Dead, White, and Blue Read online

  Annie understood. They weren’t family. Billy was comfortable discussing with them only information they had provided. He wasn’t sharing details of his investigation.

  As if to underscore that intention, he turned another page. “From your statements, we know the following persons were present at some point on the terrace during the fireworks: Edward and Eileen Irwin, Wesley and Vera Hurst, Jed Hurst. We know Maggie and Dave Peterson were at the club. We need to find out where Dave went when he left Shell on the dance floor and why Maggie Peterson left the club in Dave’s car, alone and apparently in a hell of a hurry.”

  Billy straightened the sheets. “I think that takes care of everything.” He gave them an approving look. “Good work finding the Porsche.”

  Max didn’t take a victory lap. “I should have tumbled to the location of the car a lot earlier. The connection between the smashed railing of the bridge over the lagoon at nine and the missing Porsche seems obvious now. The murderer knew the layout of the golf course, knew the lagoon was fourteen or fifteen feet deep with plenty of room to hide a car. Shell’s body was dumped in the passenger seat, the Porsche driven along the back road to the golf cart path, up the path with lights off to the bridge over the lagoon. The next part was tricky. I’d guess the car was stopped right by the railing, angled to go in, then started. The murderer jumped out and slammed the door as the car moved forward. The car took out a post and part of a railing. The car sank out of sight, but it would have been pretty obvious what had happened and there would have been a search of the lagoon Thursday morning. The next part’s brilliant. The murderer hiked back across the course, slipped around to the front of the club, snagged the colonel’s car keys from the valet stand, drove out the back way to the golf cart path, trenched the greens on nine and ten, and ended up on the bridge. This time the car was butted against the broken post. That explained the damage to the bridge. Some vandal messed up some holes, then lost control on the lagoon bridge. Nobody was going to look in the water when there was a ready-made reason for destruction sitting there. I should have known from the first that there were too many out-of-the-ordinary deviations from normal that night, the theft of the MG, Wesley Hurst making a scene at valet parking, Maggie Peterson whipping out of the lot in Dave’s car. My guess is that all three are tied up with Shell’s murder.”

  Billy stood. “I’ll check everything out.”

  Annie gathered up the trash from their hamburgers, tossed the sacks in Billy’s wastebasket. “Have you talked to the mayor?”

  Billy’s big face remained stolid, but there was a glint of satisfaction in his blue eyes. “I reported the discovery of the car and body to His Honor. I told him a homicide investigation was under way and I would keep him informed.” A slight pause. “I was concerned about his health for a moment. Some strangling noises, but I assume he choked on a piece of cake. Or something.”

  • • •

  Dorothy L jumped up onto the kitchen table, her white fur gleaming in a bright swath of sunlight.

  Before Annie could shoo her down, Max intervened. “We’ve finished breakfast. Look, she’s not going to bother anything.”

  As if to proclaim innocent intent, Dorothy L settled at the end of the table and regarded them with shining blue eyes.

  Max ended with a hearty, “Good girl.”

  Annie knew when the stars were aligned against her. She wasn’t altogether sure if the choice had to be made whether Max would first rescue her or Dorothy L from peril on the high seas or a dank dungeon. Some questions were better left unasked. And, fair was fair. When she and Agatha were alone at the store, Agatha delighted in sprawling on her back atop the coffee counter, four paws elevated. It was not a graceful pose, but, to Annie, utterly endearing.

  She smiled at Max, who was endearing in another fashion entirely. He also sat in the sunlight, relaxed in a T-shirt and boxers, blond hair tousled from sleep, blond bristle on his face very sexy. He refilled their mugs from the carafe on the table, looked hugely satisfied as he pushed his iPhone toward her. “That should stir up the Intrepid Trio.”

  Annie read the three identical text messages he’d sent: WTB? ITL.

  Snap, crackle, pop, three responses arrived in order:

  From Emma: Cute. What’s ITL?

  From Henny: ITL? Elucidate.

  From Laurel: ITL? A union?

  Max looked even more satisfied as he tapped: In the lagoon. Where else?

  Three further responses.

