White Elephant Dead Page 23

  “I don’t suppose you have a picture of him anywhere?” Annie asked.

  “I can tell you,” she said archly, “what would have happened at my house if I kept pictures of Roderick around. But if you want to know what he looked like”—and now there was a flash of spite in her dark eyes—“why, go check out the pottery table.” Her pudgy hand rose and she pointed.

  Annie looked up the aisle at Marie Campbell and the teenage girl tugging on her arm, a teenage girl with hair as blond as a splash of sun and eyes dark as chocolate.

  Ben Parotti lifted down a huge old leather ledger. “I don’t hold with all this computer stuff. Good old-fashioned records, that’s what I believe in. Used to be you could walk in the bank or the hardware store and find what you wanted on the shelf with a price on it and take it to the counter and pay quick as you please. Now half the time they say the computer’s down and give you a look like a lost dog. Now”—he was flipping pages—“that was three years ago, wasn’t it, when Miz Ellis went out? Let me see, yes, the middle of October as I recall and one of the biggest storms of the season. Hmm.”

  Max leaned against the counter, tried to read upside down.

  “A weekend,” Parotti muttered. “Would have had a lot of boats out, but I didn’t rent any because of the storm. Some damn fool tourists try to bribe you. Always ask ’em if they want to pay for the hearse at the same time. Damn fools.” He peered at Max from under beetling brows. “Didn’t rent a one that day or the next.”

  “And none missing?” Max had already checked the marina overlooked by Death on Demand and the other shops that curved along the boardwalk. No boats had been stolen the dates the two women disappeared. The Pierces also owned a motorboat and a yacht. The Ellises had only the one sailboat. The Coast Guard records indicated that both Arlene Ellis and Lynn Pierce had been seen alone in their sailboats leaving the marina.

  “Nope.” Parotti rubbed his face with a gnarled hand. “Most people who steal boats know when to stay off the water.”

  “How about when Lynn Pierce disappeared? That was in April. April eighth.” Max knew the dates by heart now.

  Parotti flipped pages, stopped. “Man, half the world was out that day. Rented every boat I had. Says here wind at six knots, broken clouds, sun.” He ran a blunt finger down the lines. His corrugated face squeezed in thought. “You know what, I was missing a boat that day, the Susanna G., a Sailfish. It was gone Thursday morning.” He looked at the top of the page. “That was April eighth.” His narrow shoulders lifted and fell. “But it was gone that morning and as I recall Miz Pierce sailed around noon, didn’t she? I remember the search didn’t start till almost six. So I guess it don’t have no connection. And somebody brought it back late that night. I found it the next morning, the morning of the ninth.”

  Max felt like a man who’d stubbornly clawed his way up a treacherous incline. Now, finally, there was a knob to hold on to. Lynn Pierce had sailed alone out into the Sound. But someone could have waited in an inlet, watched the marina and set sail after her.

  A sudden poke in her back startled Annie. She swung around.

  A huge man with silver-streaked black hair and a flaming red beard looked at her anxiously. He waggled a long bamboo fishing pole. “I’m sorry, Annie. I didn’t mean to bump you.” Toby Maguire was a reclusive island artist and about the last person Annie would have expected to see at the sale. His often truculent face blazed with delight. “This is a pole just like the one I had when my brothers and I used to sneak out of school to go fishing. I wonder if there might be an old galvanized pail anywhere.”

  Annie pointed toward a corner where she’d noted a metal scrub board and assorted pails.

  “Gee, thanks, Annie.”

  As he brushed past, holding the pole high above his head like a knight’s lance, Annie saw Vince Ellis take Meg’s hand. The little girl looked up at him, her face alight with happiness. They turned toward the doors. Now Meg carried the blue rabbit.

  Annie started after them. Vince had brushed Max off at the Island Gazette office. But Annie wouldn’t ask Vince about Kathryn Girard.

  Stepping outside, she shaded her eyes. The well-tended front lawn was ringed by food booths. A calliope played on a small merry-go-round. Children ran and shouted. Meg tugged at Vince’s hand and pointed at a tent half filled with plastic balls. He nodded.

  When Meg pushed through the plastic flap and jumped and slid on the balls, Annie hurried across the grass. She didn’t want to ask Vince her questions in front of Meg.

