Honeymoon With Murder (8 page)

“Oh, didn’t you know him?” Alan asked. “He was a runty little guy, about five foot three, weighed maybe a hundred
twenty pounds max, soaking wet. Had a mean face, rode a schlocky old green bike everywhere.”

“I know
that.”
Annie was impatient. “I used to see him prowling around in the alley behind the shops. A scavenger. Always looking for anything thrown out that he could use or sell. You knew him, didn’t you, Max?”

Max nodded. “I’d seen him around. Somebody told me he used to work at Hennessey’s Marine.”

“But we must find out more about him,” Annie continued. “What was he really like? What kind of man was he?”

“A talky old bastard,” Alan offered. “Used to hear him at Parotti’s bar. ‘People are no damn good, no
damn
good.’”

Annie looked at Alan in surprise. She’d only heard Jesse speak once or twice, but Alan had perfectly caught the oily high voice with its thick undercurrent of unpleasantness.

“Oh, that’s wonderful,” she said admiringly.

He gave a modest shrug, but followed up quickly with a gruff rendition of Humphrey Bogart and a mellifluous Ronald Reagan.

“Fantastic,” she cried.

Max’s eyes narrowed to slits. “But not really on point. How did
you
happen to know Jesse?”

“Just saw him around. I live over there.” Resting one hand on Annie’s shoulder Alan pointed across the inlet at a cabin just visible through clumps of bayberry and sea myrtle.

The pressure of his hand was perhaps just a shade too friendly. Max’s face congealed like Sgt. Buck’s when he observed Col. Primrose with Mrs. Latham. The hand gave another squeeze. Annie gracefully slipped free and stepped a little closer to Max, who still looked like Agatha eyeing a field rat. Damn, married life was complicated. She would have to explain to Max that Alan couldn’t help it. She’d seen him at work at Betsy’s shop, and he was one of those kind of men who automatically come on to any women between thirteen and seventy. And he did have an undeniable charm. But this was no time for Max to get bogged down in hostility.

“Our job is to find out everything we can about Jesse,” she said firmly, to recapture Max’s attention. “Max, why
don’t you get started rounding up information on Jesse and everyone living around here. And I’ll sniff around here.” She glanced at the stuccoed cabins, glistening pinkly in the morning sunlight. They looked as serene as pop art. She wondered how Miss Seeton might have sketched them.

“Sniff around here?” Alan repeated.

Annie smiled encouragingly. After all, Alan didn’t have their background.

“Sure,” she said confidently. “This is just the case for a P.I.”

Alan still looked lost.

“A private investigator,” she explained kindly. “You know. Like V.I. Warshawski.” (If she wasn’t ignoring the snow on her morning five-mile run to Belmont Harbor and back.) “Or Mark Savage.” (If he would take the time from his amorous pursuits.) “Or J. D. Mulroy.” (She could always be counted upon to know what string to pull for helpful information.)

Their number was legend, and anything they could do, Annie could do better.

Maybe.

Sunday morning

The onshore breeze didn’t make a dent in Madeleine’s tightly coiffed iron-grey hair. She saw off the last of the searchers, some armed with poles to prod the five-foot stalks of cordgrass near the shore, then swung smartly about and marched toward Annie and her companions. Madeleine wore a brown T-shirt that sported a golden halo over an upraised but obviously feminine fist. The legend read:
SURE, GOD LOVES MEN. SHE CAVE THEM WOMEN
.

“Ho there,” she greeted them.

Annie smiled a welcome and noted looks of bland recalcitrance on the faces of Max and Alan.
Chauvinist pigs, without doubt. Maxwell Darling would hear about this
.

“Bully turnout,” Madeleine bellowed happily. “Cracking good outfit.” She pointed with pride at the command table, covered with ordnance maps and a full aerial view of the island. Three khaki-clad women talked intently over field telephones. Occasionally, they turned to give information to two workers standing before a blackboard, marking the location of search parties.

“Henny reorganized the Search and Rescue Squad when she took charge. This the first opportunity for all-out call to volunteers. She
is
pleased. Well, now, let’s see.” Madeleine rummaged in the front pockets of her baggy camouflage pants and triumphantly pulled out a list in crabbed printing, spiked with abbreviations. “Know you’re on here. Oh, yes. Det. info.” She jammed a hand into a hip pocket,
pulled out a folded sheet of notepaper and handed it to Annie.

