Something Wicked Page 22

  When it opened, the woman framed in the doorway stared at her with red-rimmed, defeated eyes, and Annie knew she had the right place.

  “I want to talk to you about Shane Petree.” Annie’s voice was gentle.

  Tears welled up in Sue Kay’s eyes. Wearily she gestured for Annie to enter.

  Sue Kay Conrad. Late thirties. Divorced. Dyed red hair. An ex-teacher. Lost her job after being charged with possession of marijuana. Worked as waitress, bar girl, food demonstrator in supermarkets. But she loved to sail. Sacrificed every other luxury to keep her catamaran. And that was how she met Shane.

  “He was wonderful. Oh, God, we had so much fun. And he was so nice to me.”

  Annie hid her surprise. Who was she to pigeonhole Shane as an all-time loser? Maybe with this woman there had been a flowering of true caring. Maybe with Sue Kay he found an honesty that his life had lacked. At the very least, here was someone who grieved for him.

  “What was supposed to happen Tuesday night?” Annie asked.

  That produced another freshet of tears. But, finally, Sue Kay began to speak in a husky, sometimes defensive voice. And when she finished, Annie knew that somehow, in some way she didn’t yet understand, she’d found the motive for Shane’s murder.

  “Do you want to help me catch the person who killed Shane?”

  The weary face firmed. Sue Kay leaned forward. “I’ll do anything in the world to help.”

  Annie and Sue Kay waited for two hours before Posey agreed to see them. Once in the small anteroom with its dark green walls and odoriferous cuspidor, Sue Kay turned and asked nervously, “Will they send me to jail?”

  “No.” Then Annie realized she actually couldn’t promise that. Sue Kay and Shane had certainly planned to break some laws. Could she go to jail for planning a crime? Quickly, Annie pressed the older woman’s arm. “I don’t know, but I promise I’ll get you a lawyer.” And perhaps not the greatest trial lawyer in the United States of America.

  When they were finally ushered into Posey’s office, Annie took one look at his face and knew she was in trouble. But surely he would listen.

  Annie nodded toward her companion. “Mr. Posey, this is Mrs. Sue Kay Conrad, and she wants to make a statement about the murder of Shane Petree.”

  Posey tapped a pen impatiently against his shining desktop. “Ms. Laurance, I don’t have time to waste. And as far as I’m concerned, the case is closed, so—”

  “Mrs. Conrad is a citizen with information which she believes will be helpful to the state of South Carolina in prosecuting the murderer of Mr. Petree. Are you going to refuse to take her statement?”

  Posey snorted like an exasperated hog, but he’d spotted Annie’s hand poised with a pen over a pad of paper. And it was, after all, an election year.

  “All right, Mrs. Conrad,” he said wearily. “Let’s have your story.”

  Sue Kay Conrad didn’t look at anyone as she spoke. Her eyes were fastened on a point above Posey’s head, but Annie knew she was looking back at days that would never come again.

  “… used to sail every day that we could. And we”—she flashed a defiant look—“we fell in love. His wife … Oh, I know how the other woman always says a man’s wife didn’t understand him. But she didn’t. And she didn’t care about him, not at all, and that’s why he was always running after other women. But Shane and I—well, it was wonderful.”

  She paused. Her hands gripped her purse straps tightly. “I don’t know when we first talked about it. I mean, it was kind of a dream we had, that we could run away and be happy with each other. Then one day, it was in April, he was real excited, and he asked me if I really would go away with him, just disappear without a trace, and start a new life somewhere under new names. Start all fresh.” For an instant, memory glowed in her green eyes, then dimmed. “I said sure. I mean, what the hell? I had nothing here. And nobody. Nobody gave a damn whether I walked through a door or said hello or good-bye. But he wasn’t kidding. It was all worked out. You see, they needed money, Shane and his wife, and they came up with this idea, that Shane would capsize his sailboat and drown. Of course, he wouldn’t really drown, that was the neat part. He would disappear. They worked it out. He would turn over the boat, swim to shore, and disappear, go to a different town. They decided on L.A. and next fall, after the insurance money came through, Sheridan would meet him in the L.A. airport and give him a million in bearer bonds.”

