Design for Murder Read online

  A STORYBOOK MURDER

  What a quintessentially perfect spot for the Scene of the Crime, isolated yet romantic. What a delightfully sinister ambiance, the lengthening shadows, the brooding quiet, the black, still water. Her eyes narrowed. What was that clump of sodden cloth among the reeds at the marshy edge of the pond? Her gaze traveled out from the bunched cloth, and she saw a hand languidly floating.

  Annie didn’t give herself time to think. She sprinted to the far side of the pond, then stumbled over knobby cypress roots to splash into the duckweed-scummed water. She grabbed at the torso, then her hands recoiled at its lifeless weight. The sticky bottom sucked at her feet. Razor-sharp reeds slashed at her skin, and sweat filmed her face, dripped into her eyes. And sometime during the hideous exercise, she began to scream. She heard her own voice, high and frantic, as if from a long distance.

  Bantam Books by Carolyn G. Hart

  Death on Demand Mysteries

  DEATH ON DEMAND

  DESIGN FOR MURDER

  SOMETHING WICKED

  HONEYMOON WITH MURDER

  A LITTLE CLASS ON MURDER

  DEADLY VALENTINE

  THE CHRISTIE CAPER

  SOUTHERN GHOST

  MINT JULEP MURDER

  Henrie O Mysteries

  DEAD MAN’S ISLAND

  SCANDAL IN FAIR HAVEN

  FOR PHIL, PHILIP, AND SARAH,

  WITH ALL MY LOVE.

  THE TYPIST NODDED. It was finished, as neat a design for murder as could be envisioned. Murder with malice. To be enjoyed by a select group. Well, wasn’t it deserved?

  For an instant, the writer hesitated. Was public humiliation deserved? There was no question as to the answer. And perhaps the effect would be to break the pattern of silken domination, to end the ruthless manipulation masked by charm.

  A gloved hand gently loosened the last sheet from the typewriter. It was an agreeable irony that the plan should be typed on the old machine that sat in the corner of the director’s office of the Chastain Historical Preservation Society. Should these pages ever be linked to this particular typewriter, it would reveal only that the manuscript had been produced on a machine easily accessible to the cream of Chastain’s social hierarchy.

  When the pages were neatly folded and placed in the waiting envelope, the writer read the cover letter again, then painstakingly traced a signature. It took only a moment to slip the letter inside and seal the envelope. Everything was in readiness. As soon as the mystery expert was officially hired, the letter could be mailed.

  The writer looked up at a wall calendar which pictured the Prichard House, one of Chastain’s oldest and loveliest antebellum mansions. A crimson circle marked April 7.

  IDELL GORDON TUGGED restlessly at her sheets. She should have gone to the dentist. Well, too late now. The upper-right back molar throbbed. She kept her eyes squeezed shut, hoping for the blessed release of sleep. But sleep wouldn’t come. Finally, wearily, she struggled upright and levered her ungainly body to the edge of the bed, peering at the luminous dial on the bedstand. Almost three o’clock. Swinging her legs over the side, she slipped into her scuffed pink satin houseshoes. Oh, her jaw, her jaw. She padded across the room to her bath and reached up for the brown plastic vial of Valium tablets. One of them might help her sleep. She filled a bathroom cup with water and swallowed the tiny pill, then suppressed a groan. It would take a while for the drug to help. She almost walked to her easy chair, but she knew she would feel better if she kept moving. She crossed the room, dodging the potted plants and the rocking chair and the rickety maple whatnot, and opened the French window to step out onto the second-floor balcony. The soft night air swept over her, soothing and calming. It was almost warm enough to walk out in her nightdress, though it was only mid-March, but she grabbed up a shawl that she’d thrown over her rocking chair earlier that evening. The moonlight speckled the grounds below, hiding the burgeoning weeds in the beds along this side of the Inn. She sighed. Her back always hurt when she hoed, but she couldn’t afford to hire a gardener this spring. Occupancy of the Inn had been down, and it was going to be touch and go on the bills. A little flicker of panic moved in her chest. What was she going to do if the Inn failed? It would be jammed for the house-and-garden tours in April, but that wouldn’t make up for empty rooms later in the summer. She paced up and down on the balcony, gingerly holding her jaw and trying not to whimper, and careful, too, to step quietly so as not to arouse any of the sleeping guests. Then, sharp and harsh as a peacock’s cry, the gate to the grounds of the Historical Preservation Society squeaked open. Idell recognized the sound at once. She’d known it for years, the sound of the gate that marked the boundary between her Inn and the Society grounds. But why would the gate be opening? And at this hour? She bent to peer over the railing. How curious! How strange! She would have to ask— fiery hot pain lanced her jaw. She gave a soft moan and turned to go back inside.

