Honeymoon With Murder (7 page)

“Sometime this morning, maybe. But we have to hang around now for the general meeting.” At Laurel’s look of inquiry, he explained Henny Brawley and Madeleine
Kurtz’s formation of the Citizens Search for Ingrid Jones and the mobilization of Broward’s Rock.

“That’s very good.” Her tone was the kind used by an indulgent adult admiring a child’s mud pie.

Max quirked an eyebrow. “What else can we do?”

“I believe a physical search must, of course, be undertaken. But to combat evil requires
intense
mental concentration, and, of course, those of us who embrace an unlimited view of human achievement have recourse to other and more ethereal means.” She beamed at them. “Ophelia and I have dedicated ourselves to this task—and I have no doubt but that we shall succeed.” That winning smile. “I always succeed.” It was said not with pride but with utter confidence.

It gave Annie the willies. God only knew what Laurel would take it in her head to attempt.

Max scented danger, too. His handsome face looked a little haggard.

“Mother, what are you up to? And how did you get mixed up with that dingbat?”

“My dear, Ophelia is not a dingbat. She is, indeed, a gateway to the beyond. But there’s no time—” From the courtyard came a repeated clang. Annie peered around Max and saw Madeleine’s substantial form now teetering atop the latticed arch, one arm industriously striking a pie tin with a metal spoon. “… for me to entrust you with the many and various avenues to enlightenment available to those who open their minds and hearts to the unseen but
vigorous
impulses which stream from the universe. In fact, I must
rush.”
She turned to her daughter-in-law. “Annie, I need a key to the store.”

The leap from the philosophical to the practical was too abrupt for Annie’s earthbound mind. “Uh, what?”

“Death on Demand. Where may I find a key?”

Laurel excelled at non sequiturs. From the universe to the store in one mighty bound—what else was new?

The query reminded Annie that something else was askew. Because Ingrid, of course, had agreed to manage Death on Demand while Annie and Max honeymooned.

“The store!” Max exclaimed. “Annie, what will we do?”

“Keep it closed, I guess. I mean, we can’t worry about that while we’re looking for Ingrid.”

Laurel clapped her hands. “Aha, the fates direct us when we are too blind to see.”

Annie eyed her cautiously. Had it finally happened? Had Laurel’s precarious mental balance tipped?

But her mother-in-law’s smile was serene and blinding. “I’ll take charge of the store. You needn’t give it a thought. It’s the perfect place for Ophelia and me to harness our energies and focus upon Ingrid. Now, Annie, I’m sure Ingrid has some personal effects at the shop. A favorite cup, perhaps? A compact? A sweater?”

Coffee at Death on Demand was served in white pottery mugs inscribed in bright red script with the names of landmark titles in the genre. Ingrid’s favorite was
The Clue
(the first Fleming Stone book by Carolyn Wells) and she jealously guarded it from use by the G.P. (general public).

A little blankly, Annie offered, “You’ll find Ingrid’s cup in the bottom left-hand drawer behind the cash desk. And she keeps some other personal things in there.”

“Good. Good. And the key to the store?”

Keys. Keys. “Vince Ellis at the
Island Gazettes
keeping one. I don’t know where Ingrid’s are, and I think mine are in the drawer of the telephone table at the tree house.”

“Vince will be fine. That’s very convenient, since the
Gazette
offices are so close to the store.” Laurel nodded complacently. “Everything works out for those who seek. That is the first byword of Harmonic Convergence, and the principle I always attempt to impart. Take care, my dears.” The oatmeal-colored robe flared above her trim ankles as she turned.

From the courtyard, Madeleine’s tattoo on the pie tin reached a crescendo.

Max looked at Annie, then after the departing form of his mother. “Laurel,” he called, “where are you going? What are you going to do? And why are you wearing that funny outfit?”

“In the fullness of time,” Laurel caroled reassuringly over her shoulder.

Annie sighed.

*   *   *

“Hey, Annie, Max, wait up a sec!” The pier quivered as Alan Nichols clambered up the ladder. He was still in navy blue warmups, and his looked slept in, too, but Annie noticed how admirably they molded to his muscular body. After all, she might be married, but she wasn’t blind. Alan’s curly chestnut hair was tangled, and he had shaved hurriedly, nicking his chin, but that didn’t diminish his attractiveness, although he emitted a strong scent of evergreen. Annie had never been enchanted by men who used after-shave. His cheery blue eyes flashed an admiring message at Annie. He was that kind of guy. However, he greeted them dolefully. “Any word?”

