Read Honeymoon With Murder Online
Authors: Carolyn G. Hart
Heads shook. No one answered.
“I have an idea,” Annie said quietly. “Let’s ask Alan.”
Alan froze for just an instant, then his infectious smile lighted up his blue eyes, though his hands on the table clenched hard. “Oh, hey now, Annie, that’s reaching. Really reaching. Hell, I don’t have a dime. I’ll show you my tax return.”
“I’d rather see the key to the safety deposit box you rented recently.”
His smile faded.
“I don’t know where it is, but the police will find it. And there’ll be almost $220,000 in it, minus however much you put in that package for Jesse. I’ll bet you haven’t had time to get that money to the bank. It’ll be hidden in your cabin.”
He edged his chair back from the table.
“You’re not going anywhere,” she said quietly. “Because once the police start to look, you’re finished. There’ll be traces, of course. Maybe a strand of Betsy’s hair in your cabin—or the trunk of her car?”
He shook his head. “Oh, you’re off base. You’re trying to railroad me, to save Ingrid. It won’t work.”
Posey stalked to the front of the room. “Mrs. Darling, that body in the Refuge is
not
Mrs. Raines. Just because she was a redhead, you and Mrs. Brawley jumped to a lot of conclusions. But that’s what comes of amateurs mixing into police work.”
“Have you identified that body?”
“Sure have.” He was expansive. “Good solid police work.” He pulled a small notebook from his pocket, cleared
his throat, and read, “Deceased identified by fingerprints—left index, middle, and little fingers—as Miss Lucinda Burrows, speech teacher in Savannah.”
“Has the time of death been estimated?”
Posey wriggled his nose. “Autopsy report suggests death occurred approximately three days before body discovered on Monday by Refuge ranger.”
“And when was Miss Burrows last seen?”
“Mrs. Darling, what possible interest can you have in this poor woman? I assure you this identification is rock solid.”
“Nonetheless,” she said mildly, “I’d like to know. When was she last seen in Savannah?”
Posey did enjoy the sound of his own voice. “She called in sick Wednesday morning, but her landlady said she left early, about seven, all dressed up, and carrying an overnight bag. Sounds like she was going off with a man, though the people at school say she was a high-type lady and never hung around singles bars.” He thumbed through his notebook. “One of her best friends said, ‘Lucinda was a little bit silly and giddy sometimes, but I’m sure she wouldn’t go out with a stranger. She didn’t like singles bars, said they were dangerous. We’re all absolutely stunned. And how she ever got to the Wildlife Refuge, we can’t imagine!’”
He snapped the notebook shut. “So, this poor lady left her apartment Wednesday morning and likely was with a man until she was strangled, probably around Thursday evening, and her body dumped in the Refuge.” He smiled patronizingly at Annie. “And she doesn’t have anything to do with Mrs. Raines, who’s out in California, and may be shacked up with a man herself.”
“No,” Annie said wearily. “I wish it were so, but no. You see, Alan killed Betsy, probably very early Wednesday morning, the day she was to fly to San Francisco. He hid her body in his cabin, then took her car. Perhaps he wore a red wig and a picture hat, so that anyone looking at the car would think they’d seen her. Anyway, he took the ferry to the mainland and drove, minus the wig, to Lucinda’s apartment house and picked her up. He gave her Betsy’s tickets and her luggage, which would have been all packed,
and the attaché case—empty, of course—and Lucinda flew to California and checked into the St. Francis.”
Alan jumped up. “That’s crazy. Really crazy! I didn’t know this—what’d you say her name was?—this Burrows woman, and even if I did, why would she go through with this charade?”
“You knew her. Maybe not for long. You picked her up somewhere. You look so ail-American, so wholesome.” The disgust in her voice was scathing. “You probably pitched her a big story, convinced her you were CIA, maybe, and she was going to be a courier. She didn’t know Betsy was dead. She thought her job was to take the luggage, check into the hotel, leave the suitcases and purse behind—and I’ll bet Alan even had the airport claim check for the car in Betsy’s purse—”
Max was nodding.
“—and fly back the next day. Thursday. You picked her up at the airport Thursday night, strangled her, and dumped her body in the Refuge, leaving her nude just to confuse the issue.”
“No way. Listen, how could I get back to the island from the airport on Wednesday if I drove Betsy’s car there and left it?”