  CORINNE PRICHARD WEBSTER stood in front of the ormolu-framed minor. Despite the dusky, aged glass, her reflection glistened as brightly as crystal. She always enjoyed her morning encounter with her own image. Beauty was her handmaiden and had always been so. She felt confident that to men she represented the unattainable goal of perfection. Once, when she’d asked Tim if he’d like to paint her, he had been silent for a long time, then he’d said, even if grudgingly, “You’re like the first streak of rose at sunrise.” Tim was almost as poetic as he was artistic. It sickened her to realize that he’d been beguiled by Sybil, who was no better than a slut for all the glory of her old name and her wealth. Well, they needn’t think she would let Tim take his paintings from the museum. After all she’d done for him, he must realize that it was his duty to stay in Chastain. Her mouth thinned with determination, then curved in a humorless smile. They thought it was settled, but he couldn’t very well have a show in New York without any paintings—and the paintings belonged to the Prichard Museum.

  She lifted a slender white hand to touch the tightness between her eyes, and the tiny wrinkles disappeared. She stared at her face appraisingly. Her eyes were still as vividly blue as always, her skin as smooth and soft as a young girl’s. She felt a flash of satisfaction. She did so despise women who let themselves go. Lucy’s face popped into her thoughts. Skin like leather from too many hours in her wretched garden and no more imagination in fashion than one might expect from a librarian. Boring, that was how Lucy dressed, although she could look quite nice when she chose. On Sundays, for example, she always wore a well-cut silk dress and a hat and gloves. Corinne shook her head. Hat and gloves. Almost no one wore them nowadays—except Lucy. It certainly dated her. Corinne looked at her reflection in continuing satisfaction. No one could say that about her. She was always au courant, and no one thought she was as old as Lucy, either. It was certainly a good thing she’d been firm years ago. It wouldn’t have done for Cameron to marry Lucy and make her a Prichard, not a girl whose father ran a clothing store. The Prichards had never been small shop-keepers. The Prichards owned plantations and, long ago, sailing ships and warehouses.

  Her eyes narrowed, and she no longer looked at her reflection so she didn’t see the transformation. At one instant, the mirrored face was soft and beguiling, almost as beautiful with its classic bones, silver-blonde hair, and Mediterranean blue eyes as on her wedding day at nineteen almost forty years before. Then, as Corinne Prichard Webster thought about her niece, Gail, and the manner in which she was behaving, throwing herself at a totally unsuitable man, the face hardened and looked all of its fifty-nine years, the eyes cold and hard, the mouth thin, determined, and cruel.

  The phone rang.

  Corinne didn’t move to answer it, but she looked across her bedroom, past the silken canopied bed and the Queen Anne dre
sser to the compass rose desk which sat in an alcove, the blue velvet curtains unopened yet to the morning. The white and gold telephone, a French reproduction, rang again. Corinne waited, certain she knew the caller.

  A gentle knock sounded at her bedroom door, then Marybelle stepped inside.

  “The call is for you, ma’am. Mr. Roscoe Merrill.”

  Corinne nodded. “I will answer it, Marybelle.”

  As the maid softly closed the heavy door, Corinne moved to the telephone. Picking up the receiver, she lifted her chin. If Roscoe Merrill had been in the room, he would have recognized that stance. It was Corinne at her most imperious.

  “Yes, Roscoe.” She listened, then said impatiently, “The private man reveals the public man.” He spoke again, but Corinne was shaking her head. She interrupted sharply, “It won’t do any good for you to take that tone with me. I will do what I feel is right. You should have considered the consequences of your actions. I certainly feel that Jessica has every right to know.” At his angry response, she depressed the cradle. Her face was implacable as she replaced the receiver.