  From Emma: Should have realized. Marigold would have figured it out sooner.

  From Henny: Skype alert.

  From Laurel: I2IRequr.

  Annie raised an eyebrow. “What the heck does your mom mean?”

  Max deciphered. “Eye to eye required.”

  “Tell them we aren’t dressed.”

  Max tapped. Then laughed. “Mom says dishabille is never an excuse.”

  Annie was intrigued. “Excuse for what?” she murmured, but Max was already fetching the laptop. Armed with coffee mugs, they settled on a sofa in the den with Dorothy L snuggled between them.

  In a moment, thanks to the webcam, they viewed the magnificent saloon aboard Marigold’s Pleasure, mahogany decor, soft leather settees, and cane furniture, and knew they were equally visible. Emma’s seersucker blue caftan was the same shade as her spiky hair and inquiring eyes. Henny sported a red-and-white-striped blouse, red slacks, and red dock shoes. Laurel was elegant in a soft yellow blouse and white slacks and yellow espadrilles.

  Laurel beamed at them. “If everyone saw others in their night- clothes, the world would surely be a better place.”

  Annie tugged a bit on the hem of her shorty nightgown. Was Laurel saying that an unaffected appearance in intimate garb was the solution to world peace? Possibly. She pictured the president and secretary of state in dishabille. It would alter perceptions.

  She yanked her mind back to Marigold’s Pleasure.

  Henny frowned. “It’s too bad Billy can’t look further into Richard Ely’s death. I know it was stormy that night but you’d think someone might have observed him out on the pier.”

  Max shook his head. “Lots of lightning. I doubt if there were any casual strollers on the boardwalk.”

  Emma was disdainful. “The mayor’s obtuseness reminds me of Inspector Houlihan at his worst. Obviously only something of great importance drew Ely out on the pier under those circumstances. However, there are other avenues to explore.” She waggled a cushion with four squares within a square. On a diagonal, the squares were yellow one way and black the other.

  In the saloon, each occasional cushion represented a maritime flag. Emma, always majestic, sat on the central settee.

  “L,” Max interpreted. “The signal means: You should stop. I have something important to communicate.”

  Annie forced herself to maintain a look of bright interest. How like Emma to use a maritime signal to increase the drama. Emma, of course, believed her every thought to be important. What could she know on a yacht moving steadily northward?

  Emma cleared her throat, signaling that her inferiors should listen up. “It is no doubt unfortunate that sometimes in the throes of creativity, I lose sight of the world beyond the page. Mea culpa.” Her deep voice dove down like a hound’s bay. “I regret that once drawn into Marigold’s struggles with that exceedingly tiresome Inspector Houlihan—”

  Annie kept a straight face. Barely. Emma was a victim of her own success. She’d created the hapless inspector as a foil for Marigold and readers loved him, which necessitated his appearance in many scenes. Unfortunately Emma found it increasingly difficult to be original. Just how many different ways could the inspector hinder Marigold?

  “—I lost sight of other matters. I realized this morning when we received Max’s report—”

  Annie’s eyes narrowed. The missive had been a joint effort. Was she an afterthought?

  “—that I failed to communicate a fact that may be of great importance.”

  There was res
pectful silence. Henny turned her thin, intelligent face toward Emma, her gaze attentive. Laurel gave a soft sigh, clasped her hands together in anticipation.

  The pause continued.

  Frosty blue eyes turned toward the undoubtedly informal tableau of Annie and Max in their jammies.

  Max stroked Dorothy L. “Emma, you always amaze.” His tone was light.

  The demanding gaze moved to Annie.

  Annie’s voice quivered as she suppressed a giggle. Emma assumed Max was laudatory and in fact Annie knew he was simply stating the awful truth that Emma’s self-regard was quite simply amazing. However, Annie hastened to join the chorus. “Taking time from Marigold and the inspector is splendid of you, Emma. Splendid.” Annie decided it was fun to talk like a John Buchan character even if she was indulging the old battleaxe’s lust for attention.

