White Elephant Dead Read online

  Annie certainly recalled the recent holiday that combined spectacular fireworks and a particularly cunning murder.

  “—when I told you”—Edith’s voice was anguished—“that The Wizard of Oz was written as a sophisticated economic allegory?”

  Annie had taken the news as simply one more assault on her childhood faiths: First Santa Claus, then the Yellow Brick Road. What next? Would Rudolph’s nose turn out to be battery-powered? “Yes, I remember.”

  Edith put down her glass, clutched Annie’s hand with damp fingers. “I was wrong. Wrong! And yet I’d read this brilliant editorial in the New York Times applauding Frank Baum for his brilliant propagandizing on the gold standard and free silver. Do you know what it turned out to be?” Her voice rose.

  Annie shook her head, certain she had no clue. Was she going to regain her faith in the Yellow Brick Road?

  “An economics professor once used the book to illustrate his vision of an economic allegory, but people picked up his speech and soon everyone accepted it as fact that Baum’s purpose was political. Well, the historian who wrote Baum’s biography completely debunks the idea. Do you know why Baum wrote the book?” She yanked on Annie’s hand.

  Annie disentangled her fingers. “No. Why?” She knew Edith in this mood. There was information she had to impart.

  “To please children. That was all. No political motive. No grand machinations to influence economic policies.” Edith struggled to sit up in the hammock.

  “It’s okay, Edith.” Annie leaned over, adjusted the pillow.

  Edith sank back, her eyes mournful. “I’m a research librarian.”

  Annie understood. Everyone had pride. How would Annie feel if she didn’t know the true author of The G-String Murders by Gypsy Rose Lee? Even though Gypsy Rose Lee’s name was on the cover, Craig Rice wrote the book.

  But Edith’s total commitment to truth and her skeptical nature made her invaluable now. “Edith, nobody knows more about the island than you do.”

  For an instant, Edith’s gaze was faraway, apparently still fastened on the baselessly tarnished Yellow Brick Road. Then those bright, observant eyes focused on Annie. She gave a modest shrug. “Oh, I suppose I know a bit.” The disclaimer was careless, but the underlying confidence evident: Ask me, baby, ask me! The Oz debacle couldn’t put Edith down for long.

  Annie pulled her wicker chair closer to the hammock. “Okay, Edith. What do you know about the Campbells?”

  Max tucked the phone under his chin, tilted his chair back. “Max Darling.” Max admired the photograph of Annie in its heavy silver frame. It was the next best thing to having Annie here, her sun-streaked blond hair, steady gray eyes, and special smile. Dear Annie, funny, fun, serious and purposeful. She always tried hard to do her best. If that included an unfortunate propensity to encourage him to also do his best, a matter upon which they had scant agreement, well, marriage was meant to be challenging, right?

  “Mr. Darling, this is Pete Garrett—”

  “Oh Pete, Max here. Was that anonymous call helpful?” Max doodled a cake, striped it like a lawn chair. He wrinkled his nose. There was a marvelous aroma of baking. Barb could create wonders in the little kitchen next to the storeroom. But crème de menthe and white crème de cacao?

  “We investigated thoroughly. Clearly, the apartment had been disturbed since we checked it out last night. There is now some basis to be especially interested—”

  Max drew a clam with tight stitch marks where the shells met. He circled the clam with dollar signs. Garrett obviously had a future in a politically sensitive job.

  “—in the houses Kathryn Girard apparently intended to visit last night. Especially since”—this silence was dour—“we have had a serious breach of police security. The Women’s Club van suffered serious damage from an interior fire. Obviously, Mrs. Brawley had no hand in that damage, as she was under police surveillance as well as incapacitated. The fact that the van’s contents have been destroyed indicates an effort to prevent authorities from gaining information from the van’s contents. Those contents must have come from the houses on the list you gave me. Officer Cameron told me”—Garrett hesitated, then plunged ahead—“that you have very likely amassed some information about those individuals in your efforts to aid Mrs. Brawley and—”

  Max spoke up, brimming with good citizenship. “Oh sure. I’ll send over what we have right now.”

  Garrett’s young voice held surprise, relief and appreciation. “That’s awfully good of you.”

  “We’re glad to help.” Max put a bow on top of the clam. “We want to do everything we can to help you find out who killed Kathryn and chased Henny. Call anytime.”

  He buzzed for Barb.

  She hurried into his office, dusting flour from a magenta apron. “I’m just putting on the icing. You can take a piece to Parotti’s for Annie.”

