White Elephant Dead Page 27

  Max’s face crinkled. “Annie, what does Emma’s golf cart have to do with—”

  “Not Emma’s golf cart.” Annie spoke calmly because now she could see it all in her mind, the four houses where Kathryn Girard planned to stop, the golf cart path running behind the Pierce house, skirting the various holes, passing behind Jake Chapman’s house and the bike path there, too, the bike path that led to King Snake Park and would equally well serve a golf cart.

  Annie grabbed his arm, headed for the terrace steps. “Max, you know this course. Which house belongs to the Pierces?”

  “The sixteenth fairway runs behind their house. Annie, are you sure?” He hurried to keep pace with her.

  “We’ll know in just a minute. A golf cart, Max. That’s why the van was left on Marsh Tacky Road. That’s why it didn’t matter that Henny’s car blocked the way. That’s why Mark Stone didn’t see anyone come out of Marsh Tacky Road. The golf cart was hidden on Marsh Tacky Road earlier on Thursday. But it was still raining and the path behind the Chapman house must have been slick or maybe the cart was going too fast. That’s what happened, the cart slid into Chapman’s terrace wall and knocked over the vase. It had to be a golf cart. A bike wouldn’t have knocked the vase loose. And the only people who live on the golf course and who play golf and who very likely, just like Emma, have their own cart are Dave and Janet Pierce. If that’s what happened, there has to be some trace on the cart. And Max, that’s all we need. One piece of solid physical evidence and Ruth will be free. Because if it is the Pierces’ cart that knocked over the vase, there can’t be any other explanation. And I’ll bet if Garrett looked hard enough, even with all the people who came to Marsh Tacky road that night to hunt for Henny, I’ll bet there will be a track of the cart’s wheels. It had to have been put in deep shrubs so no one would spot it on Thursday.”

  They were passing the sand traps on the sixteenth green. The path curved deep into the shadows of tall pines. Max pointed through the pines at a two-story gabled building. “There’s the back of the Pierce property. I think that’s the garage. If they have a cart, that’s probably where they keep it.”

  Their footsteps crunched on the oyster-shell walk as they left the cart path. The walk followed alongside the building, ended at the broad driveway. It was an old building, had probably originally served as a stables when the Tudor mansion was a country estate. Lights flooded the drive, spilled from the back of the huge house, hung in trees in the garden.

  As they stepped into the blaze of lights on the drive, Annie checked the back of the house. Windows both upstairs and down glowed behind curtains. “I sure hope everybody’s still at the club.”

  “It shouldn’t take long,” Max murmured. There were six overhead doors. He tugged at the first to no avail. “Damn. They’re electric.”

  They hurried past the other overhead panels to a white wooden door at the end of the building. It was unlocked. Max turned a thumbs-up and opened it. He hesitated for only a moment, then found a light switch and turned it on. The long narrow space had probably once served as a tack room. Garden tools hung from pegs. A riding mower was at one end.

  Annie moved swiftly to a door that led into the garage. She twisted the knob. The door opened and they stepped into the huge garage. Max found the lights. Two slots held a beige Mercedes and a black Jeep.

  “Janet has a Porsche and it’s not here. But how do you suppose they got all their guests to the club?”

  Max shrugged. “They probably hired a limo. Maybe Dave took most of them and some went with Janet.”

  Annie gripped Max’s arm. “Look. At the far end.” Two golf carts with jaunty red awnings were parked in the last slot.

  Their shoes clipped on the cement as they hurried the length of the garage. Annie darted to the first cart, bent forward to study the front. But the front of this cart bore no scrapes or blemishes.

  Max moved past her to the second cart. “Hey Annie, come here and—”

  The fourth garage door rumbled as it slowly lifted and receded on its frame.

  Annie’s eyes jerked toward the opening, then she moved swiftly to stand in front of the second cart. She looked at the right front end and felt a surge of triumph. A deep red gouge made an ugly streak on the right front of the cart. The vases at the corners of Jake Chapman’s wall were terra-cotta. Here was physical proof that no one could dispute. This cart was the force that knocked loose the vase and it was the damage to the vase that led Jake Chapman to make the call that ended his life.

