Honeymoon With Murder (26 page)

Annie darted through the rain toward the harbor.

Late Monday afternoon

Max’s crimson speedboat sliced through the choppy water. The horn now blared unceasingly.

Max caught up with Annie as she plunged down the stone steps to the docks.

“Something must have happened,” Annie gasped. “Why else would she blow the horn?”

But Laurel, her wet hair sleek against her aristocratic head, appeared unhurt, and, as a matter of fact, joyously in command behind the wheel. She lifted one hand to wave, then cut the boat precipitously toward them.

Annie covered her eyes. A murmur of concern swept the watchers gathering above at the harbors edge.

Max grabbed her elbow. “Regatta class,” he said. “Never worry about Laurel.”

As Laurel climbed out of the cockpit, Annie decided to take Max’s advice. Although his mother was drenched, hair plastered to her head, her oatmeal-colored robe clinging, she looked stunning. Her beautiful eyes glistened like a Valkyrie en route to Valhalla. But she began to gesture, and she was clearly calling for help. Turning, she pointed toward the boat. Annie looked past Laurel and a wobbly, green-faced Ophelia at a blanket-wrapped figure slumped in the cockpit.

Billy Cameron stood beside the closed door to room 215 in Broward’s Rock Municipal Hospital. “She’s in protective
custody. That’s what Posey said to do, and that’s what I’m doing.”

Max was as tough as John J. Malone (but, of course, much better looking). “Ingrid has a right to talk to a lawyer.”

“Fine. You go get a lawyer for her. But she’s not going to talk to anybody else—and that means you people.” Billy’s glance swept the motley crew clotting the hallway.

“You aren’t even trying to find out who abducted her,” Annie said furiously.

Henny joined in, hands on her hips (Hildegarde Withers?). “Disgraceful. A miscarriage of justice. I want you to know, we aren’t going to rest until Jesse Penrick’s murderer
and
Ingrid’s kidnapper—obviously one and the same insidious person—is apprehended.”

Alan, who had joined the group at the harborside and followed them to the hospital, said pacifically, “At least Ingrid’s okay. At least
she’s
all right.”

Ophelia, her arms crossed tightly over her ample abdomen, sneezed explosively.

“Gesundheit,” Laurel blessed.

Annie stalked up to Billy. “I
have
to talk to Posey. I have all
kinds
of information about this case. He doesn’t know the
half
of it.”

Billy shrugged. “As far as Posey’s concerned, this one’s solved. He’s busy investigating that new murder.”

The door to room 215 opened, and Dr. Samuels stepped out. A barrage of questions met him.

Annie stood on tiptoe, flapping her hand. Dr. Samuels was a good customer, especially fond of obscure divine detectives such as Father Bredder, Sister Lucy, Soeur Angele, and the Reverend Joseph Colchester. “Doctor, is Ingrid all right?”

“Sure, sure.” A big, burly, informal man (star fullback, The Citadel, Class of ’56), Samuels delivered blunt opinions in a forceful, no-nonsense bark. “Tired. Woozy. Confused. Be fine tomorrow.”

“What did she say happened?” Henny demanded.

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Billy objected. “Any information the doctor has should be given to the police.”

Samuels’s bristly eyebrows drew down in a dark frown.
“My God, Billy, haven’t you ever heard of doctor-patient confidentiality?”

Billy flushed.

“Fact of the matter,” the doctor continued brusquely, “I didn’t ask. Woman needs rest. We’ll see how she feels in the morning.”

“She’ll be fine,” a golden voice announced pleasantly.

Samuels eyed Laurel irritably, then with growing appreciation. (But, as Norma Gold would say …) Her wet gown was drying to her in a very flattering fashion.

“Fine and dandy,” he boomed in agreement, “but for right now, she needs rest. Visitors prohibited.” He started down the hall, but looked back twice at Laurel, who smiled winsomely.

Annie’s eyes narrowed in thought, then she edged closer to Ingrid’s door. Without warning, she leaned forward and shouted, “Ingrid, keep quiet till we get a lawyer! Don’t worry, we’ll take care of everything!”

Billy Cameron jumped like he’d been stung with a cattle prod. “Annie, stop that! If you don’t, I’ll throw her in jail right now.” He glared at the hostile circle. “You people get out of here.”

A nurse hurried toward them. “What’s going on here? You’ll have to be—Oh, hello, Mrs. Brawley, I didn’t see you.”

At her sudden change of tone, Annie remembered that Henny was not only director of Volunteer Services, she was on the hospital board.