  Posey planted his elbows on the desk and rested his porcine face in his hands. He didn’t say a word.

  Annie glared at him. If he wasn’t going to ask any questions, she would. “Did Sheridan know about you?”

  “Oh, no. No. Part of the deal was that he and Sheridan were through. No, she didn’t know about me.” For just an instant, humor flashed in Sue Kay’s eyes. “From what Shane said about her, I don’t think she’d have liked me being part of it.”

  Posey rolled his eyes ceiling ward in disgust. “Ms. Laurance,” he was long-suffering, “my department has thoroughly investigated the whereabouts of Mrs. Petree. There is no doubt where she was at the time her husband was shot. Now, I won’t question your motives in trying to help the state of South Carolina, but this is a mighty convenient story you two have cooked up—and it isn’t going to do you a damn bit of good!”

  Forever afterward, she had no memory of her return to the island. She pulsed with fury. That obtuse idiot! That bulging-eyed imbecile! That brain-dead buffoon! It was only when she screeched to a halt in her driveway, having hurtled across the island like Asey Mayo at the wheel of his Porter, that she became aware of her surroundings. The sun was setting and the sky to the west flamed a splendid red-gold, but, too busy for once to enjoy the beauty of the island, she raced up her steps, slammed inside, and began to pace. Otherwise, she would have exploded.

  “Easy does it,” she warned herself aloud. She had to cool down. But she did have to hand it to Posey, he’d certainly concentrated her attention wonderfully. She was alive with determination to outwit him. By God, she would get to the truth—and she would rub Posey’s nose in it!

  She paced by her bookcase. The shining red glow spilling through her west windows brought faded bindings to life. Some titles didn’t reassure. Unjust imprisonment was a fact in life as in fiction. Wretched Edmond Dantès in The Count of Monte Cristo. And in Lady Molly of Scotland Yard, it took Lady Molly years of effort to prove her husband’s innocence and free him from Dartmoor.

  If that oaf Posey … She turned, marched in the opposite direction. Okay, she had to stop wasting her energies fuming about Posey and put her mind on the problem. That always worked for Sir John Appleby.

  And she knew her afternoon’s work was significant. From the first, she’d questioned the timing of Shane’s murder. Why that particular Tuesday night? Now, it seemed clear that—

  The phone rang.

  News about Max?

  She sprang across the room and snatched up the receiver.

  “Annie, dear, I’ve been calling all day.” Laurel was much too good-humored to complain, but there was a faint note of distress in the golden voice.

  “It’s so regrettable,” the liquid tone continued, “to have the wedding timetable interrupted like this.” A thoughtful pause. “Annie, do you suppose it would help if I called that Posey man and explained that we have responsibilities? That it is our glorious privilege and duty—yes, our duty—to focus our energies upon this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to become a part of the outpouring of human emotion that will crest in 2012? Annie?” A wealth of inquiry in the gentle enunciation of her name.

  “Uh, Laurel, Max … Max … Max …”

  “I do hope it isn’t drafty in that jail. He catches cold so easily, and really it’s absolutely necessary for Max to be in the pink. I’ve made the appointment for him to be measured for his black tailcoat. Now, it must be tailored properly. And I was thinking that it would add such a gay, international note, in keeping with our glorious theme, if I ordered tiny flags of as many countries
as possible to be sewn into the satin trim of the trousers. Annie, what do you think?”

  “You know that Max is in jail?”

  A surprised pause. “Annie, don’t you listen to the news? Dan Rather featured it.”

  “Laurel.” Annie tried to keep her voice even and untroubled; it was important not to disturb the obviously precarious balance of Laurel’s mind. “I can’t talk about the wedding now. I don’t even know if we can have a wedding—”

  “Why ever not?” That Laurel was prompted to interrupt showed how much that statement shocked her.

  “Max is in jail. He’s going to stay in jail if I don’t figure out who the murderer is.”

  “Annie, Annie, I can see I’ve caught you at a busy time. I shouldn’t have bothered you with my concerns. I truly will take care of everything. Do rest now, my dear. Night, night.”

  Annie carefully replaced the receiver. If Posey ever met Laurel, he’d never believe Max was innocent.

