April Fool Dead Page 10

  “If you’re not mad at me”—she rolled up the poster, slipped it under her arm—“why don’t you want me to come inside?”

  “’Cause I’m not mad at you, honey.” The distant tone was gone. He was Frank, her uncle Ambrose’s best friend, her friend and Max’s, a fine and good and decent man. “Come on, we’ll talk out there.” His voice was low and weary.

  He walked a little in front of Annie and she knew he was checking the line of pines. Once he stopped, wheeled, his hand deep in the bulging pocket. A raccoon loped from behind a yaupon holly, stopped, looked quizzically at them, dark eyes curious in his elegant masked face, then turned and plunged into the shrubbery. At the road, Frank looked both ways, then guided Annie to the Volvo. He stared at the broken window. “What’s this?”

  Annie shrugged, opened the door, resented the glisten of rain on the leather seat. “I’ve made a lot of people mad today, including the jerk who put out those flyers. Or maybe somebody tossed the brick because I said the other flyers were fakes. Frank”—she reached up and caught his hand—“who put you on that list? Jud Hamilton? A friend of his? Someone in his family?”

  Frank’s mouth twisted in a tight smile. “I thought about that when I found the flyer in my mailbox. Somebody sure wanted me to see it. And it’s a damn funny coincidence.”

  She slid behind the wheel. “What is?” She wished the light were better, wished she could see Frank’s face in the shadow of the brim of his slicker.

  “This game somebody’s playing, using your contest to hide behind, riling everybody up, setting them on the trail of…” He rubbed his nose. “But it’s damn odd that Jud Hamilton just got out on parole.”

  “Frank”—she was eager—“maybe he’s the one behind this!” Annie realized abruptly that she wished desperately to know the identity of the shadowy figure who had turned her world askew. It would be a huge relief to focus her anger and, even better, to have everyone on the island know without any doubt that Annie wasn’t responsible.

  The brief shower ended as quickly as it had begun. Frank furled the umbrella and pushed back the hood of his slicker. “No. Jud wouldn’t give a damn about those other people. Jud’s only interested in me.”

  There was an undertone to his voice that frightened Annie. She looked at his sagging pocket. “Interested?”

  The deeply grooved lines in Frank’s face hardened. “Let him come.”

  She scarcely managed the words. “You know he’s coming?”

  Frank’s eyes made a final survey of the road and the thick tangle of growth beneath the pines. “Yep.”

  Annie stared into bleak brown eyes. “Jud Hamilton’s out of prison and he’s coming here? Is that why you have the gun? Frank, you’ve got to call Pete.” The police chief would protect Frank.

  “You get along home, Annie. I’ll tend to my business.” He spoke almost casually, but she heard the anger. And the determination.

  “I read the story in The Island Gazette about the trial.” She tried to hold his gaze. “Jud said he had an alibi when his wife fell down the stairs.”

  Frank looked away, looked far beyond the road and the pines. “That’s what he said.” Frank’s hand tightened on the knob of the umbrella. “He was lying. I found her at the foot of the stairs. Poor little girl, her face all bruised and bloody. He’d knocked out a couple of teeth. Poor little Colleen.” Poor little Colleen. It was a lament.

  There had been a picture of Colleen Hamilton in The Island Gazette, probably a yearbook photograph, a smiling face with big eyes and a delicate chin and laughing lips. Annie had a sudden vision of bruises and blood and broken teeth. It was as if she and Frank were no longer alone. “How did you know her?” She didn’t ask whether he’d known Colleen. Annie was already certain of that answer.

  “Colleen and my Sue. Happy little girls, playing jacks on the porch after school, practicing for the cheerleading squad. Oh, they didn’t get elected, but they had fun. One summer they did so many roundoffs I thought they’d forget how to walk. They were best friends all the way through school, working at Parotti’s to save money to go into Savannah and shop. One summer they were lifeguards over to Hilton Head and Colleen’s mama worried she’d get too much sun. Too much sun.” His voice faded away. His lips folded into a tight line. But it wasn’t too much sun that damaged the little girl Frank remembered so well.

  “You found her.” Annie tried not to think about that moment.