  Headlights beamed through the opening. Car doors slammed. Dave Pierce walked slowly into the garage, his measured pace perhaps even more threatening than the tight smoothness of his face and the glitter of his dark eyes. Janet Pierce followed, her face as white in the sharp lights as the silk sash around her slender waist.

  A heavyset woman bustled importantly after them. “I know they’re dressed right, Mr. Pierce. But I’ve never seen them before and I didn’t think they should be messing around in the garage.”

  “You were quite right to call for me, Martha.” Pierce didn’t glance toward her. His eyes never left Annie and Max. “I’ll take care of this. You may return to the house.”

  “Maybe it would be better if she stayed.” Annie’s voice was thin but steady. There had already been three murders: Lynn Pierce, Kathryn Girard and Jake Chapman. Martha was an insurance policy Annie intended to cling to.

  “First, you have the effrontery to break into my garage. Now you want to direct my staff.” His cold voice was harsh. “At this point, Mrs. Darling, you and your husband owe me an apology. And it better be a good one or I’ll bring charges against both of you.”

  “An apology?” Annie stepped forward, eyes blazing. “To a murderer? You might as well stop posturing. We have proof now.” She pointed at the second golf cart. “Ruth Yates is going to be set free and you are going to be arrested.”

  Janet Pierce gasped. She stared at her husband, her eyes wide, her hand clutching the ruby necklace at her throat.

  Dave Pierce’s dark brows drew into a tight line.

  Max reached out, drew Annie back where he could step in front of her. “Annie’s right, Dave. You’re finished. That scrape on the golf cart will have particles of terra-cotta from Jake Chapman’s vase.”

  Janet Pierce gave a low moan.

  Dave Pierce didn’t even glance at her. “What the hell are you talking about?” Pierce’s eyes blazed.

  “You planned it beautifully.” Annie felt her heart thud. Pierce was a dangerous man, a man who had almost gotten away with three murders. “Right from the start. But you planned Lynn’s murder well, too, stealing a boat, sailing out and meeting her. Did you push her off her sailboat? Or did you knock her out and dump her overboard to drown?”

  Dave Pierce stepped back as if he’d been struck, his face utterly still and empty.

  The garage was abruptly quiet, a quiet laden with fear and anger and pulsing fury.

  Annie reached out, grabbed Max’s hand, but she talked even faster. “How did Kathryn Girard find out? Was it a good guess on her part because she had lots of experience in nosing out evil? Did she accuse you of Lynn’s murder and you gave yourself away? But you have plenty of money.” Annie’s tone was scathing. “I guess you got tired of paying blackmail. So you worked it out. You stole the croquet mallet from the Yateses and hid the golf cart at Marsh Tacky Road—”

  Janet Pierce moved like an old woman, her body stiff and jerky, one step at a time, moving away from her husband.

  “—and when Kathryn came by the house, you killed her and put her in the back of the van. Everything went just as planned until Henny spotted the van and started following you. Did she honk to get your attention? Or did she spot the van turning into Marsh Tacky Road? That’s when everything fell apart. There you were, trapped on Marsh Tacky Road, Henny walking up the road, Kathryn’s body in the van. You tried to knock Henny out and missed. When she ran, you took the van keys and got the cart and started for home. And when you w
ent around Chapman’s wall, the cart skidded and knocked over the vase. And then you—”

  Pierce’s shoulders slumped. “My wife.” The words were a deep, terrible whisper. “My wife.” Pain scalded his face, grievous, unrelenting, unquenchable pain.

  Annie stared at Dave Pierce. Abruptly, she understood.

  Janet Pierce lifted her hands. In appeal? In defense? Slowly they fell.

  Dave’s eyes glittered with horror as he turned toward Janet.

  Janet took a step back.

  “Dave…” Her voice was unrecognizable, her face a harsh mask of despair. “Dave, I did it all for you. Dave, I love you. I’ve always loved you. I’ve done everything for you. It was an accident with Lynn. I swear that it was an accident.” Janet sobbed. “An accident. But that woman, she accused me and then she said she’d tell you. I had to steal to keep her quiet.” She shuddered. “She wanted so much money, more than I could ever get. And I couldn’t ask you, not for that much money. So I had to steal the jewels. Each time she promised it would be the last, and then she’d smile that horrible cat smile and say she’d taken a fancy to another piece and she knew it would be easy for me. She called on Tuesday and said I had to get the Aztec gold necklace. She made me give her a signed note that I was going to steal the necklace. She promised she’d give the note back to me if I brought the necklace Saturday morning. I was so afraid. Dave, I did it for you. Dave, oh God, Dave.”