Their faces told him.

He reached out and solicitously squeezed Annie’s arm.

Max surveyed Alan with barracuda-like intensity. Just so might Selwyn Jepson’s Billy Bull have eyed James Belsin when he made clear his interest in Eve Gill. Which was somewhat flattering. However, just because she was a married woman didn’t mean every man she met had to treat her like a mother superior! She’d have to have a little talk with old green eyes.

Alan gave her another pat, then smothered a yawn. “I crashed a couple of hours ago, had to get some sleep. I thought maybe—” He looked past them toward the courtyard, then gaped in astonishment. “What the
hell
is going on?”

Annie explained. “Henny Brawley—you know her—she runs half the groups on the island, including the Broward’s Rock Search and Rescue Squad. She’s called out her forces and put Madeleine Kurtz in charge of a foot-by-foot search. Come on, I think Madeleine’s going to make some announcements.”

Annie discarded their breakfast plates in a trash bucket and the three of them joined the milling searchers. Madeleine, still balanced atop the arch, opened her address:

“Fellow citizens, greetings on behalf of Henrietta Brawley, director of Broward’s Rock Search and Rescue Squad, and myself, Madeleine Kurtz—” She drew herself to her
full height. Annie held her breath, but the arch continued to stand, I am honored to have been chosen by Henny to direct our all-citizen search for Ingrid Jones, who was ruthlessly abducted from her home last night. Promise to give the search my all. Henny regrets she can’t be here in person. Busy investigating murder which occurred last night in Ingrid Jones’s cabin. Henny requests assistance of all citizens. Anyone with
any
information as to the activities of the victim, Mr. Jesse Penrick, in days preceding his death, should convey that information to Mrs. Brawley post haste.” Her foghorn voice gave a Gothic urgency to her message, investing each phrase with sense of mystery and intrigue. “Even
tiniest
facts may have untold import. Messages may be left at the command table.”

Annie glanced at the listeners and saw several delving into knapsacks or pockets for writing material. She quirked an eyebrow at Max and whispered, “Henny is about to harvest a gigantic flood of irrelevant information. She’s lost her marbles. This sounds more like Inspector Fox than Bulldog Drummond.”

Max grinned. “Maybe she’s found Bulldog’s heartiness a bit of a strain.”

“Shh,” a nearby woman hissed, frowning darkly at them.

“We may safely leave the pursuit of the criminal to our inimitable Henny while we concentrate upon our task, finding Ingrid. Our situation: after midnight last night, Ingrid Jones telephoned her closest friend and long-time employer, Annie Laurance-Darling—”

“Mrs. Darling,” Max growled.

“—and indicated she was in jeopardy. Before she could continue, she screamed and line went dead. Mr. and Mrs. Darling—”

“That’s more like it,” Max approved.

“Shh.” Annie touched his lips with her finger.

“—arrived to find Ingrid’s cabin unlocked.” Madeleine pointed to Cabin 3. “Inside, they found the body of Jesse Penrick, who lived in Cabin One. Search of premises revealed no trace of Ingrid Jones. Another resident of the courts, Duane Webb, organized hasty search. This search yielded no clue to Ingrid’s fate. During this time, the police arrived—”

As if on cue, a squad car rolled up to the arch. Since the way was blocked, literally, by a hundred massed bodies, Posey was forced to clamber out of the car by the arch. He looked about as happy as a cotton farmer with a boll weevil invasion.

Madeleine, obviously primed by Henny, gave a sidelong, satisfied glance and continued in a husky bellow. “And that is why we have had to organize to search for one of our own—the authorities have
refused
to seek Ingrid.”

Posey’s face turned an interesting shade of puce, with perhaps a touch of orchid. Brusquely motioning onlookers out of his way, he picked up speed.

“Mr. Circuit Solicitor!” She might sound like a foghorn, but every syllable rolled majestically across the courtyard.

Annie began to have a good time. Her only regret was that Henny wasn’t there to see the success of her minions attack.

Posey stood on Ingrid’s steps, his back to the crowd. But he knew there was a crowd. The politician warred with the prosecutor. It was no contest. He turned to face Madeleine, fury blazing in his eyes, but his mouth struggling for a smile. It was more revealing than he realized.