“Limousines leave the airport three times a day for the Palmetto House. When we check, I’ll bet we find that some guy in a beach hat and shades took a limo in Wednesday morning.”
Alan took a step backward.
“You came back to the island and worked all day. It was probably Wednesday night that you dumped Betsy’s weighted body in the sound. I’ll bet Jesse was watching. You were halfway done and probably very pleased with yourself. Then Thursday night, you picked up Lucinda, killed her, and came back to the island.
“But you weren’t home free, Alan. Jesse called you Thursday night—and he had Betsy’s wedding ring. He must have found her body in your cabin early Wednesday, maybe after you’d left in her car to go to Savannah. Anyway, he called, and he could prove he’d seen her dead body as long as he had that ring.”
“Mrs. Raines’s wedding ring?” Posey demanded, and he turned to look at Alan.
“Yes. Betsy’s wedding ring. To keep it safe, Jesse slipped it onto the chain that held his dog tags. That’s what Alan searched for so furiously, even taking off Jesse’s shoes and socks. Alan searched Jesse’s cabin as well as he could in the time he had. He’d hurried over to Nightingale Courts from our wedding reception. But it never occurred to him that Jesse would wear anything around his neck. And that high-neck sweater Jesse wore effectively hid the dog tags. You can imagine how Alan started to sweat when the news came out about Jesse having a wedding ring on his chain, and how relieved he must have been when the press reported the initials inside the ring as E.P. But a jeweler can look at that more closely, and I’ll bet the store that the initials are E.R.—Elizabeth Raines. Betsy Raines.”
“Crazy,” Alan shouted, but sweat filmed his face.
“You’re all through, Alan, because now that the police know where to look, they’ll find proof: Lucinda’s fingerprints in Betsy’s car and in the hotel room in San Francisco, traces of Lucinda in your car. Surely she struggled hard enough that a single hair—just one—is in your car or some fiber under her fingernails. You’re all through—and you deserve to be. Making love to Betsy, then killing her. Fooling that poor Burrows woman, then killing her. Imitating Duane’s voice when you freed Ingrid. That was a little fancy, Alan. Do you want to do any voices for us? Maybe Betsy? I’ll bet you can do her great.”
His chair fell with a clatter as he turned and tried to run.
A lariat whistled cleanly through the air, settled over his arms, jerked him backward. He slammed to the floor.
Every eye in the room followed the taut line which bound him to Laurel’s slender hands.
Smiling serenely, Annie’s mother-in-law said just a trifle quickly, “Henny, dear, do stamp on his hand and kick that knife away.”
Posey dispatched Billy to the island police station with a handcuffed Alan, with instructions to call the sheriff’s office for transportation to the county jail.
That done, he approached Annie, his face like a thundercloud. “Breaking and entering, that’s just for starters. Keeping information from the properly constituted authorities. I’ve a good mind—”
“I know the press will be so excited that you’ve solved this very complex and unusual crime,” Annie said smoothly.
His mouth a large round O, he looked at her for a long moment, then slowly nodded. “I
did
do an outstanding job of investigation.”
Ingrid sniffed and pointedly directed her question at Annie. “How did you know? How did you ever know?”
Annie had no desire to be in the next cell to Alan. She took a deep breath. “As Circuit Solicitor Posey undoubtedly has recorded in his own investigation, Jesse Penrick did several things in the days before his murder that observers said were out of character for him. First, he sat on the middle pier in the heat late Thursday afternoon. If he’d wanted to watch for anyone in Nightingale Courts, he would have had a better—and cooler—view from his living room. So his attention was focused on the inlet, and across it on Alan’s cabin. Second, he made a phone call Thursday night. How much easier just to talk in person to someone living in the Courts? Third, he went into the Bird Preserve Saturday afternoon. Again, why such a convoluted approach if he was to receive something from someone in Nightingale Courts?
“I decided then that Jesse was focused on something other than the Courts, that a great deal of money was involved, and I started thinking about Alan, who lived on the other side of the inlet and who liked to make love to older women, and who liked expensive clothes and, I’d bet, good wines and fine hotels and lots of other things he couldn’t afford. Alan knew Betsy Raines was carrying a substantial amount of money in her attaché case. Henny kept insisting all the crime on the island had to be linked, so I started to wonder if maybe Betsy never left the island. From there, it was easy.”
