Deadly Valentine (13 page)

She stepped back, admired her arrangement, then found
a fresh notepad (from a competitor, Scotland Yard, Inc., but Annie loved the pads with the quote from Philip Guedalia at the top in green script: “The detective story is the normal recreation of noble minds”), filled a coffee mug (inscribed with the title
Before the Fact)
, and settled at the table nearest the bar.

There was much to be done. First, the timetable. She wrote
Timetable
with a flourish, glad to address facts for a moment. Reggie Fortune would have approved. As he so often stated, he had a simple faith in facts and utter disdain for imagination. Annie wouldn’t quite go that far, but it was nice, for the moment, to deal in times and logistics.

Not that it was easy. In fact, she crumpled three pages and was at work on the fourth when the phone rang.

She would have ignored it—Death on Demand wasn’t open yet—but she lacked the self-control of Leonidas Witherall, who found it quite easy to ignore a growing pile of Western Union telegrams in
Dead Ernest
.

“Death on Demand.”

“Annie, why didn’t you call me? I can’t believe I had to find out from the radio.” Henny’s voice throbbed with outrage.

The radio. Oh, of course. There would have been nothing in the morning papers, but this afternoon’s
Gazette
would have the story. “Henny, it was two o’clock in the morning before we got home and—”

“Did you find her? What happened? Who bumped her off? Is Howard really in custody? What the
hell
was she doing in the gazebo at that hour? What was the weapon? It said she was bludgeoned to death. Did you know they’re calling it ‘the Valentine Murder’? And what’s the cryptic bit about ‘material at the crime scene indicated the lovely Mrs. Cahill was anticipating a romantic rendezvous’? Annie, what’s going on?”

Annie felt a pang of sympathy for her best customer. Henny was always on top of the news. To be forced to admit she knew nothing was a terrible loss of face. Moreover, Henny was as determined as Christie’s Inspector Slack ever thought about being. So, taking a deep breath, Annie
began, “I heard footsteps on our patio about a quarter to one …”

The heart-shaped balloons from Annie bobbed cheerfully in a corner of Max’s office, stirred by his passage as he paced up and down on the elegant rose and cream Persian rug. So yesterday he’d hoped for a problem. He should have known Laurel’s arrival would result in more problems than anyone would care to face. Not, of course, that Sydney Cahill’s murder was Laurel’s fault. But Laurel was totally involved emotionally. She was trying to alibi Howard Cahill. If the police refused to believe her, she would go to any lengths to prove his innocence. And that, Max said to himself, was where he came in.

Dropping into his well-padded, high-backed swivel chair, he ignored the controls (the chair could be tilted almost horizontal and contained a vibrator and heating element) and reached for a legal pad and a pen. His hand flew as he printed in block letters:

It took almost half an hour, because Max took pains with it, but his map—to his eyes—was a thing of beauty upon completion. He studied it, then made a couple of phone calls. And narrowed down the list of suspects to a frightening few. Wow, did he have news for Annie!

“And that’s
all
you know?” Henny demanded.

Annie’s throat felt as dry as St. Mary Mead when it was after hours for the Blue Boar. “That’s it.”

“There’s a lot to find out,” Henny said happily. Annie
could imagine her fox-sharp nose wriggling in anticipation. “You know, this may be one of those murders with many hidden motives. Well, painstaking detective work will succeed. Just like Police Lieutenant Joe Gunther.”

Annie didn’t say anything. Gunther?

Henny’s voice was silky. “Brattleboro police.”

It didn’t ring any bells.

“Why, Annie, don’t you know Gunther?”

It wouldn’t do any good to fudge. Henny would back her to the wall, demanding title and publishing house.

“No.” Short, crisp, irritated.

“Oh my dear, I thought you kept up. Really so important to know the field.”

“All right. What book? Who wrote it?”

“Open Season
by Archer Mayor. A first novel. Marvelously well done. I’ll have to send you a reading list, my dear.”

Annie hung up on Henny’s chuckle. Then wished she’d snapped something about not having taken a trip around the world with a stock of new books. But the telephone talk had been useful, helping her organize the night’s events in her mind. She was just finishing her listing of times when the bell sounded as the front door opened.

“Hey, Annie.”

