Honeymoon With Murder (25 page)

Annie forebore to point out yet once again that Betsy was in San Francisco. No point in making Henny feel even worse.

“But there’s no doubt about it. I mean, I saw her with my own eyes.”

Annie shivered.

“Not that her best friend would have known her, if it had been Betsy. From her face. But it wasn’t, because Betsy delivered Ruth by caesarean and this woman’d never borne a child. So apparently there’s no connection. No connection at all. A wasted trip. Be back on the island as soon as possible.”

Settled again at the table, Annie lifted up the next printout from her stack.

There were assorted comments from beach boys up and down the coast, some envious, some critical. Annie thought Max had gone a little overboard, but she did raise an eyebrow at the last tidbit.

No wonder Alan wore his finest to the airport.

But it didn’t have a thing to do with Jesse Penrick. And even if Jesse at one time or another had spotted Betsy and Alan at his cabin, why should they care? As Reba Casey said, Why not?

Annie dropped Alan’s bio and picked up the next.

She skimmed the rest of it. Nothing new. The car wreck. His wife dead. His daughter dead. His conviction. Four years for manslaughter. Served one year. His retirement to Broward’s Rock.

Duane Webb. Super smart. Super critical. A fiery city editor with an arrogant, brash, give-’em-hell attitude. He’d
always been half mad. Now that anger was turned on himself. And there was more than enough to spare for creeps like Jesse Penrick. But would Duane hurt Ingrid, who had been kind to him?

How angry—and how twisted by anger—was he?

Agatha leapt back atop the coffee bar and waited expectantly. Obediently, Annie stroked the silky fur.

Agatha turned twice in a tight circle, then settled on the stack of printouts, her throat quivering with a rumbly purr.

Annie absently scratched behind an ear and eased the stack from beneath Agatha to retrieve the last printout. The cat’s ears flattened, but she decided not to protest.

“Not too high toney,” Annie observed to Agatha, who was studying one pink pad with unblinking intensity. “But money’s money—and it takes a lot to buy mansions.”

That’s what Adele and John had done, taking over Hounds Hill, a lovely antebellum mansion on the Cooper River. For eighteen years, Adele had reigned over the refurbishment of the lovely home and enjoyed social prominence.

Annie wondered who had married whom for what. Adele for money, John Prescott for social advancement?

When and why had the marriage soured, or had it never been a love match at all?

The phone rang.

“Death on Demand.”

“Annie, bad news about Betsy.”

Oh, poor Max. Henny must have worried him, too. “Oh, Max, it’s
not
Betsy. The woman’d never had any children and Betsy’d had a caesarean.”

The silence on his end was blank. What woman?

“The body in the Wildlife Refuge.”

“What’s that got to do with Betsy?”

They sorted it out finally, but Max was still a little bemused. “Betsy’s missing in San Francisco,” he said finally. “And that’s why I called. It looks like it has to do with the money. Her attaché case, in her hotel room. It’s empty.”

Two hundred twenty thousand dollars missing, as well as Betsy.

“Do they think she was robbed by a client?” Annie asked.

“A client, somebody she met in a bar, who knows? There are a lot of people in San Francisco, and so far they haven’t connected her to anybody. Not a soul. The only person who remembers seeing her is the hotel maid.” Max rustled some papers. “Yeah, here it is. Estrelita Muñoz was cleaning the west wing on Thursday. ‘A lady came out of 1113, carrying an overnight bag. I wouldn’t have remembered but she didn’t see a room service tray right next to her room and she kind of tripped. I hurried to see if she was okay, and she just laughed and said she always had her head in the sky and she needed to pay more attention. I did her room next and it was real neat, the suitcases unpacked, the clothes
hanging in the closet. That case everybody’s asked about was on the desk, but it was closed. All I did was dust there and set it toward the back. I don’t think anybody went in that room again, because the bed wasn’t used when I opened it the next day. I told the desk, but she had a reservation through the week, so nobody did anything.’”

So Betsy Raines walked down a hotel hallway on Thursday and was not seen again. Had she walked into the mists of time along with Jimmy Hoffa?

Max sighed. “I called Ruth Jenson, told her. It wasn’t any fun.”

“I’m sorry, Max. But you’ve done everything you can. Did you call Billy?”

“Yes.” A pause. “He sounded very uptight.”

“I’m not surprised.” She recounted her conversations with Billy and Mavis.

Max agreed that the young couple had plenty of reason to be nervous, and obviously they had to be high on any list of suspects. “Actually, Billy seemed glad to talk about something besides Jesse and Ingrid. He said he’d get right on the phone to the San Francisco cops. I’m afraid it really looks bad. He thinks her daughter’s right; somethings happened to Betsy.”

Everybody seemed ready to focus their energies on Betsy, Annie realized after she hung up. So who was going to keep on worrying about Ingrid? Grimly, she turned back to her papers. Adele’s printout lay beside her open notebook. Her glance moved across that odd map of Jesse’s—then it froze. She reached out, touched an address, then scrambled for her phone book.

Beryl Ford lived at 926 Blue-Winged Warbler Way.

Annie scarcely breathed as she scanned her copy of Jesse’s map. Yes, 926 Blue-Winged Warbler Way was listed. It was not circled.

She tapped her fingers thoughtfully against the wooden bar, then dialed the Ford number.

A maid answered.

Annie affected a British accent. “This is Maureen Smithers, secretary to her Ladyship Alexandra Ventnors, calling from London. May I speak to Mrs. Ford, please, on behalf of her ladyship.”

Beryl Ford must have flown to the telephone. It took only a moment to remind her of a titled party she’d met on a yacht during her most recent visit to Cannes. (And, of course, how could Beryl be expected to remember everyone’s name? But she certainly did recall her ladyship.)

From there, Annie trying hard to recall Lady Antonia Fräsers accent, it was smooth sailing.

“Her ladyship is considering the purchase of a home near yours on Broward’s Rock, a residence at 924 Blue-Winged Warbler Way, and her ladyship would appreciate it so much if you could provide us with some particulars.”

Beryl Ford was only too happy to recall everything she possibly could about the house, its vantage point on the sixteenth green, the dramatic entry with a cascading waterfall, and the stunning robbery that occurred two years ago.

“Of course, we hardly ever have break-ins here. It occurred when the Clintons were out of town. I
always
have a house sitter. It’s just common sense. And when will Lady Alexandra be in the States?”

“Within a month or so. And you recommend hiring a house sitter. Oh, a Mrs. Prescott. And have other homeowners used her?”

Annie scrawled down four addresses.

And, after many protestations of extreme appreciation and a promise that Lady Alexandra would shortly be communicating with Mrs. Ford, Annie was able to sign off.

Parched, she gulped down the rest of her coffee, then dialed again.

Billy was downright agreeable, when her request appeared to have nothing whatsoever to do with Jesse, Ingrid, Mavis, or himself. This time she wrote down the addresses of eight homes that had been burglarized within the past five years and the dates of the robberies:

Annie picked up the map.

How extremely interesting that robberies occurred on the blocks where Adele had house sat.

To round it off, Annie made a few more calls. Soon her list was complete. Adele had stayed at a residence—on every block where a robbery later occurred.

No wonder Adele Prescott had so many, many lovely antiques—and paid Jesse such nice sums every month.

Had Jesse pressed for more money than Adele was willing to give?

Wait till Max saw this! Annie grabbed up her papers, slipped into her raincoat, and headed for the front door.

She was almost to Confidential Commissions when a deep bull-toned horn sounded in the harbor. And sounded again. And again, a clarion call of urgency.