“Hello, Iris,” Henny replied. “I know, we mustn’t disturb the patients. I’ll take our group into the boardroom for a meeting.” Gesturing for the others to follow, she led them to a private lounge in the east wing. In astonishingly short order, she had everyone disposed around a conference table and dinner ordered from the hospital cafeteria.

Max looked across the table at his mother. “Laurel, how did you and Ophelia find Ingrid?”

Henny held up a commanding hand. “Not until after dinner, Max. Then we’ll attack our problem in logical order.”

Dinner, when it came, was welcome, even if a little unimaginative—boiled whitefish, buttered carrots,
spinach, and tapioca pudding. Alan eyed his plate unenthusiastically. Ophelia picked at her food.

As an orderly removed the plates and served fresh coffee (which couldn’t compare to that at Death on Demand), Henny cleared her throat.

“One of our major tasks has been accomplished. Ingrid has been restored to us, thanks to Laurel and Ophelia.” She nodded at them appreciatively. “However, our work is far from finished. Ingrid faces a murder charge!”

There was an aura of stateliness about Henny, a demeanor of calm and authority. Something about the droop of her eyelids reminded Annie—Oh yes, yes, of course. Commander George Gideon of Scotland Yard, without doubt.

“There is no need to be concerned,” Laurel soothed. “Dear Ingrid will be fine. Ophelia says her aura is excellent—almost golden, which is the
very
best color—and all will be well.” Her complacent smile enfolded them. “How can we question destiny, when it has been so richly fulfilled? Just as Ophelia predicted.”

They all looked at Ophelia, a shapeless blob still shivering as she sipped at her coffee. The turbaned psychic managed a wan smile. “Moogwa assured me that we should find safe harbor, but I never dreamed it would be such a
bumpy
ride.”

“Ophelia’s never raced,” Laurel observed in a tone of mild surprise.

“Moogwa?” Annie knew better than to ask, but she couldn’t resist.

Laurel, of course, was delighted to explain. “My dear, the most
remarkable
celestial visitor. Not here physically, of course, but he speaks to us through Ophelia. She is such a wonderful channel. Moogwa—he lives on Alpha Centauri—is always
so
positive, absolutely an inspiration. He led us to Ingrid, just as we knew he would.”

Alan whispered to Annie, “What the hell’s she talking about?”

Henny forgot the heavy-lidded calm of Commander Gideon and rolled her snappy black eyes briefly heavenward. “Led you to her? Flares? A dotted line on the sound? Protoplasm marking the spot?”

Laurel wasn’t fazed. Her patrician face patient, she smiled kindly. “Henny, my dear, it was nothing quite that direct. A more subtle guidance. But I understand your puzzlement. I know how
hard
it is to dismiss earths shackles. I, too, was once bound to the commonplace, a prisoner of convention, my soul stifled.”

Max was shaking his head and his dark blue eyes messaged,
Not on your life
, to Annie. She nodded.

Ophelia looked reproachfully at Henny, sniffled, and said, “Divine clues”—she paused to sneeze soppily—“must be interpreted.”

“What divine clues?” Annie asked pragmatically.

Ophelia pressed her hands to her turban, which further reduced its shape. Already soggy, it resembled an ill-used soufflé. Laurel more gracefully waggled one hand in a vague gesture.

Henny wriggled. “That’s fine. Don’t worry about explaining divine guidance to us. I can understand how difficult that might be. Just tell us what you did.”

Ophelia sneezed again. Laurel clasped her hands (the polish on her perfect nails glowed a Corinthian rose) in an attitude of sublime meditation.

Max gnawed on his lip to repress an indulgent smile, then said briskly, “From the time you took the speedboat, Ma. What happened?”

Ophelia clasped a hand to her substantial tummy and squeezed her eyes shut.

“Had our mission not been so serious,” Laurel said demurely, “it would have been an
exciting
outing. I’d forgotten how a boat
thumps
when you drive directly into the waves.”

Max’s eyes widened. So much, Annie thought, for regatta class.

“Really, it was almost as delightful as skiing the Matterhorn in a whiteout,” Laurel reported with a cheerful trill of laughter.

Ophelia shook her head miserably in remembrance.

“In any event, Moogwa had made it clear that dear Ingrid was a captive.”

Henny rolled her eyes again. “Obviously, she was either a captive or dead,” she muttered in disgust.

“I
kept
telling everyone she was alive,” Ophelia complained pettishly.