  Annie hurried into the kitchen and brewed strong, strong coffee. When it was made, she carried a steaming mug into the living room and settled on the wicker couch with the computer printouts on the cast and crew of Arsenic and Old Lace, Max’s list of probabilities, her list of motives, and a fresh notebook.

  First, she reread the printout. Then she turned to her notebook and carefully re-created the conversations she’d had with Harley, Sheridan, Arthur, Sam, Hugo, Eugene, Janet, Burt, and Carla. Finally, she added the probable timetable for the secretion of the gun in Max’s condo and Carla’s murder.

  Why did Carla have to die?

  Carla must have known something that placed the murderer in extreme jeopardy. What could—

  The phone rang.

  She stared at for it a moment, but answered on the third ring.

  “Annie.” The chief’s voice was a mournful as a bloodhound’s bay. “You did some good work today. Too bad Posey’s such a damned fool.

  Annie’s blood pumped rapidly. Fool was scarcely descriptive enough.

  Saulter continued, “I know it’s all true, ’cause I went out to talk to Sheridan.” A ruminative pause. “Posey’s mad enough to skin me alive. Anyway, old Shane’s lucky he’s dead. When I told Sheridan about Sue Kay Conrad, I thought she was going to bust. I never seen a woman that mad. The look in her eyes would scorch hell. But she denies it all, of course.”

  “And Posey still refuses to listen?”

  “Listening isn’t Posey’s strong point. But he’s going to have to pay some attention to the autopsy report ’cause it raises some funny questions.”

  Her hand tightened on the phone. Autopsy. That conjured up unpleasant images. But surely the method of Carla’s murder was obvious. Horribly obvious.

  “Carla was already dying when she was strangled,” the chief said quietly.

  Annie practically stopped breathing. “What do you mean?”

  “Carla was drunker than a hoot owl, all right, but she’d taken a couple of dozen Valium to boot. She was probably in a stupor when the murderer came in. It must have been as easy as pie to slip up behind her and drop the belt around her neck. That’s why she didn’t struggle. Usually, in a strangling, the victim’s hands are all bunged up, but Carla just lay there.”

  Drunk. More than drunk. Drunk and dying.

  “How did she ingest the Valium?” Annie asked crisply.

  “It was in the dregs of her last drink. And only her prints are on the glass, the decanter, and the plastic prescription bottle.”

  With a pang Annie remembered the despair in Carla’s eyes. “Do you think it was suicide—or did someone else drop the pills in her drink?”

  “Two murderers? Hell, I’d say anything’s possible in this case.”

  Annie worked it out. “Okay, let’s think two murderers for a minute. Murderer A arrives, sees she’s blotto, finds her Valium, dumps it in her drink, watches while she finishes the whiskey, then departs. Murderer B arrives, finds her passed out, whips out Max’s belt, and strangles her.” Once again Annie recalled Carla’s last evening, the tears, the despair. “No, Chief. Not two murderers. Suicide and one murderer.” She shivered. “Our killer is just a tad too efficient. Carla would have saved him some trouble. Damn whoever it was.” Her voice shook with anger.

  “Steady, Annie.”

  “If you’d seen Carla that night … Oh, Chief, she was so terribly unhappy. I don’t suppose she left a note?” But Annie wasn’t hopeful. Carla had been so drunk.

  He was silent a shade too long.

  “Chief?”

  “No-o-o. Look, Annie, don’t tell anybody, but there were some scrawls on the pad by her telephone. Looks like she’d talked to somebody. It doesn’t make any sense, a bunch of X’s and ‘no’ written over and over in capital letters—and Max’s name.”

  Annie felt like she’d been kicked in the chest. Another link to Max.

  Saulter continued gruffly, “Now, Posey thinks Carla saw something that linked Max to Shane’s murder but she couldn’t believe it and she wanted to talk to him before she went to the cops. He says maybe she was in love with Max and kept quiet to protect him, then decided she couldn’t stick it out.”

  “That’s the silliest damn thing I ever heard!”

  Saulter began gingerly, “You don’t suppose she—” He paused, tried again. “Could she have fallen for Max, one of those one-sided things? I mean, I know he isn’t interested in anybody but you….”