“Just the way I’d figured it out,” Posey intoned.
“Evil,” Ophelia intoned. “Betsy is dead, her hair wavering in the water.”
The pause was uncomfortable.
Laurel nodded brightly. “Such
direct
thinking, Annie. Very, very good. But, of course, we knew, almost from the first. He smiled with the sweetness of a serpent. So, I came to the bookstore prepared.”
“A lariat?” Duane muttered.
Max answered almost absentmindedly. “Community theater.
Annie Get Your Gun
. Laurel was smashing. She’s done bottle tricks at parties ever since.”
“And it was his shaving lotion I smelled, just before he knocked me out!” Ingrid exclaimed.
“I’d like to wring his goddamned neck,” Duane said gruffly.
Ingrid’s face turned to him and tears filled her eyes. “Oh, Duane, I’m so sorry. I don’t know how I could—”
“Fellow was a crackerjack impersonator. Heard him often enough at Parotti’s. Goddam, woman, why’d you keep your mouth shut for me? Till Annie bullied it out of you. Damfool thing to do.” A smile tugged at his heavy face. “But a nice damfool thing.” Then, briskly, he nodded at Annie. “Pretty damn good work, kid. I have to hand it to you.” He pushed back his chair, then paused and looked up at the paintings. “And somebody’s got good taste in mysteries.”
Ingrid blushed. “Do you recognize the titles?”
“Sure. Any fool would.
The Chinese Bell Murders
by Robert van Gulik,
The Virgin in the Ice
by Ellis Peters,
Crocodile on the Sandbank
by Elizabeth Peters,
Murder on the Yellow Brick Road
by Stuart Kaminsky, and
The Key to Rebecca
by Ken Follett.”
“Somebody does have good taste,” Annie said softly, and she put Ingrid’s hand in Duane’s.
Light from the rose-shaded lamp in Annie’s bedroom cast a cheerful glow over the bed, its cover invitingly turned down. At last, they would have their official honeymoon night. Everything was taken care of, Ingrid safe and free, Mavis equipped with a lawyer and funds and twenty-four-hour security, Laurel safely enroute to Connecticut. (Could Laurel be safe anywhere? But that was another question of a philosophical depth Annie did not
wish to plumb this night.) But, so far as they knew, all was well that ended well, and tomorrow, they would leave for a two-week mystery tour in England. The news had delighted Annie. “Oh Max, how wonderful. A honeymoon with murder!”
“Actually,” he’d replied, “I think we’ve had enough murder lately. What I had in mind was a honeymoon with love.”
He opened his arms and she stepped toward him. “Mrs. Darling—”
The telephone rang.
Max swung around, glaring with a most un-Max-like frown.
Annie started to move past him. To answer the phone, of course.
But Max sprang ahead of her. The ring ended in mid-shrill. Max turned to face her, the ripped-out cord dangling from his hand, a beatific smile upon his face.
C
AROLYN
G. H
ART
is the author of nine award-winning “Death on Demand” mysteries featuring Annie Laurance Darling, including
Something Wicked
, for which she won an Agatha and Anthony,
Honeymoon with Murder
, which won an Anthony, and
A Little Class on Murder
, which won a Macavity. She lives in Oklahoma City with her husband, Phil.
If you enjoyed Carolyn G. Hart’s Hernie O mystery, SCANDAL IN FAIR HAVEN, you will want to read Carolyn’s latest mystery, MINT JULEP MURDER. Look for it at your local bookseller’s!
Here is a special look at MINT JULEP MURDER.
MINT JULEP
MURDER
A Death on Demand Mystery
by
CAROLYN G. HART
Annie Laurance Darling almost sideswiped a cleaner’s van when she neglected to yield at the Sea Pines traffic circle. Although she didn’t know how anybody could be expected to master the intricate give-and-take of the circle, in her view as complex as the instructions for assembling a computer. In a word, the damn traffic circle wasn’t user-friendly. Despite its evident problems, however, island residents tenaciously refused to approve a change to stoplights. Annie gritted her teeth and lifted her hands briefly from the wheel in a mea culpa apology to the indignant driver of the cleaner’s van. If bumper-to-bumper cars weren’t bad enough, the island’s stubborn retention of the two traffic circles at the beginning and end of Pope Avenue hopelessly aggravated the problem.
