White Elephant Dead Read online

  Garrett’s eyes glittered. He started to speak, stopped, took a deep breath. “What happened?”

  Annie moved swiftly from the shot in the night to her discovery of the list in Henny’s pocket, her arrival at the hospital to find Ruth Yates in Henny’s room, Ruth’s question about a gun, Annie’s pursuit of Ruth and their tense exchange. “But,” Annie concluded, “Ruth said Kathryn took the gun away from her. That means the murderer could have taken it from the back of the van.”

  “A pearl-handled grip?” Garrett demanded.

  “Yes.” Annie’s voice was troubled.

  Emma cocked her head like a pirate spotting a silver piece. “So Ruth said Kathryn took the gun. Damn clever lie. If it was a lie. In The Mystery of the Moribund Macaw, the murderer pulled a triple bluff. Marigold figured it out, of course.”

  Max rubbed a bright red mosquito welt. “Do you really think Ruth’s capable of bluffing anybody? About anything?”

  Laurel murmured, “Ruth is quite sensitive. And kind-hearted. Really, she is so distressed at the proposal to kill the deer.” The island was presently overrun with deer. Other suggested solutions included deportation or pills to prevent pregnancy. “She most emphatically opposes killing the deer.”

  Annie shot her mother-in-law a quick glance. Laurel always seemed so spacey, but sometimes she knew what mattered. Would a woman who didn’t want Bambi killed have committed three murders? However, Marie Campbell fought for the deer, too. Did that make either or both of them less likely to have killed Kathryn?

  Emma folded her arms. “Let’s not forget that Kathryn’s list included the Campbells, Vince Ellis and the Pierces as well as Ruth. Marigold never makes the mistake of dismissing suspects from her consideration merely because a piece of physical evidence is linked to only one of them. In The Case of the Confident Captain—”

  “Ma’am.” Emma might be the mayor’s confidante, but she lacked Laurel’s allure. Garrett said grimly, “You folks have been very helpful. But this is a crime scene and I’ll have to ask you to leave. Now.” He turned away, stepped into the clubroom.

  Undaunted, Emma lifted her voice, reminding Annie of a load of gravel being dumped. “Chief, does this mean Henny Brawley is no longer under suspicion?”

  Garrett’s pugnacious face was expressionless. Finally, he said carefully, “At this point in the investigation, it would appear that Mrs. Brawley, who has been under police surveillance, could have had nothing to do with this murder. I would say that the focus of the investigation presently—”

  Emma cut in. “Are you going to remove the police guard?”

  Garrett gave an abrupt nod and closed the door. With finality.

  Annie felt a surge of relief. At least Henny was no longer a suspect, although it was dreadful that it had taken a second murder to convince Garrett.

  “Butterfly weed. I shall go home and prepare a card.” Laurel clapped her hands in pleasure. “The flowers are quite bright and lovely. Orange.”

  “Let me go,” Emma said absently.

  Just for an instant, Laurel looked just a trifle miffed. “Yes, indeed,” Laurel admitted.

  Annie knew her mother-in-law would die before she’d ask how Emma knew. After all, Laurel was the authority on the language of flowers. “Why, Emma”—Annie’s eyes were wide with admiration—“how did you ever know?” She ignored Max’s sharp glance—would she rain on Laurel’s parade?—and said ingenuously, “That’s simply wonderful.”

  “Oh, just one of those odd facts you pick up as a writer.” Emma looked as satisfied as Agatha with a mustache of whipped cream. “Like the fact that Lusaka is the capital of Zambia or minestrone is 89.5 percent water or an impeller is the rotating part of a centrifugal pump.”

  Annie was so thankful that Henny was no longer at risk, she was willing to nod admiringly at Emma, though the writer’s ego outpaced Hercule Poirot’s.

  Max grabbed her arm. “No guard. Come on. We have to get to the hospital.”

  Annie’s sense of ease vanished. Abruptly she understood. Yes, it was wonderful that Henny was no longer a suspect, but that didn’t mean all danger was past. Jake Chapman died because this murderer took no chances. Henny was perfectly safe if Ruth Yates was guilty. But what if Ruth didn’t kill Kathryn Girard or Jake Chapman? Would this murderer gamble that Henny’s memory would never return?

  Not likely.