  The green and pink porcelain clock on the mantel delicately chimed the quarter hour. Vexed, Corinne shook her head. She was running late this morning, and there was much she had to do. There was that matter of the clinic and John Sanford’s foolish plan to expand it. That would draw more country people into Chastain, overburdening the hospital with the kind of people who couldn’t pay. John must be made to see that he was out of line. Corinne yanked on the bell pull. She would have time for Marybelle to draw her bath, then she must hurry. So many things to attend to. That silly mystery program, for one. She felt a surge of irritation. Such a cheap idea. For once she agreed with Dora, but it had been obvious that the Board was going to approve Roscoe’s stupid proposal. She’d voted yes, even though she was seething inside. After all, she couldn’t let it appear that the Board was taking such a major step without her approval. At least, as president, she’d retained control of hiring the mystery expert. That was another reason to make Roscoe pay for his actions, which she certainly intended to do. There was a proper way to act and an improper way. That reminded her of Gail. She would talk to Gail without delay. Corinne sighed, overburdened. There were so many demands on her time and energy. Then she straightened and looked toward the dusky mirror, her face again soft and unlined. After all, she was Corinne Prichard Webster. People depended upon her, so many of them. What would they do without her?

  I WANT ALL OF them. Every last one of them.”

  The penetrating voice grated on Annie Laurence’s ear drum. Her hand tightened on the receiver, but she kept her reply light and cheerful. Think of it this way, she lectured herself, every demand by Mrs. Brawley translated into a cordial hum on the cash register.

  “I don’t believe they’ve all been reprinted yet. But I’ll be glad to order them as they’re scheduled.”

  “Hildegarde Withers is wonderful! It’s a crime they’ve been out of print all these years.” The tone was accusing.

  Annie didn’t quite see it as a capital offense, but she murmured agreement. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Brawley, I’ll order them for you. And, if you like, I can round up all the Stuart Palmer titles second-hand—”

  “I want new books.”

  “Oh, certainly. By all means. Now, I have your number. I’ll let you know as soon as the first title arrives.”

  It took several seconds more to end the conversation. Mrs. Brawley’s singleminded pursuit of a goal ranked high on any all-time list, neck-and-neck with Carrie Nation, Johnny Appleseed, and Zsa Zsa Gabor.

  Once free of the phone, Annie returned to a jollier pastime, reading mystery reviews in Publishers Weekly. The latest Robert Barnard sounded marvelous. And there was a new book by Sister Carol Anne O’Marie. She would—

  The front doorbell sang. Annie dropped the magazine on the wicker table, pushed up from her favorite rattan easy chair, the one with the softest red and yellow cushions, brushed by a flourishing Whitmani fern, and stepped into the broad central corridor of Death on Demand. She hurried past the angled gum shelving with the various mystery categories toward the front desk and the rather stunning woman who was surveying the interior of the bookstore as if it were a Peruvian slum.

  Annie’s smile tightened. You don’t have to like customers, she reminded herself, although, as a general rule, she did. Mystery readers, as a class, were bright, well-informed, and articulate. This well-preserved blonde was a stranger to her. Maybe she’d just moved to Broward’s Rock. She certainly looked prosperous enough to afford the island’s casual but expensive lifestyle. Annie swiftly appraised the elegant cream suede suit, the crimson silk tie, the brown alligator pumps and handbag, and a wedding ring that glittered like the Waldorf chandelier.

  “Good morning. May I help you?”

  Deeply blue eyes flicked disdainfully from Edgar’s sleek feathers to a splashily bright poster affixed to the True Crime section, which advertised the latest book on the luckless headmistress with the unfortunate love life. Carnelian lips thinned in disgust.

  Annie could feel a rush of heat to the back of her neck. Steady, she thought, foreseeing lurid headlines. MYSTERY SHOP OWNER BLUDGEONS OBNOXIOUS CUSTOMER.

  “I’m looking for a Miss Annie Laurance.” The tone indicated the same eagerness that might be experienced upon searching for a boa constrictor.

