White Elephant Dead Page 9

  Max craned his neck to watch as she crossed to a map of the island. It was a rather fanciful map with a coat of arms of crossed golf clubs and a can-can line of long-toed great blue herons, but the streets were there. Annie spotted the four addresses and felt a tingle of awe.

  “Yes, I’m a lawyer for the estate of Walter Grosbeek, and we’ve been led to understand that Ms. Gardner is a lateral descendant through the Menhaden family…”

  Never had Max sounded stuffier.

  Annie gave him a thumbs-up and grabbed a fresh legal pad from the stack on his desk. Quickly, she sketched the island, the gate to the resort, the south island loop, Laughing Gull Lane and Red-Tailed Hawk Road. All four residences were within the resort. Annie marked the addresses.

  “…imperative we be able to communicate…”

  Kathryn Girard set out to visit these houses, ostensibly to pick up donations. But these addresses didn’t belong on her list. She had put them there herself.

  “…and that address in San Miguel de Allende? Yes”—he wrote swiftly—“thanks so much. And if she should be in contact with you, if you would be so kind as to give her our address, Bell, Bonkers and Billman, 8219 South State Street, Chicago, Illinois, 49424, Attention: Grisham Q. Billman, Esq. Yes, thank you for…”

  Annie stared at the addresses in that distinctive, extravagant script. Kathryn Girard intended to make pick-ups, all right, but not donations to the Women’s Club. Annie pictured Kathryn standing by the bulletin board at the Women’s Club, scrawling her substitute list, then turning away with a secretive, satisfied, triumphant smile, ready to use the club van for her swing around the resort area for pick-ups that might better be described as donations to the fund for the enrichment of one Kathryn Girard. Why do people fork over money in secret? It didn’t take almost twenty-five years of assiduous mystery reading—starting with The Secret of the Old Clock—to know the answer.

  “Blackmail!” she exclaimed. The money-laden album, the packed bags. Yes.

  Max threw her a startled look. “…your assistance.” He put down the receiver, unfurled his six-foot frame from the red leather embrace. When he stood beside her, his arm automatically curved around her waist.

  Annie pointed at the revised pick-up list and at her map. “Don’t you see? That’s how Henny knew where Kathryn planned to go.”

  “Why did Kathryn leave that list behind?” Max, too, recognized the handwriting, but his tone was puzzled.

  “Just for the hell of it. Because she wanted to point to her victims even if nobody else ever understood the joke. She was thumbing her nose at everybody, at the club, at the people she was blackmailing.” Annie traced the line on her map to Marsh Tacky Road. “She never thought she was going to end up dead in the back of the van. She couldn’t tell anyone how clever she was”—Annie worked it out in her mind, a picture growing of a malevolent personality that had been well hidden beneath the surface charm of a woman eager to be a part of the community, a woman active in charitable works, a woman always willing to listen as others talked—“but this was a way of making a public yet covert announcement.” Annie shivered. “Max, she must have been vicious. Why else list the addresses? She was leaving, but she liked leaving behind a little goad for her victims. Some of them might very well have seen that list on the bulletin board and felt a moment of panic. I suppose she was going to enjoy that thought as she traveled. When was she flying out?”

  Max bent over the table, studied the map. “Saturday morning. From Savannah to Atlanta to Dallas to Mexico City.”

  Annie looked at him in admiration. “How did you get the address in San Miguel de Allende?”

  “That was easy.” He was as casual as Edmund Crispin’s Gervase Fen solving the riddle of the disappearing toy shop. “She had an apartment in L.A. in the name of Miriam Gardner, ditto the credit card, passport and airline ticket. I figured the L.A. apartment manager might have her address in Mexico.” He made it sound quite reasonable. “But”—he looked at her quizzically—“aren’t you making a leap, jumping from these addresses”—he gestured at the map—“to blackmail?”

  “Do you have a better idea?” Annie moved around his desk, pulled out a bottom drawer and fished out the cross-directory.

  Max studied the map. “Drugs.”

  Annie looked up the addresses and wrote the names on his legal pad:

  Gary and Marie Campbell, 31 Mockingbird Lane

  Vince Ellis, 17 Ship’s Galley Road

  David and Janet Pierce, 8 Porpoise Place

  The Rev. Brian and Ruth Yates, 22 Sea Oats Circle

  Annie tapped the last name and address. “Drugs? Our associate rector? His wife?”