  Satisfied, confident she was center stage, Emma announced grandly, “To avoid the congestion, I took the back exit from the club on the night of the Fourth. As you know, the road is bordered on one side by the golf course, on the other by thick woods. I saw a man, walking fast. He wasn’t strolling. Had I described him in a scene, I would have said”—her voice dropped—“‘In the headlights a burly man strode through the night, head poked forward, shoulders hunched, a man in a hurry.’” A pause. “Or something like that.”

  “Powerful,” Laurel breathed.

  Henny’s dimple showed briefly and then she was appropriately grave. “Riveting.”

  Emma nodded, accepting her due. “As I came nearer, I slowed. He glanced around and I recognized Dave Peterson. I saw him fully in the headlights. His face was flushed. He was clearly in the grips of great emotion.” Now she was crisp and succinct. “The time was nine minutes after eleven. The fireworks ended at ten forty-four. I stopped and asked if he’d had car trouble. He slowly approached my car. I don’t think I exaggerate when I say he looked like a man who had suffered some kind of mental trauma. Finally he took a deep breath and said that there had been a mix-up with the car, that Maggie had left before him. I thought that was quite interesting but you don’t ask a man if he and his wife have just had a quarrel. I said something about sometimes we all get mixed up about things and I’d be happy to give him a ride. He blurted out no, then realized his response was rude. He gave a kind of odd laugh and said he’d spent too much time inside, he was ready for a walk, but thanks, anyway. He turned and walked away. I drove past him.”

  Max gave Emma a thumbs-up. “Your testimony may be very important. The killer drove the Porsche from the overflow parking lot onto the back road and took the golf cart path to the lagoon. Then he—or she—ran to the front of the club, took the MG keys from the valet board, drove the MG out the back way, and followed the same route to the lagoon. If Dave smashed the MG into the bridge post, he would have reached about that point on the back road when you saw him. Send Billy an e-mail.”

  Annie looked thoughtful. “I wonder if Maggie hunted for Dave before she left.”

  Laurel was sympathetic. “They said she was driving fast and obviously upset. She may have known that he was intending to leave with Shell. Or”—a blond brow arched—“perhaps she knew he wasn’t leaving with Shell.”

  Annie blinked. As often happened, Laurel’s comments contained more substance than might seem apparent at first. There were several layers here. Maggie knew Dave was leaving with Shell, and Maggie killed Shell out of jealousy. Or Maggie knew he was leaving with Shell so Maggie fled the club alone in his car. Or Maggie knew he wasn’t leaving with Shell and hurried from the club to try to find him because she was afraid what might happen if Dave confronted Shell. Or Maggie knew he wasn’t leaving with Shell because Dave had killed her.

  Henny said quietly, “That would explain why Maggie left in his car. She may have suspected Dave was desperately trying to hide evidence of murder.”

  Emma nodded in agreement, her spiky blue hair quivering. “However, we shouldn’t forget that Maggie told Shell there was a gun in Dave’s desk.”

  Annie remembered Maggie’s distraught appearance. “It may not have been a threat to Shell. She may have thought of using the gun on herself.”

  Emma shot the question. “What basis do you have for that assumption?”

  Annie felt a moment of confusion. “Because Dave was upset when I told him about that conversation. He rushed out of his office. I think he was afraid about Maggie.”

  Emma raised a sardonic eyebrow. “I’d suggest Dave has given very little thought for Maggie’s well-being. Instead”—she pressed stubby fingers against each temple, a signal of creativity arising—“let us delve into the mind of a murderer. You come to his office, ask about Maggie speaking of the gun in his desk, thereby revealing you are aware that Maggie was distraught over his involvement with Shell. If he murdered Shell, he instantly realizes this is an opportunity to act in a manner that will deflect suspicion from him. He hurries out, giving the appearance of a man concerned that his wife might have taken his gun and possibly committed a crime. The deduction would be that, of course, he could not have committed the crime.”

  Annie continued to appear interested though she considered Emma’s suggestion just this side of preposterous. Her interpretation was both too generous and not generous enough to Dave Peterson. Dave was a swaggering, bluff, hearty engineer with all the subtlety of a rampaging bull moose. He was also a man who had evidenced kindness and care when his wife was ill and had surely, perhaps still, loved her very much. That he had succumbed to Shell’s sex and beauty didn’t mean that he cared nothing for Maggie. The other faces watching Emma were equally bland.