  “I’m Annie Laurance.” And to hell with you, lady.

  “Oh.” Frosty eyes scanned her. The artfully darkened blonde brows drew down in a delicate frown. “You’re very young.”

  Tempted to respond with a combative, “So?,” Annie evinced exemplary restraint, and merely said again, a little more insistently, “May I help you?”

  “I’m Corinne Prichard Webster.”

  Annie waited.

  “From Chastain.”

  “Chastain. That’s not far from Beaufort. I understand it’s a lovely old town.”

  “You’ve never been to Chastain?” Incredulity lifted the well-modulated voice.

  “Not yet,” Annie admitted, her smile now unforced.

  “Oh, well. I don’t know what to say.”

  Annie was beginning to feel trapped in a surrealistic conversation. It was time to hack her way out of this encounter. Maybe this expensive blonde was a nut. “Are you looking for a particular book?”

  “A book. A mystery? Oh, heavens, no. I don’t read them.” Her moral superiority was clearly established.

  “This is a mystery bookstore.”

  “Yes, I know. I’m here on behalf of the Chastain Historical Preservation Society. One of our Board members, Roscoe Merrill, recommended you.”

  Merrill. Merrill. Then she remembered him, a stocky lawyer with a shiny bald head and humorless brown eyes. But he liked Rumpole, so there had to be a spark of humanity beneath that pinstriped exterior. What on earth, she wondered, had Merrill recommended her for?

  Mrs. Webster didn’t seem cheered by the recommendation. “Are you familiar with the annual house-and-garden tours in Chastain?” She looked at Annie doubtfully.

  Recalling the chaste gray and pink poster she’d seen in the hallway of the Broward’s Rock Public Library, Annie nodded.

  “It has been suggested—” The smooth voice thinned just a trifle, and Annie detected a ripple of irritation. “The Board decided that we could enhance the success of our annual house-and-garden tours if we offered a further enticement.” She enunciated each word as if she were sucking a lemon.

  The Board of the Chastain Historical Preservation Society must be hard up for support if it’d sent an emissary all the way to an off-lying island. Annie was looking forward to an unctuous refusal to harbor promotional material, something on the lines of, “This is a mystery bookstore, and we only offer information of interest to mystery readers,” when the magic words “some kind of mystery program” registered.

  “Mystery program?”

  “Yes. Now, of course, if you don’t feel that you can handle an assignment of th
is nature, it would be understandable. After all, you certainly are very young, and there isn’t much time to develop it. We would need to have the scripts, if that’s how it’s done, by next Thursday. If you feel the time is insufficient, I will explain to the Board and perhaps another year—”

  “Mystery program?” A happy surge of adrenaline tingled from her ears to her toes. “You mean, figure out the plot and create the clues and run the whole thing? Oh, God, I’d kill to do it!”

  When the door finally closed behind Corinne Webster’s trim figure, Annie unclenched her hands and felt the tightness ease from her neck and shoulders. What a poisonous creature! A Gila monster would have a certain charm in comparison. But the chance to run her very own mystery nights program was too exciting to lose, so she’d ignored the Board president’s clear distaste for the entire idea. Something funny there. Obviously, the little tyrant had been maneuvered into approving the Mystery Nights. Be interesting to meet the other Board members. Well, she’d have her chance on Thursday when she presented them with her wonderful Mystery Nights program. And she could thank Roscoe Merrill for suggesting her for the job. Annie felt utterly confident that she would indeed create a superduper mystery. How could she miss? She’d read every mystery from Les Miserables to Death From a Top Hat. Her mind teemed with ideas—a mannequin which turns into a body, babies switched at birth, letters hidden in the attic. Grinning, she reached for the phone and called Ingrid to see if she could work full-time for the next few weeks. Then, she hurried down the aisle to make a fresh pot of Kona coffee. The better to think with.

  Ingrid arrived before the brew was finished. Annie filled mugs for both of them, and Ingrid settled in be hind the front desk, emitting enthusiastic coos as Annie described her new project.

  “The House-and-Garden tours start Monday, April 7. I’m going to put on a mystery program the first four nights, and end up with a Denouement Ball on Friday night. And they’re going to pay me $1,000!”