“Back here.” She felt the old familiar surge of delight upon hearing Max’s voice. Which was ridiculous, wasn’t it? After all, they’d been married almost five months now. But she hopped up to hurry and meet him.

Max waved a sheet of yellow paper. “I’ve made a map.”

Annie pointed to the table and her notebook. “Come look at my timetable.”

Armed with freshly filled coffee mugs, they settled at the table.

Max studied the timetable:

TIMETABLE

Annie looked over the map. She traced the golf cart path.

“It isn’t lighted after dark, is it?”

Max shook his head.

“So if anybody came that way, they would have to have carried a flashlight.”

“And worn a raincoat,” Max added.

She looked at him in surprise. It hadn’t rained in almost a week.

He tried not to look too proud of himself. “Checked with the club pro. Sprinklers turned on at midnight to take advantage of nonpeak usage period. Ran until two
A.M. NO
way anybody could have made it to the fourteenth hole”—Annie nodded; they could see that green from their patio—“without getting wet. Or leaving some kind of tracks. The pro was out early this morning. No indication anybody had walked over the course after the water started. No bike treads anywhere either.”

Annie thought back to the gazebo, seen in the light of her flashlight. No puddles. No spots of water. Nothing to
indicate the murderer had been splashed. She looked once again at the map, at the entrance to Scarlet King, at the road which dead-ended, at each house in order: the Houghtons’, the Cahills’, the Darlings’, the Grahams’, the Burgers’, and Dorcas Atwater’s.

Then Max handed her a second sheet in his distinctive printing:

“Max, this is terrific!” She paused, then added, “And scary.”

“A pretty short list. But one of those people did it.”

Annie didn’t question his certainty. Any approach to the Scarlet King compound from other than the road or the golf course would entail crossing pathless, trackless pinewoods and swamps.

“Right,” she said crisply, echoing that favorite rejoinder of Lieutenant William Weigand of New York Homicide. Annie reached for a fresh sheet of paper.

“Okay, Max, here’s what we need to do.”

T
HE NEWSROOM OF
the
Island Gazette
radiated tension even though there was very little sound. Annie did note the muttered expletives erupting from the occupant of the third desk along the left wall. The nine-year-old
Gazette
was quite proud of its modern newsroom, the clatter of typewriters long ago replaced by the noiseless video display terminals. The printer did clack at the far end of the room, spewing forth copy on long continuous perforated paper sheets. Vince Ellis, editor and publisher, discouraged use of the printer, since all editing was done on the VDTs, but reporters had a tenacious desire to see their work in hard copy.

Annie and Max hesitated in the doorway, feeling like intruders.

“Shit!” Marian Kenyon’s fingers flew over the keyboard as she listened to the phone wedged between her ear and shoulder. “Shit. Shit. Sh—No, no, Ralphie, not you, sweetheart. It’s the goddam time! That horse’s ass knows we go to press at noon. So who’s he playing to? The wire services? The
New York Times)
No, no, go on. I’ve got a few minutes.” Her fingers never slackened as she talked, and she continued to swear in a steady monotone as she listened and wrote.

Vince clawed at his curly red hair (clearly from its untidy state it was not the first time), then gingerly tapped Marian’s shoulder and pointed at the wall clock.

Marian ignored him. “Okay, okay. Got it.” Banging down the receiver, she shot a single withering glance at Vince. “If I go any faster, I’ll self-destruct.”

Vince nodded and backed away. He almost spoke again, then shrugged, and turned toward Annie and Max.

“On deadline,” he explained unnecessarily, crossing to meet them. He shook Max’s hand, but his eyes were on Annie.

“What were you doing in your neighbor’s garden at one o’clock in the morning?”

Not knowing what information had been released by the police, Annie felt at a distinct disadvantage. She murmured vaguely, “Oh, a noise. Then when I went down the path, it came out at the gazebo and I found Sydney.” She doubted that even Laurel could have managed it better.

But Vince looked like he’d been gashed by a stingray.
“You
found the body! Oh God, the stuff we got says Howard found her.” He swung around. “Wait a minute, Marian!”

Annie grabbed his arm. “Hold on. It’s okay. He must have come on the scene right after I’d left, because he called the police. I had run home and was going to call for help.”