  Max sniffed. “Crème de menthe?”

  “I’ve been thinking about this cake for a while and laying in stores.” Barb dusted off the flour. She glanced at the stack of folders. “It seemed like a good time. I thought I’d take a piece to Henny in a little while.”

  “On your way”—he pointed at the dossiers—“take copies of everything we’ve got to Chief Garrett.”

  Barb’s eyebrows rose.

  “We,” Max said firmly, “are in full cooperation with the officers of the law.”

  “That,” Barb observed, “is certainly a first.” She gathered up the folders.

  Max leaned back in his chair. If Barb got the stuff back to him in time, he’d read the Yates file before he met Annie for lunch. But he was already thinking of some questions that needed answers.

  “I can tell you that Loretta Campbell didn’t like her daughter-in-law worth a damn.” Edith’s hand bypassed the raisins for a handful of M&M’s. “Raisins,” she said indistinctly, “really louse up your teeth.”

  Annie took M&M’s, too. After all, lunch was at least an hour away.

  Edith crunched two more of the candies. “Loretta was president of the library board about five years ago. Nice lady, but lah-di-dah. Awfully proud of the Campbells and, of course, The Doctor. It’s a wonder she didn’t queer Gary’s marriage. The second one. Lots of whispers about the first. People said he went around looking like a whipped dog. That wife beat it quick. I heard she went to Florida, worked in a nightclub. So you’d think Loretta would have appreciated Marie. Except Marie worked her way up from nothing. She was Gary’s secretary. They got married as soon as the divorce was final. Maybe that’s what put Loretta’s nose out of joint. Maybe she thought Marie was a home wrecker. Apparently Wife Number One was a floozy. So wasn’t Marie a better deal? But I’ve never forgotten a program a couple of years ago at The Haven. It was an awards deal, plaques to older kids who donated their time to work with little kids. Katy Campbell coached volleyball. I was working in the aisle, you know, helping get the kids in line to go on stage. I looked toward the Campbells. You know Marie, she’s like a roman candle, bright, fizzy. She was watching Katy walk up the steps and, well, she was one proud mom. Sam was giving two thumbs up and grinning. Gary was clapping like a maniac. Then I looked at the old lady. Talk about a stone face. She watched her granddaughter go up those stairs, then her head swiveled toward Marie, and I swear, Annie, just for an instant, her face curdled like she’d tasted brine. One happy family, I don’t think.”

  Annie lifted her glass. The tea was tart and refreshing. “Who do you think Kathryn was blackmailing? Gary or Marie?”

  Edith picked up another handful of candies, popped two in her mouth. Her dark eyes were bright and sharp. “Hard to say. He’s an odd duck. And I know there was something funny about Gary and the Little Theater. Gary’s a Friend and he fixed the balusters on the second floor stairway. He did a beautiful job and Ned—”

  Ned Fisher, the library director, had a finger in every island pie and never met a stranger.

  “—tried to recruit him for the stage crew. Gary acted like he’d been invited to b
e the chief stuffed head in a taxidermist’s shop. He backed away, those big eyebrows tufted, mouth twisted, muttering, ‘No thanks. No thanks. Got to go.’ After he left, Ned turned his hands up, asked me, ‘What did I do, Edith? Does he think the Little Theater’s a cabal?’” Edith took a big swig of tea. “Cabal! That’s a good word. Did you know it came from the initials of Charles II’s ministers, those conspiratorial old devils?”

  Annie hadn’t known. But no information forthcoming from a librarian would surprise her. After all, she’d read the Jo Dereske mysteries with librarian sleuth Helma Zukas, a human—and fun—almanac.

  “And the funny thing is”—Edith pursued Little Theater—“Ned says he was looking over some of the old programs, long before either one of us came to the island, and Marie was a star. Played the lead in Pajama Game. But that was a long time ago.”

  Annie could picture Marie Campbell on the stage. She had an enchanting quality that made you feel a connection whether you knew her well or not.

  But lives change. Fascinations can pall. And the Campbells’ involvement in the local stage was a long time ago, apparently. “I can’t see how dropping out of Little Theater could have anything to do with blackmail.” Annie found a scrap of paper in her purse, wrote down: Little Theater? But ancient backstage rivalries hardly seemed worth pursuing. “Money.”