But she managed to make the swing around and
peel off onto Pope without smacking into another vehicle, even taking time to notice the ducks who inhabited the small pond and the sign cautioning traffic to watch for crossing ducks. She glanced at her watch and picked up speed.
She would be making this trip a lot today, each time with an author. She tried to see the landscape with a stranger’s eye and smiled with almost proprietorial pride at the dense pockets of huge pines, the always appealing compact palmettos, the blooming oleanders in the grassy median, the carefully homogenized commercial buildings in shades of beige, tan, and lime.
She would have enjoyed taking her charges to Broward’s Rock with its quiet lanes and equally gorgeous beach, but Hilton Head, though bustling, was just as lovely. May was a perfect month on any of the Sea Islands. The air was balmy, the temperature in the seventies, and no humidity. Hilton Head’s fourteen miles of beaches were never really crowded, even at the height of the tourist season.
Annie pulled into the Buccaneer’s parking lot. The Festival Committee couldn’t have assigned her charges to a nicer hotel. The Festival events were occurring at open-air, tented booths on the public entrance to Coligny Beach, just a short stroll from the Buccaneer. Authors were also quartered at the beachfront Holiday Inn and at several other luxurious beachfront hotels.
The Buccaneer was one of Annie’s favorite hotels. Small, elegant, and charming, it was built like an
Italian villa with dusky mauve stuccoed walls and arched windows.
She hurried up the oyster shell path between fragrant banana shrubs. Brilliantly flowering hibiscus flamed in clay pots by the side entrance.
She had a hand on the door when the six-foot-tall pittosporum bush quivered. Henny Brawley darted out into the path. “Annie, I’m so glad to see you.”
Broward’s Rock’s most accomplished reader of mystery fiction wore a scarlet linen suit. A slender gold necklace supported an oblong ceramic likeness of Agatha Christie. Henny’s gray hair was swept back in soft waves. Her expression of surprise mingled with delight would have done justice to Jessica Fletcher upon finding a corpse. Annie wondered how long Henny had lurked behind the bush, waiting.
“How’d you know I’d come in by the side door?”
Henny’s eyes narrowed, then she capitulated. “You had to park,” she said tersely. “Look, I wanted to give you this.” She thrust a two-by-three-inch piece of cardboard into Annie’s hand. “I know this will hit the bestseller list. I’m thinking a
little
book, with a single quote on each page. You know, like
Life’s Little Instruction Book
or
Everything I Know I Learned from My Cat
. A book doesn’t have to be big to succeed, just big in scope!” She nodded in undisguised self-congratulation.
“The Quotable Sleuth
can’t miss, Annie. You can leave a message for me at
the desk. Room 403.” She smiled brightly and turned away, paused, called back, “I plan to use Miss Marple on page one: ‘The great thing to avoid is having in any way a trustful mind.’
“Then at the bottom of the page, it will say: Jane Marple,
A Pocket Full of Rye
. Isn’t that wonderful? Annie, I’m so excited!”
With a wave of her hand, Henny disappeared behind the pittosporum bush.
Annie almost called out to tell Henny about a terrific collection,
The Mystery Lovers’ Book of Quotations
by Jane Horning. Then, with a decided headshake, she dropped the piece of cardboard into her purse. No reason to deflate Death on Demand’s indefatigable reader. Henny’s book would have its own flavor. Still, Annie had other things to do than focus on her best customer’s search for a publisher. Now all Annie needed to top off her morning would be for Miss Dora to be waiting inside.
A long, cool hallway with meeting rooms—Snowy Egret, White Ibis, Great Blue Heron, Brown Pelican—led to the central lobby and a rectangular reflecting pool. Whitewashed walls gave the lobby a bright, fresh aura. Brilliant scarlet bougainvillea bloomed in yellow terra-cotta urns.
Annie went directly to the desk. The assistant manager greeted her cheerfully. Jeff Garrett’s carrot-hued hair sprigged in all directions. Freckles spattered his snub nose. His wide mouth spread in an infectious grin that Annie returned despite her preoccupation.
She felt she and Jeff had forged a bond, she’d been there so often in recent days.