  “Max, you’re right. You go straight there. I’ll get my car. Emma—”

  Emma held up both hands. “Wait a minute. Here’s what we’ll do….”

  Water slapped against the hull of the yacht. Max rowed past the prow. In the moonlight, the name was clearly visible: Marigold’s Pleasure.

  “This way, sir.” A dark figure moved along the deck. “If you’ll throw the mooring rope, I’ll fasten it. The ladder is amidships.”

  Annie got a kick out of climbing up the rope ladder. It was as close as she’d likely ever come to a Hammond Innes adventure. When she and Max reached the deck, the crewman pointed to a lit stairwell. “Mrs. Clyde’s guest is in the saloon.”

  And she was.

  Annie hurried across the gray and pink Persian rug. “Henny, oh Henny.”

  Their old friend was ensconced on a silk sofa, soft pillows bunched behind her, a pale pink afghan over her knees. Except for a small bandage and a very pale face, she looked like the Henny of old, bright dark eyes sparkling with interest.

  “Thanks, Annie, Max.” Just for an instant Henny blinked away a tear.

  Annie grabbed a thin hand, held it tight. “Emma’s the smart one. You’ll be safe here. How did you get out of the hospital?”

  “Oh, it was vintage Emma.” Henny gingerly touched her head. “She bought a red wig so heavy I could barely walk and a purple and yellow caftan. We waited until the hall was clear, then I hurried to the stairs and went down to the emergency room. Emma stayed in my room and I’m sure”—Henny’s smile was quick—“she talked at length about her new book, The Adventure of the Airborne Aardvark, to the pillows we mounded in the bed. Then she stood in the hall and wished me a good night, loudly. She was heading out to a party, said she’d tell me all about it tomorrow. I walked out to the emergency drive. Emma’s housekeeper, Cleo Binton, was waiting for me. We drove to the ferry. Emma had talked to Ben. Cleo and I waited until he returned from a regular trip, then scooted on board and he pulled out with only the one car. If anyone had followed, they’d think we were going to the mainland. We started across the Sound, then he veered around the end of the island and we rendezvoused with Marigold’s Pleasure and here I am.” The vivacity seeped from her face. “But I want to know everything. Emma told me about the houses Kathryn listed. I don’t remember putting the note card in my pocket.” She gingerly touched her temple. “I suppose I must have driven to the houses in turn and at some point spotted the van and followed it to Marsh Tacky Road. And someone at one of the houses had already killed Kathryn.” Her eyes narrowed. “You know, I should be able to tell you who did it. I know all of these people. It seems laughable to suspect Ruth. She’s disorganized and vague and indecisive, not exactly qualities for a successful murderer.”

  Annie almost pointed out that Ruth’s arrest was imminent, so the degree of success could be in question.

  But Henny churned ahead. “Now, Dave Pierce seems quite capable of murder in a crisp, cold, unemotional way. As for Janet, I’ve never dealt with anyone better able to plan and accomplish whatever goal she might have. And Gary Campbell”—Henny smoothed her afghan—“is one of those quiet ones. Nothing would surprise me about Gary. It always makes me uncomfortable the way he sticks so close to Marie, like she’s going to vanish if he blinks his eyes.”

  Annie hitched a chair closer to the divan. Adelaide was sure Henny knew everything about local theater. “What ran Gary and Marie away from the Little Theater?”

  Henny started to shake her head, stopped, touched the bandage. “Damn.” She waited a minute. “I went on a train trip across Canada that summer. When I left, they were
big in rehearsals, and when I came back, they had dropped out. No one made anything of it. They were always kind of aloof. He always seemed to draw a magic circle around Marie, never let anyone get close. At cast parties, he was right at her side. And I don’t know why. I don’t remember ever seeing her flirt with anyone. But maybe it was him. Maybe he never felt comfortable unless she was close at hand.”

  Max dropped into a cane chair. He picked up a book from the coffee table, held it so Annie could read the title, The Case of the Coy Cook.

  Annie wrinkled her nose.

  Henny waved her hand. “Not one of her best. But actually, it has some parallels here. A fellow like Gary Campbell, lots of money, upper-middle-class white male, lawyer, and the whole thing hinges on the guy’s temper.”