  Vince saw her coming. They’d known each other for a long time, laughed at play rehearsals, worked together on community promotions. He managed a smile but his eyes were remote. “Hi, Annie.” He clutched the limp blue rabbit, the Barbie carry-all and a carved coconut wearing a Robin Hood cap and sunglasses.

  “Hi, Vince.” She looked through the clear plastic sheeting. Meg was rolling and squealing. “She’s having a lot of fun.”

  His face softened. “She loves those silly balls. Every time we go to the mainland, we stop at that big McDonald’s with the playland and she spends all her time jumping in the balls.”

  Annie curled her hands into tight fists and wished she could whirl away, plunge back inside, range up and down the aisles, hunt for a calico cat or a map of Spanish Texas or a jigsaw puzzle or any damn thing that had nothing to do with heartbreak and hurt. But Henny waited on a boat to be able to go safely home and Ruth huddled in a hospital bed knowing that arrest was coming ever nearer.

  Annie’s throat felt thick, but she managed to speak. “Meg looks just like Arlene.”

  Was it the sunlight that made Vince’s eyes suddenly shiny? Or grief that would never ebb? He didn’t answer, simply stared through the transparent plastic, his face gaunt and tired. But there was no hint of uneasiness or fear. There was only pain.

  Annie wished for a tall glass of water or a fan. But she didn’t think it was the sunlight, soft now in September, that was making her feel so hot. “I guess Arlene and her sister looked a lot alike.”

  “Arlene and Amelia.” He took a deep breath. “Arlene adored her.” There was a bitter edge to his voice.

  Was he jealous of Arlene’s dead sister? But Amelia was dead, had died the year before Arlene was lost. How could that have anything to do with Vince now? Annie asked abruptly, “What happened to Amelia?”

  Vince didn’t change expression, didn’t move. When he spoke, his tone was indifferent. “Amelia? She was killed in a car wreck.” He stepped away, poked his head inside the tent. In a moment, he and Meg were walking away.

  Annie stared after them. Vince didn’t mind talking about Meg. It hurt him to remember Arlene. But he sure as hell didn’t want to talk about Amelia. Why?

  Chapter 13

  Picnickers sat on blankets, folding chairs, ice chests and even atop an overturned rowboat. Voices rose and fell as rhythmically as the rustle of the wind in the pines.

  Annie took a last bite of corn on the cob as Max concluded, “…so it looks like Garrett’s on the right track. How would anyone besides Ruth Yates have access to their croquet set? And I’ll start believing in UFOs if the mallet that killed Kathryn doesn’t match their set.”

  “Sure it’ll match. But that set wasn’t stashed in a safe. Anybody who goes to St. Mary’s would know about the Yateses and croquet.” Annie licked her fingers. “Ruth and Brian have had croquet parties every fall for years. They set up croquet at church picnics. And other picnics, too. Rotary. And at fund-raisers for The Haven. And I know for a fact they never lock their garage. I’ve picked stuff up or dropped off books. They don’t even have an electric garage opener. You just grab the handle and pull up the door.”

  Max dipped boiled shrimp in cocktail sauce. “Okay, so it’s not a brain-drainer to get the mallet. The point is, Annie, the only reason the mallet would be a good murder weapon would be to tag Ruth or Brian as suspects. And how would one of Kathryn’s other victims know that Ruth was paying blackmail, too?”

  Annie studi
ed her paper plate. Honestly, she loved food booths. How else could you ever come up with a lunch that included Spam and pineapple shish kebab, corn on the cob, Indian taco, spinach feta salad and banana fritters? Of course, everyone to their own taste. Max’s plate was piled high with boiled shrimp, steamed oysters, green beans, corn bread and two slices of watermelon. One for her? She took a bite of Indian taco, wiped grease from her chin. “I could see a way,” she said slowly, “if Ruth had donated the croquet set. I can see Kathryn’s murderer spotting the croquet set and thinking it would be clever to use a weapon that could be traced back to someone else.”

  “Then what?” Max broke open an oyster shell. “How did Brian get the croquet set back? Remember, the contents of the van were burned. No, that won’t work. Besides I can’t imagine anyone planned to kill Kathryn without having a weapon in hand when she arrived.”