Laurel patted her plump shoulder. “You did indeed, my dear. But they of little faith—”

“You took the boat out,” Max prodded.

“We knew Ingrid was on water,” Laurel said simply.

There was a moment’s silence. Four pairs of eyes were on Laurel. (Ophelia was blowing her nose, lids clamped shut.)

“On water?” Annie asked finally.

Laurel nodded eagerly. “It was quite clear, from Moogwa’s point of view. He told us”—here her voice dropped to a sepulchral monotone—“‘Neither land nor sky/Up and down, by and by; Safely sheltered from the waves/In wise Phoenician ways.’”

Laurel looked at them brightly.

Alan tilted his head again toward Annie. “Is she crazy?” His whisper hung in the silence.

Laurel leaned across the table to pat his hand. “Of course, you have to have
experience
. It was quite clear, really. Think about it. Those dear Phoenicians, such
wonderful
sailors, they always put into a bay or inlet when a storm threatened. They never tried to ride storms out at sea, if they had
any
choice.”

Ophelia massaged her temples. “I
kept
seeing skulls. Which would be a discouraging portent, but Moogwa emanated tides of warmth, reassuring me about Ingrid.”

“Skull Creek?” Henny ventured.

Laurel beamed in approbation. “My dear, you may become one of
us!
Had you only been with us this morning! Because we did have a
little
difficulty in deciphering Moogwa, though it should have been obvious. But we went first to Skull Plantation—and that’s on Broughton Creek—then we tried Skeleton Lagoon and I’m afraid we took the wrong channel and we were lost for a long time, but, finally, our search was crowned with success. We found Ingrid, adrift in a rowboat, far up Skull Creek.”

Henny was too appalled at her inclusion in Laurel’s select group to respond.

But Max frowned. “In a rowboat, Mother?”

“Do you mean she wasn’t tied up?” Annie demanded.

Ophelia sneezed resoundingly. “Jesse’s rowboat,” she sniffled.

With Max’s prodding and Henny’s direct questions, Laurel managed to keep almost to the point, with only a few sojourns into other byways. (The necessity of listening to celestial speakers with an innocent heart, the mystical properties of crystal, and the kinship of mankind to dolphins …)

When Laurel had finished, Max leaned forward. “Mother, let’s see if I’ve got it right. Ingrid was in Jesse’s rowboat. She wasn’t tied up. She had only one oar.”

“My dear, what a succinct summing up.” Laurel smiled admiringly at her worried son, and Annie wondered if she understood that Ingrid could be convicted of murder if a jury heard this.

“Mother,” he appealed,
“what
did Ingrid say?”

Laurel’s eyes widened. “Oh, my dear, Ophelia and I have long known that one must always let others share their thoughts in their own good time, as a flower unfolds when it is ready. But I must admit that in the delirium of our discovery, we so far forgot ourselves as to ask in great excitement what had transpired.”

She folded her hands. Her smile was seraphic.

“So?” Henny demanded. “So? So?”

“Patience, as the great Moogwa reminds us, is the hallmark of civilization.”

Enough
. Annie exploded. “My God, what happened to Ingrid? Who took her? What in heaven’s name was she doing in Jesse’s boat?”

Laurel looked at her reproachfully. “Annie, my sweet, Ingrid I’m sure will share with us, when she is ready. But when she broke into tears at our questions, we knew the time was not yet. So, of course, we
urged
her to remain silent.”

“Oh, God,” Annie cried, “we have to talk to Ingrid!”

Annie wished she had on tennis shoes. Her white leather flats, though quite stylish, had a tendency to slip, even when jammed into the decorative open fretwork that a
budget-conscious board had selected when modernizing the back of the hospital. And she knew that any well-dressed cat burglar would find her peach shirtwaist dress laughable. At least the rain had stopped, although, thankfully, the night was still overcast. She was grateful, too, that the fretwork wasn’t as slippery as the chateau tiles Cary Grant traversed in
To Catch a Thief
. At that moment, however, an edge crumbled beneath her foot. She began to slip, flailed wildly, grabbed at a drainpipe and dangled awkwardly in space. Life, she thought miserably, is never like the movies.

“Hold on,” Max hissed from behind the flowering oleander at the corner of the building.

Annie was in no position to answer, but she wondered what the hell he thought she was doing! Her heart thudding, she fastened onto a drainpipe like a leech, then again began her ascent, testing each foothold as she went. At the second floor, she stepped onto a narrow ledge and edged toward Ingrid’s window, the fourth from the corner.