  Edith was a longtime mystery reader, as are many librarians. Edith’s favorite authors included Margaret Scherf, Amanda Cross and Paula Gosling. She had no trouble following Annie’s thoughts. “The old lady? But she was dying for a long time. And who would she leave her stuff to but Gary? I don’t think that flies, Annie.”

  A well-hidden murder was such a wonderful reason for blackmail. Annie wasn’t quite willing to dismiss Loretta Campbell’s death. And Emma said Kathryn Girard was a member of the Hospital Auxiliary. Maybe she picked up a hint of something wrong from a nurse or nurse’s aide or someone else in the auxiliary. Annie wrote down: Hospital Auxiliary.

  Edith cautiously moved her legs. “Annie, would you mind shoving that little red pillow behind my right knee?”

  “Sure.” Annie leaned forward, adjusted the pillow. “More tea?”

  Edith nodded weakly.

  Annie plucked ice from a plastic bucket, poured the tea. She held up the plate. “Cookie?”

  “Oh thanks. I’ll have one or two.” Edith languished against the pillow, wan as a gothic heroine.

  Annie understood. Edith was long divorced and her son was at school. Spending a day alone with throbbing ankles would not be fun.

  “How about the Pierces?” Annie had a swift memory of the green Porsche spurting from the Pierces’ drive and a hand lifted in greeting.

  Edith’s eyes popped open, glittering with interest. She propped herself on her elbow. “I don’t know much more about them than what everyone on the island knows. He’s richer than Warren Buffett and she looks so expensive you expect her to shed diamonds when she walks. Actually, she seems pretty nice. She’s all over the place. In the Friends, of course. I was detached from the library—lovely how Ned assumes I can do anything and will to cement relations with the rich—to work on a big promotion for the Prescott Art Center. And I can tell you that Janet Pierce did everything but throw down a cloak for Adelaide to walk on every time I saw them. Don’t know why Janet would care so much. Dave could buy the island, much less the Prescotts. But Adelaide is old money, old family. Nope, can’t help you with the Pierces. Who else is on that list? Vince Ellis? The Yateses?” Edith’s face screwed up like a thoughtful monkey. “I guess you’re sure about that?” She answered her own question. “Yeah, yeah, Kathryn’s handwriting. Annie, it doesn’t figure to me. Now, take Vince Ellis: He’s a good guy. Works hard, tries to be the best single parent on the planet, and Meg’s not even his kid. You talk about a heart-breaker. Arlene did a lot of stories out at The Haven and I got to know her pretty well. Bright, funny, sweet and crazy about that man. And he was crazy about her. Seems like everything was perfect for them until that last year. You know, they’d just brought Meg to live with them, maybe six months before Arlene died. I saw Arlene a couple of times that last month and she looked real bad, drawn and white, and her eyes were huge. She’d lost a lot of weight. Somebody told me she and her sister were real close. Arlene was so sweet with that little girl. I saw them on the beach one day and they had a way of turning their heads and looking at you and it was like Meg was a little replica of Arlene.”

  “It doesn’t make sense, does it?” Annie thought about Vince Ellis and his losses. “I don’t suppose,” she said doubtfully, “Vince had a girlfriend on the side.”

  Mystery cognoscente Edith looked at her sharply. “Oh, no way, Annie. Not Vince. Besides, he’s never remarried.”

  That would seem to answer that. Though problems between husbands and wives could involve more than infidelity and Vince’s house was without any question on Kathryn’s list. Annie wrote down: Why was Arlene so unhappy?

  Edith peered at her pad. “You’re on to something there. She was one miserable lady before she died. But Annie”—Edith’s eyes were sad—“I don’t think it will turn out to be Vince’s fault.” Her mouth quirked. “Though I’ve always had a weakness for redheads. Jeez, if Mike Shayne had a case on the island, I’d lay in a case of Martell’s.”

  Brett Halliday’s handsome Miami private eye had a taste for brandy.

  “But,” Edith sighed, “a woman’s body in the back of a club van isn’t exactly his style. Okay”—she leaned back on her pillow—“you’ve got Gary or Marie Campbell, Janet or Dave Pierce, Vince Ellis, which I don’t think so, and Ruth Yates.” Edith shoved back a tangle of curly dark hair. “Okay, okay, I know you tripped Ruth up about the gun, but honestly, Annie, Ruth’s the original sad sack. Poor old Ruth. Hasn’t she had enough trouble?”