  Dave Pierce trembled, all of him, his entire body. “You sailed after Lynn. Did you fall overboard, cry for help? Lynn would have hurried to help you. And then you—” Anger burned in his stricken eyes, fierce and unrelenting.

  “It happened so quickly.” Janet pressed her hands hard against her ashen cheeks. “And then it was too late.”

  “My wife.” Dave Pierce buried his face in his hands.

  He was not calling to Janet.

  Epilogue

  Emma’s eyes were not quite as frosty as usual. She sipped the mint julep. “Thoughtful of you, Annie.”

  “It’s the very least I could do.” Emma had a special fondness for mint juleps. Annie would have provided her with barbecued porcupine if that had been Emma’s preference. Emma hadn’t done a book signing in at least five years and here she was at Death on Demand and the bookstore was jammed from the front veranda to the farthest reaches of the coffee bar, the noise level reminiscent of the peak rush at the White Elephant Sale. Annie could scarcely keep the jubilation from her voice, but she didn’t want Emma to get a big head. Annie eyed rigid six-inch spikes of orange hair. Well, at least no bigger a head than she already had.

  “I should have figured it out.” The pronoun was sharply emphasized. Emma was still piqued that Annie and Max solved Kathryn Girard’s murder first. “But the very next day, two people called to say they’d seen Janet Pierce near the Yateses’ garage. There’s no doubt that the broad sweep of my net would have yielded proof. And if I”—again the emphasis on the pronoun was pronounced—“had solved the crime, I’d have been sure to have the police on hand. I would have much preferred to have Janet Pierce arrested.”

  Annie tried not to bristle. Of course, it would have been preferable.

  Emma’s glare was icy. “It’s quite unfortunate that she slipped away in a boat. Since there’s been no trace of her, she’s presumed dead and I suppose some might see it as poetic justice that she met the same fate as her first victim. But it is highly irregular.” A sniff. “If she’d been arrested, we might have learned more about the stolen jewelry. That is perhaps the most fascinating element. Think of it, this socially prominent woman driven to burglary! Can you imagine the enormous stress? Kathryn Girard went to the well one time too often. And it should have been a clue that Kathryn planned her pick-ups for Thursday but wasn’t flying out until Saturday. There had to be a reason for that delay!” The author’s spiked hair rippled as she nodded violently. “Well, of course there was a reason. Janet couldn’t steal the necklace until Friday night. But Janet obviously decided immediately upon murder. And I will have to admit”—the tone was a bit reluctant—“that her plotting was superb.”

  Annie looked at Emma curiously. Would anyone other than a mystery writer see a plan for murder in terms of plot?

  “Superb!” Emma’s plump hand waggled. “Hiding the golf cart on Marsh Tacky Road, stealing the croquet mallet from the Yateses’ house, taking the gun from the back of the van, using it to kill Jake Chapman. Of course, placing the phone call to Ruth’s house after Jake’s murder was nothing short of diabolical. Wish I’d thought of it,” she said regretfully. “It would have worked so well in the Riddle of the Rampaging Rhinoceros. Oh well.” She sighed, took a deep drink of her julep and waved her hand. “Where am I signing?”

  “At a table by the coffee bar.” Annie led the way up the clogged center aisle.

  Behind the coffee bar, blue eyes intent, sleeves rolled up, Max filled coffee mugs as fast as he could. Henny cut slices of cake and Laurel poured glasses of wine. Agatha watched intently from the end of the coffee bar.

  Emma settled at the table directly in front of the fireplace. Stacks of her latest, The Adventure of the Purloined Python, filled one side of the table and were arranged on the hearth behind her. Fans immediately formed two lines that stretched to the front of the store.