  “Somebody in the next house heard her screaming. Called nine-one-one.” His hand dropped to the bulging pocket. “I knew what had happened the minute I saw her. Well, I got the sorry bastard. Thought he was smart, fixing up an alibi.”

  Annie looked into an implacable face. She didn’t bother to ask whether Colleen had accused her husband with her dying breath. She knew the answer as surely as Jud Hamilton, who knew he left a dead woman behind. “How did you break Jud’s alibi?”

  There might have been a glint of amusement in his cold brown eyes. “Turned out there was some cocaine in Edward Miles’s car. But sometimes these things can be worked out.”

  A fake charge to bust a fake alibi? “Frank—” But she couldn’t ask him, couldn’t put it into words.

  “Go home, Annie. What happens here has nothing to do with you.” His voice was tired but firm.

  “Frank, I’m going to tell Pete.” Surely the police could do something.

  “You do what you need to do. I’ll do what I need to do.” He turned away, then looked over his shoulder. “She was a sweet girl, Annie. Just like you.”

  Emma Clyde poured gin into a frosted glass, added ice cubes and tonic. She carried the glass to her study, settled in a comfortable chintz chair. She sniffed the drink, smiled, took a sip. She’d spent a productive afternoon. Trying to trace the elusive creator of the fake flyers was almost as much fun as maneuvering Marigold Rembrandt into the right place at the right time in the current manuscript. Emma took an instant to be pleased with both her progress on the new book and the tentative title: Case of the Curious Catbird. The telling clue, of course, was the resemblance of the catbird’s cry to the mewing of a feline. There was always a telling clue in an Emma Clyde mystery. It was a point of pride to provide that clue. But the structure of the books was no accident, reflecting her conviction that events in life overlap and interlock to an astonishing degree. And by God—her eyes glinted—that overlapping was going to lead to the truth behind the flyers. Emma sipped her drink and smiled. It was a grim, satisfied, confident smile. The creator of the flyers felt secure, hidden in anonymity. Emma had called up and scanned every news story about Bob Tower’s hit-and-run, the death of Colleen Hamilton and her husband’s conviction, Ricky’s accident and Laura Neville Fleming’s fall from her yacht. Her efforts made it clear to her that the shadowy figure behind the flyers had indeed revealed himself—or herself—by the choice of information used in the clues. Emma had recorded the most important points. She picked up the legal pad from the side table:

  MODUS OPERANDI

  Quite probably obtained the information for the accusations concerning the deaths of Ricky Morales and Laura Neville Fleming from news reports.

  Is almost certainly computer-literate. The files of The Island Gazette would only be available on the Internet or on computers at the library or at The Island Gazette offices.

  Has lived on Broward’s Rock at least sixteen years. [Ricky had fallen—she took pleasure in the verb—from Marigold’s Pleasure sixteen years ago this coming July 15.]

  Knows that the Littlefields own a red Jeep.

  Knows that Paul Marlow is having an affair with a married woman.

  Knows more than was reported in The Island Gazette about the conviction of Jud Hamilton. There has never been public mention of suspicion of wrongdoing regarding Hamilton’s conviction.

  Knows that Ricky had a girlfriend….

  Emma stared at the pad, scratched through number 7. No, that could be a guess. She quirked an eyebrow. Actually, it was a very good guess, but that was n
either here nor there. Just as what happened the night Ricky died didn’t matter because no discussion of his death would ever change the Coast Guard ruling of accidental death. Not without specific evidence, and as no one knew better than she, that evidence did not exist. The same was true in suggesting Laura Fleming’s widower might have remarried. That took no special knowledge.

  Emma tapped the pad with her pen. All right. There were no links then between herself and Laura Fleming and the author of the flyers. Emma sipped the gin and tonic. It was like drawing a picture by following the numbers. It was impossible to know what the result would be until the picture was complete. The shadowy form was taking shape—computer-literate, islander for many years, and, most important of all, most revealing, someone who knew the Littlefields, Paul Marlow or his lover, and Jud Hamilton, his dead wife or former police chief Frank Saulter.

  Emma pushed up from her chair, purple-and-pink caftan swirling. Her face was meditative as she crossed to the wet bar, lifted the decanter and poured gin into her glass. Now, the most important question had yet to be answered: What was the point of the flyers?

