figure out what she’d seen. I asked myself, Who would she protect? When I learned her lover must be another woman, I thought first of Cindy or Janet. But neither seemed the kind of woman to set out to entrap and exploit Carla. Then I thought of Sheridan and I remembered what she looked like the night of her party, standing beside the Steuben oil derrick in that gold lamé dress, overpowering, arrogant, and totally self-absorbed. But Sheridan had an alibi. Oh, yes, of course she did. Of course she did. Everything was clear to me then. That was why the murder happened when it did. Carla and Sheridan had it all planned. Sheridan would have an unbreakable alibi. And, so far as anyone knew, Carla had no real motive to kill Shane. So it should work beautifully. And it did. The trouble was, Carla had no idea that Sheridan planned to be in bed at the time with Harley Jenkins. When she found out, she was wild with jealousy. That was the beginning of the end for her. The real turning point was when I realized the importance of Sheridan’s alibi, then I understood and knew that Carla hadn’t seen anything. Carla was the murderer—because of Sheridan.”
The chiefs faded brown eyes glinted with anger. “I told Annie, that woman is a bitch, pardon my language. She deliberately set out after Miss Fontaine. And she’d planned the murder for a long time. We traced those two guns, the one that killed Shane and the one she carried Saturday when she came after Annie. She’d used it to kill Freddy. She stole them from a house on the island in early April. Stole both of them. Looks to me like she was planning on getting rid of Carla even then.”
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