  Annie was pleased to spot some familiar faces now free of fear and suspicion. Vince Ellis held a stack of Nancy Drews. He grinned as he listened to an animated, as usual, Marian Kenyon. Ruth Yates clung to Brian’s arm. She looked up adoringly at her ebullient husband, who was, as usual, the center of an admiring audience. Gary Campbell was right behind his wife, watching Marie’s eager, happy face as she spoke to a friend. At least those lives were now secure, Annie thought with a rush of relief. She’d heard that the Pierce mansion was up for sale and that Dave Pierce was living in Atlanta. There could be no real happiness for Dave Pierce, but he had his work and that could offer him sanctuary from sorrow.

  Annie slipped behind the coffee bar. Max handed her a mug inscribed The Clue of the Second Murder by John Stephen Strange.

  Henny lifted her mug, inscribed Death Takes the Wheel by E. and M. A. Radford. “Here’s to Annie who”—she darted a glance at Emma, busily autographing—“outsleuthed Marigold Rembrandt, and—”

  Annie smiled modestly.

  “—by the way, what’s the prize for this month’s paintings?”

  Annie glanced at the wall above Emma. “Something special, I think.” She’d originally planned to give a new hardcover and free coffee for a month. But no one was ever likely to get the full answer. “It’s not going to be easy,” she warned. “This month the winner must not only correctly identify each painting by title and by author but—”

  They all bent forward to hear as a peal of laughter sounded near the front of the store.

  “—must also declare what quality the books share in common.”

  Henny’s brown eyes glowed. “The prize?” she demanded.

  Annie accepted the challenge. After all, how could anyone—even Henny—come up with the one quality, as decreed by Annie, that these five books shared? “Winner’s choice,” Annie said grandly, her wave encompassing the store.

  Henny pointed at each painting in turn. “Number One, The Thin Woman by Dorothy Cannell; Number Two, Going Nowhere Fast by Gar Anthony Haywood; Number Three, Miss Zukas and the Library Murders by Jo Dereske; Number Four, Murder on a Girls’ Night Out by Anne George; and Number Five, Caught in a Rundown by Lisa Saxton.”

  “That’s the easy part,” Annie said smugly. “What quality do they have in common?”

  Annie had her first misgiving when a beatific smile lifted Henny’s lips.

  “Why, Annie, anyone would know that.” A dramatic pause, then the one sweet, perfect word. “Charm!”

  About the Author

  An accomplished master of mystery, CAROLYN HART is the author of eleven Death on Demand novels, which have won multiple Agatha, Anthony, and Macavity Awards. She is also the creator of
the highly praised Henrie O series. One of the founders of Sisters in Crime, Ms. Hart lives in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma.

  You can visit her website at: www.carolynhart.com.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

  Praise for CAROLYN HART and

  WHITE ELEPHANT DEAD

  “An expert at seamless storytelling.”

  Ft. Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel

  “Carolyn Hart creates a modern version of the classic mystery puzzles of the 1930s…Her secluded island setting is the modern equivalent of the English village so beloved by Agatha Christie, with its closed society of dotty eccentrics…”

  Charleston Post & Courier

  “Bouncy prose, nifty characters, and frequent references to other mysteries make this ‘heartily’ recommended for series fans.”

  Library Journal

  “It’s always a delight to find a new book by Carolyn Hart.”

  Chattanooga Times

  “As always, the joy in Hart’s novels derives from revisiting recurring characters from previous Annie and Max novels——especially Annie’s rambunctious mother-in-law, Laurel, and her two cats, Agatha and Dorothy L.”

  San Diego Union-Tribune

  “Entertaining…a panoply of vivid characters…Cozy fans should cotton to it well.”

  Publishers Weekly

  Books by Carolyn Hart

  Henrie O

  DEAD MAN’S ISLAND

  SCANDAL IN FAIR HAVEN

  DEATH IN LOVERS’ LANE

  DEATH IN PARADISE

  DEATH ON THE RIVER WALK

  RESORT TO MURDER

  Death on Demand

  DEATH ON DEMAND

  DESIGN FOR MURDER

  SOMETHING WICKED

  HONEYMOON WITH MURDER

  A LITTLE CLASS ON MURDER

  DEADLY VALENTINE

  THE CHRISTIE CAPER

  SOUTHERN GHOST