“Everything’s just as you ordered, Annie. Fruit baskets and a magnum of champagne in each room. And, let’s see, a manicurist will be up to Ms. Sinclair’s room at four, the six-foot pine board’s in place beneath Mrs. Kirby’s mattress, the foot massage appliance is in Mr. Crabtree’s suite.” Jeff paused, leaned forward, and his voice dropped. “Got a call this morning with a special request from Mr. Blake. I made a special trip off-island to pick up three ‘adult’ videos for his suite.”
Annie merely nodded, but she felt a twinge of surprise. Alan Blake’s charming, boyish persona didn’t square with the X-rated video request. But as Miss Dora was wont to remark: You can’t always tell a package from its cover. In any event, Annie was glad Blake hadn’t asked her to get the videos. There was a limit to how helpful she intended to be.
Jeff’s eyes widened. “Do you know how much those kind of movies cost? Wow. If my wife finds out I’ve been in that place, I’m in deep trouble”—he glanced down at a list—“and I’ve got the keys ready for you.” He pulled out a manila envelope from a drawer. “You’ll find the room numbers inside with the keys. And do you want the key to your suite?”
Annie took both the envelope and her own key and thanked him. She opened the larger envelope. Five folders with oblong cardboard electronic keys were enclosed. She handed the folder for Room 506 to Garrett. “Emma Clyde will pick her key up at the
desk.” At least, Emma should—if she would. Annie added calling Emma to her mental list of responsibilities. She tucked the other four folders back into the envelope. “I understand Kenneth Hazlitt is staying here. Has he checked in?”
Jeff stepped to a computer, punched in the name. “Yes. Could I call for you?”
She felt a tiny spurt of irritation. For heaven’s sake, she was hardly a security risk. Jeff knew who she was. He had just handed her the oblong cardboard room keys for five expected guests. To be fair to Jeff, that was different. The Festival was paying for the accommodations for the honorées. And it was contrary to hotel policy to provide inquirers with the room numbers of guests. So okay, Jeff was just following the rules.
“Yes, please.”
Jeff nodded toward an alcove. “The house phones are over there, Annie.”
“Thanks.” She crossed to the alcove, picked up a receiver.
The desk rang the room.
“Hello.” The deep drawl was instantly attractive.
“May I speak to Mr. Hazlitt, please?”
“Which one?”
“Mr. Kenneth Hazlitt.”
“Ken’s not in. This is Willie. Can I help you?”
Damn. Annie looked again at her watch. “I need to speak with Mr. Hazlitt. Do you know when he will return?”
“Who knows? If he’s found a good party, it may
be a while. But we’ve got our own little party this afternoon, and a book open house all day tomorrow. You can count on catching him one time or the other. Ken never misses a party, especially not his own.”
“Do you know anything about the book he’s writing?” She had reached that level of desperation.
“Not much,” Willie replied cheerfully. “But I can paw through the stuff we brought. See if I find anything. I think maybe there’re some flyers he’s going to have at the booth. Kind of a teaser, you know? For the open house. Are you press?”
Annie would have claimed membership in the Mafia if she thought it would help. She gave it some consideration (she credited a vicious second-grade teacher with helping her shed any compunction always to tell the truth), but in this instance, she didn’t see any advantage to be gained. “No. I’m a bookseller, and I’m serving as an author liaison.” It sounded official even if it didn’t have a thing to do with Mr. Kenneth Hazlitt’s literary aspirations. “Could I have a flyer?”
“Sure. Come on up. Room 500.”
Annie was halfway across the lobby when she remembered Emma. She scooted back to the alcove, found a pay phone, and dialed Emma’s number. The answering machine picked up. Of course. But Annie knew damn well Broward’s Rock’s most famous author was in her office because Emma’s routine was invariable—a half-hour walk on the beach in front of her palatial home, then three hours at her computer.
Neither war nor storms (excepting electrical failures) nor holidays nor celebrations nor illness (unless major surgery) varied Emma’s writing schedule.
Annie enunciated loudly and clearly. “Emma, the Medallions are strictly on the up-and-up. I’ve got the word straight—”
Emma picked up her phone. “From whom?”
“Blue Benedict. She swears that Hazlitt guy had nothing to do with your selection. So you’ll come, won’t you?”
The silence was frosty—and thoughtful. Emma’s voice was as cool and sharp as a dueling sword. “If that’s true, it makes Kenneth’s novel even more interesting.”
And she hung up.