  “And if she arrived at Ruth’s—”

  Max picked up the story. “—and Ruth pointed a gun at Kathryn—”

  Annie nodded. “—and Kathryn took the gun away and they were right by the garage and Ruth grabbed up a croquet mallet—”

  “—and whacked her.” Max added another shrimp tail to his tidy pile. “Maybe we’re chasing after phantoms. Maybe Ruth’s the one.”

  “Kathryn planned to stop at four houses.” Annie ticked them off on her fingers. “The Yateses, the Pierces, the Campbells, Vince Ellis.”

  “But only one of them killed her.” Max tossed a piece of cornbread to a green lizard perched on the old log they were using as a table. “And it’s looking more and more likely that Ruth must be guilty.”

  The banana fritter was a taste of heaven, light, crisp, and sweet. The only possibly better dessert was bananas foster, which she always garnished with a few splashes of chocolate syrup. Sometimes she thought chocolate syrup would be good on anything, turkey, steak, asparagus. Well, maybe not asparagus. “You have a good point,” she said reluctantly.

  In fact, not even Marigold Rembrandt could likely invent a reason why one of the other blackmail victims would know that Ruth was a fellow victim. They sure didn’t have annual victim parties or exchange billets-doux about Kathryn.

  So why steal Ruth’s croquet mallet? The answer came fast and clear: Nobody took it. But that would mean—

  “Annie, Max!” Pamela Potts flung herself to the ground beside them. Pamela’s large eyes gazed at them piteously. Her lips trembled.

  Annie reached out, grabbed a shaking hand. “Pamela, what’s wrong?”

  “Do you know what I’ve heard?” Her voice was tight and thin.

  Annie could not imagine what dire information had reduced calm and placid Pamela to this state. Had the President admitted to a ménage à trois with an extraterrestrial and an Arab terrorist?

  “It’s all over the sale room.” Her tone was hushed. “Kathryn was a blackmailer. And she had four houses on her list Thursday night.” A sniff. “The Yateses and the Pierces and Vince Ellis and the Campbells.”

  Annie almost gave a whoop of delight. Emma’s strategy was working, at least to a point.

  Pamela gulped; tears spilled down her pale cheeks. “Oh, it’s all my fault.”

  Max clapped her on the shoulder. “Nonsense, Pamela. You are simply under a strain.” He had that hearty male voice engendered by irrational female conduct.

  Annie shot him a warning glance and squeezed Pamela’s hand tighter. “Tell us what’s wrong, Pamela.”

  Pamela gulped. “Emma asked me to find out all about Kathryn’s friends and activities on the island.” A sobbing breath. “Well, I did. And I knew a lot about it because she was active in so many things that I do.” Pamela rattled off a list of at least a dozen charities and volunteer groups. “But the more I looked, the more I realized that Kathryn didn’t really have any friends. So it’s all my fault.” She dissolved in a fresh paroxysm of sobs.

  Max pulled out his handkerchief, thrust it toward Pamela. “Now, now. You can’t take things so personally.”

  “Shh,” Annie said softly. “Pamela, did you see a lot of Kathryn?”

  Tear-flooded eyes gazed solemnly at Annie. “Yes.” It was a choked whisper.

  Annie said gently, “Did she ask you about people? Like the Yateses? And the Pierces? And Vince Ellis? And the Campbells?”

  Pamela blew noisily into the handkerchief. “Not so much about the Yateses and the Campbells. And I never thought Kathryn meant anything bad. She was just so interested! She said it was so sad, you know, about Arlene Ellis and Lynn Pierce, and she asked me all about the Pierces and Vince Ellis. And it was sad and so odd, really, one sailing out one year and one the next. I thought she was just interested, the way anyone would be. But I guess I should have known there was something wrong with Kathryn. Ruth Yates acted so strange around her. Whenever Kathryn came in a room, Ruth left. And Ruth is the sweetest person in the world. And now they’re saying the police suspect her of killing Kathryn. Oh, I feel terrible. I never meant—”

  Annie leaned forward, gripped Pamela’s shoulders, such thin, stiff shoulders. “Hush now, Pamela. You didn’t do anything wrong. Everyone knows how kind you are and how hard you work for the community. You never gossip. I know that. Yes, you were willing to tell a newcomer about people on the island, but, Pamela, you have to understand that Kathryn was searching for information for her own use. You had no way of knowing what you were dealing with. Nothing that happened is your fault, none of it.”