  “Blackmail?” Max asked wryly.

  “Blackmail.” Annie was decisive. “Think about the money in the album, Max. So much money. Supplying drugs to four people would bring in cash. But not ninety thousand dollars.” Annie shivered. “No, it has to be blackmail. That’s the only thing that makes sense.” She sighed. “People can have secrets, Max.”

  It was very quiet in that serene and beautifully appointed office. Max picked up the legal pad, his face somber. “Annie, we can’t sit on this.” He ripped off the sheet and waved it. “We have to call Garrett. But…” He rubbed his knuckles against his chin.

  “I know.” She paced between the desk and the wall map. “It won’t mean anything unless we tell him about the money. And how can we do that?” There was no way they could admit to their clandestine visit to Kathryn’s store and apartment without landing in real trouble.

  A quick smile curved Max’s mouth. “Are you game for a little stage-managing?”

  “Sure.” But after she heard his proposal, she knew she’d better be both game and damn lucky.

  Max looked at his watch. “I’ll spot you an hour. Okay?”

  September is still T-shirt and shorts season on the sea islands. Annie picked a navy top, navy shorts, navy sneakers. It took a minute—she kept checking her watch—to find the particular hat she wanted, a wide-brimmed straw with pink ties. She put her hair up in a ponytail, put the hat on, pulled down the brim, tied the ribbons beneath her chin and added oversize sunglasses, an old pair of Max’s.

  Dorothy L. rollicked into the bedroom, then jumped sideways, her tail puffing.

  “Thank you, Dorothy L.” Annie glanced in the mirror. She was definitely generic tourist. Maybe Max’s plan was going to be easy after all.

  In the kitchen, she pulled the gardening gloves out of the miscellaneous drawer and turned to the album, still lying casually on the counter. She found a brown paper sack beneath the sink, dropped the album into it.

  In the garage, she placed the sack in her bike basket, punched the garage door opener and swung onto her seat.

  Max buzzed for Barb.

  In a second she skidded to a stop beside his desk. “Max, I’m picking up some stuff about Miriam Gardner, credit card history, that kind of thing. But it all starts about five years ago. I can’t find anything earlier than that.”

  “That’s okay. Barb, I’d appreciate it if you’d take a break, walk down to the harbor. There’s a pay phone near the bandstand. Wait until no one’s paying any attention to you, then call here. Disguise your voice. Okay?”

  Not even Evelyn E. Smith’s Miss Susan Melville could have shown more aplomb. “Sure thing.” She turned and sauntered out.

  And Hercule Poirot thought he had a gem in Miss Lemon.

  Chapter 5

  Bicyclists, both tourist and native, were a common sight on the island. Annie was so confident of her disguise that she waved hello as she encountered cyclists in the forest preserve. In the morning sun, the preserve seemed cheerful and welcoming and she was glad to note that the occasional alligator rested somnolently on lagoon banks, not the path. Once out of the preserv
e, she pedaled faster. No one paid any attention as she rode past the church and turned onto the dusty road that ended just past Kathryn Girard’s shop. She rounded the bend. It was quiet except for the chirrup of birds and the rustle of the live oak leaves in the light breeze. There was no car parked in front of the store.

  But other people had bikes, too.

  Annie hugged the edge of the road, keeping in the shade of a line of loblolly pines. She paused at the edge of the clearing, looking for the best place to leave her bike, finally choosing a willow opposite the back door. She slid the bike deep within the long hanging fronds.

  Tucking her sack with the album under one arm, she gathered a handful of pine cones. She threw one hard against the back door, then, clinging to the shade, she moved alongside the store and tossed two cones at a second-floor window. Finally, a careful distance from the front steps and poised to sprint for the forest, she slammed three cones against the front door.

  She glanced at her watch. Twenty-eight minutes of her hour was gone. It should only take her a minute to achieve her goal. Her sack firmly in hand, Annie hurried up the creaky steps. Last night, they’d found the front door unlocked and been grateful for their ease of entry. Annie’s gloved hand slipped a little on the brass doorknob, but the handle moved. She stepped inside and wished she had a better temperament for this sort of thing. Her ears buzzed and her heart thudded. Linda Barnes’s Carlotta Carlyle never seemed to breathe heavily in scary situations.