Annie glared at the phone. The public might adore dear Marigold Rembrandt (“… America’s sweetest and canniest sleuth,”
The New York Times
. “… delights readers with her warmth and charisma,”
Chicago Sun-Times
. “… won the hearts of readers from coast to coast,” the
Los Angeles Times)
, but her creator had about as much charm for Annie as the seven-foot alligator that lived in the pond behind Annie’s home. Annie knew dangerous beasts when she saw them.
Annie slammed the receiver into its cradle, jolting her fingers. “Ouch.”
All the way up in the elevator, Annie tried to figure it out. Why did it make Hazlitt’s novel more interesting? Or was Emma being supercilious?
And did Annie really give a damn?
Well, yes. She was responsible for the care and feeding of the honorées and their mental well-being throughout the Festival. So, yes. But she didn’t understand what Emma meant….
The elevator doors opened, and Annie confronted her own image in a huge mirror with a gilt baroque frame.
She had that instant of surprise that always came when seeing her reflection. Sandy hair. Gray eyes. Slim, athletic figure.
Annie paused.
Laurel always urged Annie to relax, to imbibe more deeply from Life’s Fountain of Joy.
Annie thought the message was clear. She frowned. Dammit, did she really look harried and intense?
She forced her shoulders to relax. Actually, she looked stylishly resortish, her smooth cotton top crisply white, her light blue chambray skirt long enough to swirl. Annie smoothed her hair and tried a casual smile. Okay.
The door to Room 500 opened immediately.
Annie looked into amused green eyes that widened with perceptible pleasure as they surveyed her.
“Do
come in, said the lonely guy to the good-looking girl.” His voice was a pleasant baritone, and he used it to matinee-idol perfection. He thrust out his hand. “Hi, I’m Willie Hazlitt, and my crystal ball tells me you’re the author liaison who just called. I had no idea author liaisons were beautiful. What a delightful surprise.”
Willie’s hand was warm, his grin seductive.
Annie smiled, but with definite reserve. She knew all about the Willie Hazlitts of the world. Good-looking, charming, playful. And not to be trusted with either the household silver or a woman’s reputation.
“Hello, Mr. Hazlitt. I appreciate your help.” The room behind him was nice. Lots of white wicker and brightly striped pillows and a seashell motif in the sand-shaded wallpaper. If all the suites were this attractive, her authors should at least be pleased with their accommodations.
“Anything I can do, anything at all. And my name’s Willie.” He looked at her expectantly.
“Annie Darling. Now, this flyer—”
“Sure, sure, Annie.” He led the way into the living area. “Let me take a look in these boxes.”
Willie Hazlitt made it look easy to heft four big cartons onto a table near the wet bar. He was about six feet tall, with broad shoulders and muscular arms. He was also so spectacularly handsome—thick, smooth black hair, regular features, a smile that combined charm with a hint of wickedness—that not even his vivid sport shirt—emerald-beaked, crimson-feathered toucans against a bright fuschia background—could compete with his looks. And it would take a man inordinately confident of both his appearance and his masculinity to wear that particular shirt.
He kept up a nonstop chatter as he poked
through the boxes. “… more than you ever wanted to know about the fall list from Mint Julep Press:
Red Hot Tips from Hot Rod Hal, Blue Grass in My Old Kentucky Home, Press the Pedal to the Metal
—huh, now that sounds like fun, the memoirs of a long-haul trucker—
Sea Island Reverie
—oh, poems. I thought it might be a primer on how to have your very own little grass shack, which I could relate to, ma’am”—here he favored Annie with a bright, not too suggestive glance—
“Root Hog or Die
, which I do
not
relate to. Well, not this box, I guess. Let’s see.” He pushed the first box away, pulled the second one close. “Nope. This one’s got party stuff in it, nuts—the house-brand peanuts from a discount store—you can count on Ken to cut corners wherever, oh yeah,” Annie heard a remnant of a southern drawl, but she guessed Willie had spent some years elsewhere, “and paper plates, that kind of stuff. Now here’s a box that’s taped shut. That’s special for the open house. Can’t get into those yet. But I know there’s a bunch of other flyers. Unless he’s already taken them to the booth. He’s really on a high about his book.” A shrug. “My brother publishes books—I mean, we do. You’d think it would just be another day at the office. But no, Ken’s beside himself.”