  Max arranged the photos in chronological order, Ruth Conroy Yates in her high school yearbook, walking across the stage for her bachelor’s degree, her wedding, working in the church nursery, serving at a church tea, playing croquet with her husband, pricing donations at a church sale. Then and now, the pictures reflected anxious gray eyes, hair of an indeterminate brown, an uncertain but sweet smile. Her bony shoulders hunched defensively. Sticklike arms dangled at her sides. Her head was drawn tight to her neck like a turtle sensing danger. She was dowdily dressed in the pictures, a pink blouse and shapeless green skirt, a too-large navy-blue dress, a sundress with a cascade of ruffles.

  Seven photos of Ruth, a dozen or so of Brian. Brian Yates either smiled all the time or was always camera-ready. Thick blond hair curled above cheerful blue eyes. Max riffled through, chose a few, Brian as president of his senior high school class, Brian leading scorer of his college soccer team, Brian at seminary, Brian at the reception after his ordination, Brian and his daughter playing softball, Brian speaking at the Art Center. Without exception, he beamed: face ruddy, eyes bright, mouth curved in an infectious grin.

  When he and Ruth were pictured together, she faded into the background, not noticeable unless purposefully sought.

  Nice man, Max thought. He always enjoyed talking to Brian. Actually, though he and Annie had known Brian and Ruth Yates since they came to the island, Max had almost no clear memory of Ruth Yates.

  Max picked up the first dossier:

  BRIAN ALDEN YATES, 52, first son of The Rev. Alden Alcott Yates and Josephine Cotter Yates, Scarsdale, NY. Father an Episcopal priest, mother a homemaker. Grew up in various cities (Scarsdale, New York; Alexandria, Virginia; Morristown, New Jersey; Dallas, Texas) where his father accepted church posts. President of his junior and senior classes at St. Mark’s High School, Dallas; bachelor’s degree in history from University of the South, divinity degree from Yale University. Served in dioceses in California, Texas and Georgia before coming to Broward’s Rock ten years ago. Left a post as rector of a church to come to Broward’s Rock as associate priest—

  Max scrawled an oversize question mark on his pad and wrote: A step down? Why?

&
nbsp; “—so that he could devote more time to his father, who had suffered a series of strokes and was bedridden.”

  Max drew through the question mark and queries.

  Brian has turned down several opportunities to be interviewed by other churches, replying that he feels he’s found his mission in his involvement on the island with a nursing home for disabled patients. In addition to duties at the church, he has been active in coaching softball and soccer, both at the local schools when his daughter was a student, and later at The Haven. Brian is married to Ruth Conroy, whom he met while an assistant priest at his first church in Laguna, California. Their daughter, Judith Ann, is married to Martin Fraser and lives in Denver, Colorado. Judy has two children, Mark Brian, 4, and Conroy Elaine, eight months.

  The dossier on Ruth was much shorter:

  RUTH CONROY YATES, 52, third of four children of Hampton Willis Conroy, pharmacist, and Lou Ella Taylor Conroy, homemaker. Ruth always made good grades but avoided extracurricular activities. She attended Long Beach University, majoring in childhood education. She lived at home after college and taught third grade at a Laguna Primary School. She met Brian Yates while assisting in the Sunday School program at church. After their marriage, she continued to teach until their daughter was born. Her activities have been limited to the church or local schools.

  Max slapped shut the folders. What could Kathryn Girard have discovered about the Yateses? He glanced at his clock. Ah, almost time for lunch. Maybe Annie would have some ideas.

  “Ruth always looks like the last stagecoach out of Dodge just left and there won’t be another one.” Edith’s tone was tart but her eyes were kind. “Usually I don’t have any patience with scaredy-cats, but Ruth’s really a sweetheart. She was Ken’s Sunday School teacher for four years and the kids love her. What a softy. And she’s shyer than a ghost crab. She always reminds me of a crab. She scuttles. Brian bustles around heartier than a musketeer, agreeing to this that or the other, but half the time it’s Ruth who ends up in the trench doing all the work. Now, I understand he’s got more to do than anybody can manage, that’s true of every priest, but he moved his dad here and expected Ruth to manage everything already on her plate, then spend hours attending his dad. That was the same time their daughter was having back surgery. Ruth got so skinny I thought she was going to disappear, just like a ghost crab. About the same time, Brian’s dad finally died. Ruth was worn to the bone. She looked dazed for months, a real case of depression. But I can believe that Ruth intended to shoot herself. It sounds just like her. Whatever Kathryn Girard threatened, it figures Ruth would hunt up a gun to shoot herself.”