  Annie made up her mind at the last minute and yanked hard on the wheel to turn right into Main Street, the two-block-long area that served as the Broward’s Rock business district. Her tires squealed and a piece of glass tinkled and collapsed into the window. She jolted to a stop behind a school bus and waited until the last disembarking passenger had safely crossed and the bus rumbled away, belching smoke. She waved at Betsy Michaelson, a tall, thin girl who liked to spend Saturdays at the Darlings’ pool, plaintively telling Rachel how hard the SAT was and how they wouldn’t be able to make scores good enough for college, and had Rachel ever thought about picking bananas in Ecuador? Betsy’s sentences had a tendency to fade into the ether. She would wave a limp hand. “Or we could march against feeding the porpoises.” A forlorn sniff. “I don’t think anybody pays for that.” A sigh. “Whatever…”

  The bus turned right and Annie picked up speed. She pulled into a parking space in front of the low-slung cinder-block police station, which sat on a slight rise overlooking the Sound. Out on the green water, a motorboat bucketed past, slapping against the whitecaps. A buoy rolled, its mournful bell warning of the freighter that had gone down in a hurricane and the rusted hull a few feet below the surface that posed a hazard to passing ships.

  Inside the police station, Annie looked first at the main counter, then down the hall at the door marked CHIEF.

  Mavis Cameron, whom Annie had known a lot longer than the new young police chief, looked up from her computer. “Hi, Annie. What can I do for you?” Mavis had a young-old face with sweet eyes that still held remnants of sadness. She’d come to Broward’s Rock, an abused wife, seeking safety for her little boy. It was on the island that she met Billy Cameron, the big young policeman who’d welcomed her and her son into his heart. Mavis pushed back her chair, crossed to the counter. “The chief’s out right now…”

  Annie almost asked if Mavis could catch him on his cell phone, but she hesitated. Frank Saulter wasn’t going to be pleased by Annie’s interference, but Annie couldn’t forget that chilling moment when Frank kicked open his own front door and moved in a swift crouch, gun in hand. Annie knew she would never forgive herself if she remained quiet and something happened to Frank. Something? Why not put it into words? Jud Hamilton was out to get Frank. Frank needed protection.

  “…but Billy’s here. Could he help?”

  Annie felt like hugging Mavis. Of course Billy could help. He’d been one of Frank Saulter’s officers when Annie first came to the island. “Yes, please.” Dear Billy, six feet three, sandy hair with an unmanageable cowlick, loyal, brave and decent. He wouldn’t have a clue what pukka sahib meant, but he would be any leader’s choice to meet an enemy charge.

  Mavis lifted the movable portion of the counter. “I’ll get him. He’s out in back checking the crime van.”

  Annie knew where the force kept its two patrol cars, one unmarked sedan and the lone crime van. “That’s okay. I’ll find him.”

  “The gate’s locked. I’ll buzz you out the back door.” Mavis pointed down a long corridor. “Straight down the hall.”

  The onshore breeze tugged at her skirt as Annie stepped out the back door. The black van was parked in the shade of a live oak by the back fence. The side door of the van was open.

  Annie hurried down the steps. “Billy. Billy!”

  Billy poked his head out. His huge shoulders dwarfed the opening. He jumped to the ground. “Hi, Annie. You need something?”

  She’d known Billy for a long time. When she reached him and stood with her hands in her pockets, the onshore breeze riffling her hair, tugging at her skirt, the words spilled out in a rush. “Billy, I’ve been at Frank’s. You saw that stuff in those flyers about Jud Hamilton and Frank, didn’t you? I went to tell Frank I didn’t have anything to do with those flyers. And it was scary, Billy. Frank thinks Jud Hamilton is coming after him and Frank’s got a gun. I saw it. Billy, you and Pete have to do something.”

  Billy lifted a big hand, slid the door panel shut. His face closed, too. “Thanks, Annie. We know all about Jud Hamilton.” He turned and walked toward the door.

  Annie hurried to keep up with his long stride. “What are you going to do?”

  He stopped and looked down, his nice face creased in a sad frown. “We’ll keep an eye out for Jud. We’ll do what we can do.”

  She was impatient. “Can’t you watch Frank? Put a guard at his house?”