  Temper. Annie looked at Henny sharply. That was the second time someone had mentioned temper in connection with Gary Campbell. “But why? What’s he got to be mad about?”

  “That I don’t know. But I can tell you he’s got a short fuse. Once at a Friends meeting, somebody interrupted him and he stopped and his face turned purple and I thought he was going to heave a chair across the room. You could see it in his eyes. Maybe that’s why Marie’s always right there. She took his hand and tugged. You know how little she is, but in a second she had him out in the hall and the whole thing blew over.” Henny looked thoughtful. “That’s funny. I hadn’t thought about it until now, but she’s the tough one.”

  Annie remembered Marie’s lively, elfin face, not a face to associate with double murder. But there was strength in that face. Had she needed strength through the years to deal with her husband? And with a mother-in-law who loathed her?

  “And that leaves Vince Ellis.” Henny pointed across the saloon at a wall of framed photographs, all, of course, featuring Emma. “I’ve always liked that picture, the third from the bottom. It’s one of the few times I’ve ever seen Emma laugh out loud.”

  It was an excellent shot of Emma and Vince and Arlene Ellis. Across time, there was no way to know what prompted the joke but Vince was staggering backward, one hand holding up his tie to simulate a noose. Arlene stood with her arms folded, shaking her head in remonstrance, trying not to laugh. As for Emma, her face was pink, her eyes watering and she could scarcely stand she was laughing so hard.

  “Vince used to be so much fun,” Henny said softly. “Before Arlene died, he was the happiest man in the world. When you think about it”—she shook a finger at Annie—“how many happy murderers have you ever read about?”

  “Vince isn’t happy now.” Max’s gaze was dark.

  “I should know who did it.” Henny moved impatiently on the divan. “I’ve been thinking and thinking ever since Emma told me. And then I try to imagine being afraid of one of them and it seems crazy. Emma insists I’m in danger.”

  There was a silence and they all could hear the slap of water against the hull.

  “It depends,” Max said judiciously.

  “The case is solved,” Annie said slowly, “if Ruth Yates is the murderer.”

  “No.” Henny was emphatic. “I’ve known Ruth ever since she and Brian came to Broward’s Rock. She is incapable of murder.”

  Max’s face was grave. “I’m afraid we can’t be certain of that. I talked to the nurse who was on duty the night Alden Yates died…”

  When he finished, Henny shook her head, then winced. “I don’t believe Ruth killed anyone. Funny. It would be so much better for me if she was guilty. Because I’m beginning to remember, you know. In patches. And if it isn’t Ruth…” She suddenly looked much smaller, frailer, weary. She looked around the elegantly appointed saloon. “I can’t stay here forever.”

  Death could come stealing quietly up the steps of her isolated marsh home in the stillness of a rainy morning, in the darkness of moonlit night.

  “We’ll figure it out, Henny. I promise.” Annie wished she had the ebullient confidence of Elizabeth Peters’s Amelia Peabody instead of an uneasy feeling that their opponent was as cold and capable as Agatha Christie’s villain in N or M.

  Annie glanced at the clock as they straggled into the house. Almost two in the morning. Every night they came in a little later. They had waited until Henny was locked in her cabin and safely asleep before rowing back to the harbor. Now, as they flicked on the kitchen lights, Dorothy L. gamboled happily across the counter.

  The answering machine light blinked steadily. Five messages. Annie crossed to the machine as Max shook out dry food for Dorothy L.—certainly it was fortunate Agatha couldn’t see this—and filled tall tumblers with ice. Annie punched the button.

  MESSAGE 1: Chief Garrett informed me that Pamela Potts arrived on the scene shortly after I left the hospital and she raised the alarm. Henny is now officially among the missing. I’m pleased with that. It should make our murderer highly nervous. By the way, I cleared Henny’s departure with Dr. Cary and with our young police chief. Garrett may possibly learn something from this adventure. In fact, it’s given me an idea for a book: The Case of the Shamefaced Cop. If Garrett had listened to us Thursday night in Marsh Tacky Lane, he might have fanned out and reached Jake Chapman’s house and Jake might be playing his regular foursome in the morning. In any event, we dare not be sanguine about Garrett’s focus on Ruth. In fact, I intend to get the word out that we intrepid investigators are convinced of Ruth’s innocence and intend to pursue other suspects. To that end, I suggest Max delve deeper into the boating mishaps. Annie, I’ll expect you at the White Elephant Sale in the morning. Everyone will be there. I’ll stalk about making dark hints. You can furrow your brow, widen your eyes, and claim you never, ever believed—let your voice drop—and whisper a scandalous tidbit. You’ll ferret out all kinds of discreditable histories. I’ve already spoken with Laurel. Do you know, directing this investigation is almost more fun than writing. Until tomorrow.