  Laurel broke a rather strained silence as Emma scowled, correctly sensing a lack of acceptance. “You have marvelous insight, Emma, discerning motives where others might be led astray by surface observations. It does rather seem to me”—a diffident smile—“that we should focus our energies on one basic question.” Laurel beamed at each of them in turn. “Toy soldiers.” Her tone was assured.

  Annie shot a worried glance at Max. Had Laurel finally slipped the bounds of reality? Laurel’s mind often appeared to hover in a world of her own imagining. Toy soldiers?

  Laurel’s smile was chiding. “My dears, everything depends upon location. And”—a nod of her golden locks toward Annie—“since Annie introduced me to the amazing wonders of mysteries and mystery writing, I follow the lead of the masters.” A flutter of impossibly long eyelashes. “In this instance, America’s revered Mistress of Mystery, Mary Roberts Rinehart. You will recall in her autobiography, My Story, how when writing a play, she used her sons’ toy soldiers to play the characters on the stage. We—and dear Billy—cannot determine who could have committed the crime until we know the location of each person during the critical period.”

  Max applauded. “Ma, you put your finger on it. We know Shell left the terrace midway during the fireworks.”

  Emma was didactic. “The fireworks began at nine forty-five, ended at ten forty-four. Therefore, Shell walked toward the overflow lot at approximately ten fifteen.”

  Laurel murmured, “It isn’t a long distance. Perhaps two minutes, three at the most to reach her car. I think we can assume she was dead five minutes after she left the terrace. Otherwise, she would simply have slipped into her Porsche and driven away. She didn’t. That puts the time of her death at ten twenty.” She turned her limpid gaze toward Annie and Max. “Determine the location of those involved at ten twenty.”

  “Good advice. But”—Henny looked at Annie, then at Max—“even if you delete some names, several will have had opportunity. What matters is motive. Wesley Hurst wanted his freedom and he must have been humiliated by Shell’s affair with Dave. Vera Hurst very likely hated the woman who had taken her husband, and Shell’s refusal to agree to a divorce would have added to her fury.  Jed Hurst made some kind of threat to his sister about Shell on the day she died. Maggie Peterson was about to lose her husband and, whether he went or stayed, he had been unfaithful with Shell. Dave Peterson has a
quick temper and Shell apparently blew him off that night. Edward Irwin faced not only embarrassment to be revealed as a blackmailer but possibly prosecution and prison. Eileen is a very proud woman. How would she respond to people sniggering about Edward and his surveillance with an iPhone? She saw Shell leave the terrace. Eileen could have slipped into the shadows and followed her.”

  Annie absently stroked Dorothy L, loved the feel of her warmth and soft fur. “Eileen’s obsessed with her missing shawl. She doesn’t have a clue about Edward trying blackmail.”

  Henny was thoughtful. “Eileen is very attuned to those around her. Not much escapes her notice. I would be amazed if she didn’t know everything there is to know about Edward. At the same time, I wouldn’t underestimate the danger Shell took in provoking Edward. Sometimes a weak personality can be the most vicious.”

  Laurel’s smile was dreamy. “Everything comes down to people. Wesley Hurst is a rich man, spoiled, accustomed to having his way. Vera Hurst has an iron will. Jed Hurst is young and sometimes the young don’t count the cost of their actions. Maggie Peterson is a passionate woman who had everything to lose. Dave Peterson is tough, not a good man to anger. Edward Irwin faced the specter of prison, which would terrify him. Eileen Irwin is proud and formidable.”

  Max looked fondly at his mother. “Good analysis, Ma. Billy will be interested in hearing from you three. He already knows everything we know. The best news is that he’s in charge and we can leave the investigation to him.” He grinned. “Bon voyage, ladies. Annie and I are planning on a happy weekend here at home.” With a click, he turned off Skype, gave an admiring look at a long length of shapely leg. “As for you, Mrs. Darling…”

  12

  The newspaper sheets rustled. “Oh my.”