  “Annie, do you really mean that?” Pamela’s eyes were huge with hope.

  Annie leaned forward. Gave her a hug. “Yes. I truly mean it. Now you go fix your face and get some lunch. The best thing you can do is circulate on the sale floor, tell everyone that Ruth may have an alibi.”

  Pamela scrambled to her feet. Once again earnest and competent, she said briskly, “I’d better get the word to the Pierces and Vince Ellis and the Campbells. Right?”

  “As fast as you can.” Annie spoke with utter conviction.

  Max looked at her curiously. “Have you been hanging out with Emma too long? That’s sheer fantasy, isn’t it?”

  Annie nodded happily. “Sure. But why not? Between Laurel and Emma and Pamela, the murderer should be having a bad day.” Annie gathered up their trash.

  Max stood and reached down to swing her to her feet. “Assuming—”

  “I know,” Annie interrupted. “Assuming Ruth isn’t guilty. If she is, there’s no problem. If she isn’t, we need to wrap this up as fast as we can. And here’s what I think we should do….”

  Max flipped on the lights in his office. He was almost past the artificial putting green when he stopped, looked at the ball waiting invitingly on a small rise twelve feet from the cup. He picked up his putter and addressed the ball. With one swift, short swing, the ball rolled directly to the cup and dropped in. One for luck. And they needed luck.

  Settled behind his computer, he got on the Web, called up the archives of the Island Gazette. Thirty-eight entries about Vince Ellis; Max scrolled, found the obituary for Arlene Ellis. He read the column, noting on his legal pad: parents John and Toni Simms, Jasper, Florida.

  A moment more and he had the obituary in the Jasper newspaper for Amelia Simms Lassiter and Richard James Lassiter of Long Beach, California, who died on July 7. No cause of death given, survived by their daughter Margaret, his parents, her parents and her sister. No surprises there. Nothing to indicate Margaret wasn’t their daughter. And no reason why they shouldn’t have been buried in Jasper, although the obituary listed their home as Long Beach, California. Max shrugged and accessed the Long Beach daily newspaper for the five days preceding the funeral.

  Max didn’t find an obituary for the Lassiters or any record of a car wreck involving them. But he printed out the story he did find.

  Annie hurried up the steps. She held up her stamped hand to prove she’d already paid the entrance fee and stepped into the main room. The sale was in its early afternoon lull. At four, prices would be halved and the room would again be j
ammed. For now, the noise had subsided to a dull roar and it was possible to move with moderate speed among the lanes between tables. Annie was searching for either Marian Kenyon, who surely was on hand because she was nuts about any kind of flea market and always covered them for the Island Gazette, or for Adelaide Prescott, who supported every island cause. Annie spotted Marian in the farthest aisle, chin in hand, studying a collection of macramé. Adelaide was manning a booth in the twenty-dollar section. Women of all ages clustered in the aisle. Adelaide held up a triple-strand necklace of coral for Janet Pierce’s inspection. Was the attraction jewelry? Or the presence of the island’s social arbiter? Or the presence of the very beautiful wife of one of the island’s wealthiest and most powerful residents?

  When Annie arrived on the fringe of the group, Janet was paying for the necklace. “Definitely a bargain.” She draped the strands over her head. “This reminds me of our honeymoon on St. Thomas.” Her eyes were soft, her lips curved in a gentle smile. Annie realized that, trick of physiology or reflection of manner, Janet’s slender face had a tendency to appear haughty in repose and this unguarded moment revealed a more appealing woman. “I’ll have to show Dave.” She scanned the crowd. “There he is. Thank you, Adelaide. I’ll come and take over in a moment.” She hurried up the aisle toward the stage where Dave was holding a box and talking with Emma.

  In a moment, the onlookers had melted away. Adelaide looked after them. “Tails to a comet. I’ve had more than my share of attention through the years, but I’ve always been grateful for old friends because you know if they’ve been coming to your house since they were four, they come because they like you.” A merry smile. “Or if they don’t like you, they come because you’re part of their lives. I doubt if Janet knows who her real friends are.”