  “Carla wasn’t in love with Max.” She spoke with such absolute certainty that it almost surprised her. Because, after all, why shouldn’t everyone—including Carla—be in love with Max? He was fun and handsome and sexy and—She swerved back to the point. “Nope. And, Chief, I’m not saying it because I think it helps Max. I’m saying it because it’s so. I’ve got antenna out to the wall as far as Max is concerned. I can calibrate another woman’s interest in him to the millimeter. It’s not that I’m jealous, nothing like that, but I always know when the signals are flying—and Carla didn’t emit a beep in his direction. He might as well have been a horseshoe or a weeping willow for all the interest she exhibited. And besides, when I went to her place yesterday, she said she’d had a lover and she was so bitter, so unstrung. It sure wasn’t Max.”

  “Well, she wrote down Max’s name, that’s all I can tell you,” Saulter said gloomily. He didn’t have to add that Posey would use it to his advantage. “And there’s the belt.” The chief’s voice sank another notch. “No doubt but that it’s Max’s. Has his initials on the back. He bought it last year at some place in New York City called Ferragamo or something like that. His fingerprints are all over it. He says it was hanging in his closet, claims whoever planted the gun must have nosed around and taken it. Posey gives that the horselaugh.”

  “Chief, nobody in his right mind would use his own belt with initials and fingerprints on it to commit a murder!”

  Saulter cleared his throat. “Posey says it happens all the time. Course, a good trial lawyer can make some time with the jury, I’d think.”

  Annie flopped down in the wicker chair by the phone. “Oh, God!”

  “Yeah. And,” and the momentary surge of vigor in his voice fled, “it sure doesn’t help that Carla called Posey and Max overheard it and she got murdered that night.”

  “What time do they think she was killed?”

  “The M.E. estimates time of death between six and ten last night. Course, we know she was alive ’til eight-ten. That’s when she called Posey. Max claims when he got back to the island he went directly to your place and waited for you. But who’s to prove it? Posey said he had plenty of time to kill her and get back before you arrived.”

  Posey. Posey. Posey. His every effort was venomously directed at finding evidence against Max—and all the while the truth was out there somewhere, but if they didn’t start looking for it, time and obfuscation would bury it as deeply as in Patricia Moyes’s Johnny Under Ground—and she couldn’t wait twenty years for the mystery to be unraveled.

  “Chief, a
re you trying to find out more about Carla? What she did yesterday? Who she might have talked to?”

  “I wish I could. So far as we can discover, she went straight home from that session at the high school and started drinking. She didn’t eat any lunch. She just sat there and drank all day, and—if we’re right in figuring suicide—laced her last drink with Valium.”

  “Dear God, why? What happened to her to make her do it? If we can find, that out, we may discover her murderer.”

  “You aren’t thinking it might be separate from Shane’s killing?” he asked slowly.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know anything. But we have to find out why she was so upset.”

  “Posey says it was because of Max.”

  “No. I was there, and I know it wasn’t because of Max. Oh, if only Posey would listen!” She sighed. “Poor Carla. She must have been so terribly unhappy. And then to be killed in such a dreadful way.” She swallowed. “Have you notified her family?”

  “Yeah. But nobody seems to give much of a damn. We got in touch with a sister in Atlanta. Well, she was shaken up, like you’d expect. When she kind of settled down, I told her it would be Monday before we could release the body and where should we send it? So she got quiet and thought for a minute, then told me she’d call back. Okay, so about an hour later, she calls and this is the deal: They don’t want the body. Told me to arrange a closed service here and have her buried in the Island Hills Cemetery. No expense spared or anything, but nobody will be coming, and the stone’s just to say Carla Morris Fontaine, and her birth date and death date.”

  “They don’t want her? Who’s they?” Poor, poor Carla.

  “Yeah, I got that. Her parents are alive. Mr. and Mrs. C. T. Fontaine. I got the address and everything, but the sister told me not to call them, they wouldn’t talk to me. Said they didn’t recognize Carla as their daughter.”

  “Oh, Chief.”

  “Yeah. Tough.”

  “What’s the sister’s name?”

  He hesitated.