  Billy kneaded his cheek with a big fist. “Frank didn’t ask for help.” He looked away from Annie, out at the shining green water, as if seeking an answer that he didn’t have.

  “Frank has a gun.” She didn’t try to keep the worry and fear from her voice.

  “He has a license.” Billy moved toward the steps, opened the back door, held it for her.

  “Billy…” It was a plea.

  “Annie, Jud started down this road a long time ago.” Billy’s eyes were bleak.

  She held her car keys so tight, her hand hurt. “Frank was the chief.”

  Billy’s pleasant face hardened. “He was a good chief. He did his best for everybody all the time. But he’s a man, too. He knew Colleen Hamilton. He knew Jud Hamilton hurt his wife and then he killed her. Jud should have gone to jail for life. But they couldn’t prove premeditation. And now Jud’s out of prison and he’s coming after Frank. But you know something, Annie? Frank’s mad as a hornet. He’s been mad for a long time.”

  Henny stepped out of her car, moved toward the railing, where she could watch the waves. The ferry pulled away from the dock, leaving the island behind. She wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but she felt stymied in her search to solve the mystery of the unauthorized flyers. Maybe her evening in Savannah would give her subconscious time to mull the facts she’d gleaned. Henny was a firm believer in giving the subconscious free rein. Perhaps in the morning she would awake and exclaim, “Voilà!” For now, she was ready for an evening of good company.

  She leaned against the railing. Long slow swells rocked The Miss Jolene as she hove toward the mainland, now a green smudge on the horizon. The Miss Jolene, Ben’s new wife. What a lovely tribute. Love and marriage…Memories swirled like confetti fluttering after a wedding. Henny remembered Jonathan Wentworth, who had lived and died with gallantry. She had watched his plane crash into the Sound. Dear Jonathan. And she remembered from—oh, so long ago—her husband, Bill, who had not come home from World War II. Just for an instant she was at an officers’ club, she and Bill, dancing cheek to cheek to the slow sad strains of “As Time Goes By.” Henny smiled. She would talk about Bill tonight in Savannah, almost sixty years after his bomber crashed in a raid over Berlin. He always lived in her mind, slim and young and eager, eyes bright and glowing with love, but it would be a pleasure to say his name. “Bill.” She spoke softly. Tonight she would speak of Bill many times. Maggie had known Bill, too, when she and Henny won their wings at Avenger Field
in 1943. Henny was glad Maggie had called. They would have a cheerful dinner, talking about old times and new. And it was such good luck that Kay had canceled their bridge game tonight. A tiny frown drew Henny’s dark brows together. Kay’s absence was certain to irritate the other players, since her message was simply a brusque announcement. Was something wrong? Perhaps she should give Kay a ring tomorrow. Kay, however, would likely tell Henny to count her own sheep or something to that effect. Kay was blunt, direct, strong-willed, uncompromising and a cherished friend. Henny lifted her face, welcoming the sweep of the wind and the smell of the water, looking forward to dinner with Maggie, dismissing her sense of unease about Kay.

  Nine

  ANNIE LOVED coming home. The dusky lane meandered among live oaks festooned with Spanish moss. She always took pleasure in her first sight of their multilevel sand-toned wooden house, which shimmered with expanses of glass. She punched the automatic opener and drove into the garage and felt complete, for Max’s car was there. When she stepped into the utility room, she smelled brown sugar and butter and pineapple. “Max? Rachel?” She hurried into the kitchen and dropped her purse and three posters on a countertop.

  Max eased the last pineapple ring into the pan. He wiped his hands on a dishcloth, then stepped toward her, his arms open. “You get caught in the rain?”

  “Just a little. Frank walked me to my car.” Annie came into his embrace, kissed his cheek that smelled oh-so-nice, and dusted a smudge of flour from his chin. There was so much she wanted to tell him. Most of all, she wanted to share the relief that buoyed her like a giant inner tube on a turbulent river. She’d done what she’d promised to do, made certain that everyone mentioned in those ghastly imitation flyers knew the attacks had not come from her, had no connection to her bookstore. Concern over Frank still nagged like a tooth with an intermittent pain, even though she’d done what she could there, too. But for right now, her personal landscape was sunny again. Except…She glanced around the kitchen. “Where’s Rachel?”