  Annie hurried down the center aisle, ignoring the ricky-ticky furniture and chipped dishes that looked even tackier in the morning light. On the stairs, she paused to listen before thudding up the steps. On the landing, she froze. Last night, Max had shut the door to Kathryn’s apartment as they left. Now it was ajar.

  A cat?

  She’d watched Max tug on the knob.

  Cats were smart, but the last she knew not even Rita Mae Brown’s gifted Sneaky Pie opened doors. Besides, what she’d learned to date of Kathryn Girard didn’t suggest a woman who would love an animal.

  Annie’s foot gingerly poked out, a pale imitation of Max’s lunge the night before. But she’d never pictured herself as 007. Her heroines were Julie Smith’s Rebecca Schwartz and Sarah Shankman’s Sam Adams, brains and humor over brawn.

  The door swung open. Annie edged into the room. Last night she’d felt chilled by the remorseless anonymity. Now she stood still and tense, her gaze traveling over the shambles of the opened, upended and emptied suitcase, briefcase and carry-on, clothes flung and twisted, papers crumpled, bank statements thrown. The single lamp lay on the floor, the shade crumpled, the bulbs broken. Flung down, then kicked.

  Annie wanted out. The room exuded malevolence, the basic bare ugliness overlaid now by violent anger. She opened the sack, pulled out the album. But maybe the disorder was useful. Just to give Chief Garrett a little help, she opened the album and draped the pages over the edge of the emptied suitcase. Then, with a little shrug, she lifted up a plastic flap and moved the photo to expose one end of a thousand-dollar bill.

  Short of marking the album with an X, Annie didn’t know any better way to—

  Her thought was interrupted as outside a car door slammed.

  “Confidential Commissions.” Max cradled the receiver between his chin and neck and waggled his putter. A man couldn’t spend every minute working. Annie had given him the putting rug and it was his duty to appreciate such a thoughtful gift. He sighted, swung. The ball dribbled off the green onto the wooden floor.

  “This is an anonymous call.” The whisper was very artistic, giving no hint to the sex of the speaker.

  “Really! As Reggie Fortune would say, ‘Oh, my aunt!’” Max raked the golf ball back onto the green. “Tell me something really fascinating, such as how many steps around the sundial before I should start digging. Or perhaps you have a secret formula sought by super agents from around the world.” Max gently putted. This time the ball spurted across the green, skimmed over the cup and ricocheted off his desk.

  “At midnight”—the whisper was vigorous—“Count Antoine will meet you behind the fifth crypt in the haunted cemetery on Hangman’s Lane.”

  “Cool,” Max marveled. “Would you ask him to send Lady Alicia instead?”

  A snort of very familiar laughter was quickly smothered. But Max would have no need to report that part of the conversation.

  “Hist! The fog rolls in. Footsteps approach. I must flee.” The connection was broken.

  Max nudged the ball into the hole with his toe and checked his watch. Good. It was time to visit the Broward’s Rock Police Station.

  Downstairs the front door creaked open.

  Annie looked wildly around the littered room. She stared at the door—still ajar; why hadn’t she shut it behind her?—which led to the only means of escape, the stairs leading down into the store.

  Frantically she turned and hurried toward the bedroom, knowing she was burrowing ever deeper into the trap. She tiptoed past the clumps of Kathryn Girard’s belongings, pushed past the bedroom door.

  Under the bed?

  Soft footsteps sounded on the stairs.

  Annie stared at the bed. If she rolled beneath it, she would truly be trapped. So far, everyone who came to this apartment seemed to be looking for something. So, not under the bed.

  Annie ran lightly toward the closet, her heart hammering. At the last minute, she whirled and plunged toward the bathroom. Bathroom doors lock. Once within, she closed the door, twisted the lock, an old-fashioned lock.