  Max handed Annie a glass of water. She drank and glared at the answering machine. “Who does she think she is?”

  Max grinned. “Marigold Rembrandt is America’s Miss Marple. What does that make Emma?”

  “A conceited, self-centered, patronizing show-off,” Annie fumed. “Does she think she needs to tell me how to ask questions?”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Max said staunchly. Was there a slight quiver of his lips? He ducked his head to pick up Dorothy L.

  Annie looked at him suspiciously. “Emma may have written seventy-five books but that doesn’t mean she knows everything. I fact, I could tell her a book to write. Or maybe I’ll write it, The Case”—she savored every syllable—“of the Missing Mystery Writer.”

  Max grinned. The cat curled against his chest and purred.

  MESSAGE 2: Dear Annie, dear Max. I am impressed by your devotion to Henny’s cause. I must rush to my easel and compose a tribute to you both, elder for zealousness, goldenrod for encouragement, and larch for audacity. I shall embrace magnolia as a reminder that I, too, shall persevere. Dear Fred is so encouraging. And insightful. When I see him, I can only think of monkshood, a tribute to his chivalry—

  Max’s dark brows knit in a frown. Dorothy L. looked at him with interest.

  Annie resisted the impulse to hoot, “Chivalry? Is that what they call it?” Clearly in America the semantics of sex were undergoing a strange and wonderful transformation in the last years of the twentieth century.

  —and of ranunculus, as I am surely dazzled by his charm. Mmmm. But tomorrow I shall broadcast the language of flowers in our pursuit of justice. Anon.

  MESSAGE 3: The evening was quite uneventful. I can report—

  Adelaide Prescott’s soft Carolina accent invested the everyday words with grace and loveliness.

  —a grand success for the Arts Center. I believe it may be the most successful fund-raiser to date. Certainly Janet Pierce deserves the gratitude of every lover of art on our island. In regard to our earlier speculations, I must inform you that nothing untoward occurred. Indeed, Janet Pierce was at her loveliest and most charming. I spoke to her at one
point and Janet’s smile was unforgettable. She said, “Mrs. Prescott, you will never know how much this evening means to me,” and at that point Dave came across the room and he looked so proud, a pride which I well understand. The credit for the party’s success all belongs to Janet. I trust you will dismiss our earlier conversation. My dear old friend was there with her remarkable necklace. I was in total error. Good night, my dear.

  Max dropped Dorothy L. to the floor. She immediately wafted through the air to land beside the answering machine. She patted the cord.

  “Dorothy L., don’t even think about it. Max, she’s still hungry.”

  Max opened the refrigerator, found a piece of steak. As he chopped it up, he looked at Annie quizzically. “Come on, Annie. Can you really picture Janet Pierce as a cat burglar? The woman eats and breathes social prominence. She would never jeopardize her social status, much less put herself in danger of going to prison.”

  Annie took another deep swallow of the cool water. It was nice to focus on something besides Emma Clyde’s bossiness. “It would be a neat link between Janet and Kathryn, a thief who picked a fence with a penchant for blackmail.”

  “I don’t buy it.” Max put down the bowl with the steak and leaned against the kitchen counter.

  MESSAGE 4: Clearly there has been an outbreak of idiocy on the island. It was absurd for Henny ever to have been suspected of murdering Kathryn Girard. But Ruth Yates!—

  Miss Dora’s raspy voice quivered with indignation. The snap, crackle and pop of the international connection punctuated a tirade that concluded:

  —and I trust that you and Maxwell and Emma will bend yourselves to the task of clearing Ruth. I have worked with Ruth on many diocesan matters and I can state unequivocally that she has neither the intelligence, the aptitude nor the appetite for multiple murders. Do you think it would be helpful for me to so inform the new police chief? I shall await your response. Good night