“Yes, Mrs., uh—”

“Madeleine Kurtz. Assistant director of the Broward’s Rock Search and Rescue Squad, presently serving as ad hoc director of the Citizens’ Search for Ingrid Jones. As leader of the volunteers, I demand to know what steps you are taking to investigate her disappearance.” Madeleine clearly intended to give no quarter.

“As the prosecuting attorney whose duty it is to determine who shall be charged with the iniquitous homicide of your fellow island resident, Mr. Jesse Penrick, I am exploring the circumstances of his murder with all the facilities at—”

“What about Ingrid’s abduction?” When Madeleine pursued a subject, she outdid a limpet.

The puce turned to magenta, and his geniality collapsed faster than The Old Man in the Corner (Baroness Orczy’s famous detective) could untie complicated knots.

“There was no abduction,” he thundered. “You people can search all you want to, but you’re hunting for a
murderess who’s vainly attempting to escape the consequences of her crime. And I intend to swear out a warrant for her arrest this afternoon!”

He turned, yanked open the door, and plunged into the cabin.

Boos, hisses, and catcalls erupted from the crowd.

Madeleine gave a thunderous tattoo on the pie tin. Her eyes blazed fanatically. “We shall not quail before our task! We shall hunt in the swamps, through the woods, along creek banks, in pastures. We shall remain faithful and committed, and all of us, from myself to Ingrid’s devoted employers”—heads turned toward Annie and Max, waves and smiles—“to our oldest living islander”—ninety-six-year-old Matilda Kraft smiled smugly—“shall be in force here, day and night, in this tent city, until Ingrid is restored to us.”

Hurrahs. Stamping feet. Huzzahs. An Amen or two. The juiced-up recruits stormed to the command table and eagerly lined up in groups of four to receive their assignments.

“Night and day. Day and night,” Max muttered.

Annie scarcely heard him. She stared at the closed door to Cabin 3—and pulsed with fury.

“Calling Ingrid a murderess! I’d like to murder him!”

“Hush,” Max urged.

“He can’t get away with this! It’s the most idiotic thing he’s ever done in a career that specializes in idiocy!” She started for the cabin.

Max and Alan hurried behind her, Max warning, “Now, Annie, cool it. We can’t do Ingrid any good by making him madder,” and Alan asking, “What’s going on? What’s with that guy? Annie, what are you going to do?”

Undeterred, Annie stamped up the cabin steps and pounded on the door—then kicked it for good measure.

Posey yanked open the door. “Ms. Laurance—”

Max leaned over her shoulder.
“Mrs. Darling.”

“Posey, don’t be an ass!” Annie shouted tactfully.

Posey’s cheeks puffed out.

She charged ahead. “You have no right to call Ingrid a murderess. If somebody’s killed her, it’s going to be
your
fault. You haven’t even tried to find her, and we’re citizens,
and I demand you help look for her. Get some helicopters; call out the national guard.”

“Ah, Ms. Laurance.”

“Mrs. Darling,”
Max said insistently.

Posey ignored him. “It is a felony to impede an officer of the law in the pursuit of his duties.”

“Then you ought to be arrested,” she fumed. “Who killed Penrick? Why? When? Get the answers, and we’ll know who took Ingrid—and then we can find her.”

“Oh, we’ll find her, Ms. Laurance. Don’t worry about that.” And he slammed the door in their faces.

“Mrs. Darling!”
Max yelled after him.

But Annie wasn’t paying attention. She stood on the steps, her fists clenched, her face flushed, her eyes fiery.

“I’ll find out,” she snarled after Posey through gritted teeth. “Just you wait and see. I’ll find out.” She whirled toward Max.

Her husband, his face grave, looked at her and slowly nodded agreement.

“It’s up to us, isn’t it?” she demanded, stalking down the steps.

“Absolutely.” Max’s voice was crisp as he walked with her.

Annie stopped and looked toward the command post and the tent city. Search parties were beginning to disperse. “There are enough searchers.”

Again, Max nodded. “Penrick’s murderer knows what happened to Ingrid. And Posey won’t look for him. So we will.”

Alan’s jaw dropped, and he stared at them in frank astonishment. He shoved a hand through his unruly chestnut hair. “How the hell can you do that?”

“Just like the police do,” Annie said briskly. “Fact by fact. The first thing to do is hold a council of war on Jesse.”

“He’s dead,” Alan observed blankly.

“Sure,” Max agreed. “But why? That’s the question.”

Annie picked up the refrain. “Who hated him? Who was afraid of him? Who
was
he?”