  In the mirror over the lavatory, Annie looked at her reflection and for a minute felt as unsettled as Dorothy L. by the straw hat with its pink ties and the oversize men’s sunglasses and the hands hidden by bulky cotton gardening gloves. She looked for a weapon. The towel racks were wooden dowels in ceramic holders. Annie pulled. No give at all. She looked up at the shower curtain. She would need a screwdriver to loosen the rod. She opened the bathroom cabinet. No handy screwdriver. Or machete. Or anything that could offer any kind of defense. Finally, she reached behind the toilet and picked up the plunger. On a scale of one to ten, it maybe came in at one-half. But she could at least poke an assailant. Face or gut? Whichever she could manage the most quickly.

  Through the thin door, she heard the muffled sounds of search and the footsteps growing ever nearer.

  It came finally, the twist of the knob, another twist, then a rattle. They stood on opposite sides of the door, Annie and the unknown searcher.

  Then, maybe because she was so scared, maybe because she was beginning to feel like a miner in a blocked shaft, Annie hefted the plunger and beat the hell out of the door with the wooden end.

  The Broward’s Rock Police Station overlooked the Sound, a half block from the ferry dock. The cinder-block station was painted a soft cream. Max pushed inside, welcoming the blast of air-conditioning.

  Mavis Cameron looked up from her computer behind a counter. Her hair, now a natural glossy brown, fell in soft waves. Her face, which had been so gaunt and strained when Annie and Max first met her, was fuller now and she flashed a quick, bright smile at Max. Her eyes still had a haunted quality that happy years of marriage to Billy had not quite erased.

  “Hi, Mavis. How’s Kevin?” He’d been a toddler when they first met and was now a stocky eight-year-old who loved to play soccer with his mom and go fishing with his stepfather.

  She pushed back her chair, came to the counter. “He’s great.” She glanced toward the closed door and the frosted glass marked CHIEF. Her voice dropped. “Max, have you found out anything to help Henny?”

  “Things are happening. Will you check with Chief Garrett, tell him I’ve got some information that may be helpful?” Max grinned. “Some stuff that just happened to come my way.”

  “A little bird told you,” Mavis said with a wink. “Sure.” She started to turn, then hesitated, swung around and whispered, “Max, he’s just a kid—”

  Mavis was maybe a couple of years older than the new chief, bu
t she’d escaped a brutal marriage, snatched her baby and run.

  “—give him some slack, if you can.”

  Mavis tapped on the door, opened it. “Chief, Max Darling wondered if he could talk to you for a minute.”

  Garrett might be young, but he apparently was quickly learning the identity of the town movers and shakers. He came around his desk, hand outstretched as Max entered. His round face sported a smile, but his eyes were wary and defensive. “I was talking to the mayor this morning. He told me you and your wife are outstanding members of the community.” Garrett pulled a straight chair from the wall, positioned it carefully to afford a great view of the Sound.

  “We try,” Max said cheerfully, settling comfortably into the chair.

  Garrett sat behind his desk. He added stiffly, “As is Mrs. Brawley.”

  Max knew capitulation when he saw it. But it never hurt to help a man save face. Max had read enough of John P. Marquand’s Mr. Moto to understand the importance of social niceties. “Oh, Annie and I understood your plan right from the first. I hope we played our parts well enough,” he said earnestly. “It’s very clever of you.”

  Garrett managed not to look too bewildered.

  “It’s truly brilliant”—Max’s tone was admiring—“making everyone think Henny Brawley is the suspect while you figure out”—he spoke slowly, distinctly—“who Kathryn Girard was and why someone killed her. From what everyone says, Kathryn was a real loner. Anyway, you’re doing a great job and I may have some information to help. Of course, I know anonymous calls are always suspect, but the minute I got this one, I thought you ought to know about it.” Only an Irish setter gazing at the sunset could have looked more noble.

  Garrett yanked a pad out of his desk drawer. “Anonymous call? In reference to Girard? When? What was said?”

  Max reached in his jacket pocket for a small notebook. He flipped it open, frowned at the page. He looked up apologetically. “I want to get it just right. Let’s see. Time: Nine-seventeen this morning. An unidentifiable voice.” He looked up at Garrett. “A husky whisper. Couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman. The call lasted”—Max checked his notes again—“thirty-six seconds. First, the caller said, ‘I want to speak to Max Darling.’ And—”