Annie recognized the handwriting at once. What was Henny up to?

“Good hunting,” Madeleine bellowed. “Keep in contact with command center. Henny will send all messages through us.” Giving a brisk salute, she swung away.

Annie opened the note and read aloud:

Alan’s blue eyes were bewildered. “What good would a bloodhound do with a boat?”

Annie wondered how to explain to Alan that Henny was, in her usual fashion, drawing upon a fictional sleuths thoughts, in this case, Anna Katharine Green’s Violet Strange in
The Golden Slipper
.

She decided the explanation was beyond Alan, said vaguely, “Oh, just a figure of speech,” and moved on to the next postscript, with a worried glance at Max.

Clearing her throat, she read in a rush, “
P.P.S. Actually, we five sleuths. Laurel and Ophelia in psychic consultation. And who knows? Maybe ESP works.”

“Oh, God,” Max moaned. He looked accusingly at Annie. “I thought Mother was at Death on Demand.”

Annie scarcely felt that Laurel’s actions, wherever they might be taking place, were her responsibility. Since she couldn’t quite think of a nice way to phrase that, however, she remained silent.

Max sighed. “I wish to God Mother wanted to save the whales. Or even chinchillas. I don’t see why she has to be into this mind-expansion thing!”

Annie studiously looked down at Henny’s note.

“I mean”—and his tone was aggrieved—“why can’t she be like other people’s mothers?”

Since there obviously was no good answer to this, Annie continued to stand mute.

Max shoved a hand through his thick blond hair. “Of course, she
means
well.”

Annie thought about that well-paved road to hell. But she didn’t need a marriage primer to remind her to continue to keep her mouth shut. As in tightly closed.

Alan saved the day. “Five sleuths? Hell, make that six. I’ll help.”

It did deflect Max’s attention from the note. “That’s all right. We can handle it.”

But Alan wasn’t to be dissuaded. “No kidding, I think Posey’s a jerk. I’ll do anything I can.” He glanced at his watch. “I have to open the gallery this afternoon. Betsy’s in San Francisco, so there’s just me. But I’ll come back tonight, so count me in.”

Max was about as thrilled as Sam Spade with an invitation to a debutante ball.

Annie said warmly, “That’s great, Alan. We’ll look forward to seeing you.”

Max waited until he was out of earshot, then said grumpily, “Like a hole in the head.”

“Max, jealousy doesn’t become you.”

“I didn’t get married to spend every waking moment with some hot-handed refugee from a perfume factory draping his paws all over you.”

Annie grinned. “I didn’t know you could wax so eloquent.”

“I could do more than talk, if we could get out of here for a little while.” His handsome face suddenly took on a look of cunning. “Listen, maybe we could slip away to your place. Just for a little while. I mean, I have to
shave
. And nobody’ll miss us for—”

It must have been something on the order of great minds working as one, for Madeleine bore down on them, waving bath towels that looked like Army issue. “Annie! Max! Henny thinks of everything! She’s delivered your luggage so you won’t have to take a
minute
off from the hunt. And
Lavinia Melton’s just finished rigging up the outdoor showers.” She paused. “Men’s Side and Women’s Side, of course.”

Annie didn’t look at Max. Some sights are better left unseen.

Freshly showered and attired in a mint-green cotton top, white skirt, and white flats, Annie surveyed Nightingale Courts in the mid-morning sunlight and fought a wave of lassitude. She was so tired. Actually, she’d slept little for several days before the wedding, there was the high pitch of excitement of the wedding day, the trauma of Ingrid’s disappearance, the restless and very short stint of sleep in the communal tent. She felt too tired to put one foot before the other. But Kinsey Millhone never surrendered to fatigue.

She looked toward Cabin One. Drawn window shades gave Jesse Penrick’s home a dark, closed look, despite the pink stucco exterior. She remembered the last time she’d seen him. He’d worn his inevitable dark blue turtleneck pull-over and tight dungarees. His beaked nose, thin greyish lips, and squinty blue eyes with their malevolent cast created an unpleasant impression. He looked sullen, hostile, and angry, the kind of man people might well not like. But it took more than dislike to fuel murder.

She glanced toward Cabin 3. Ingrid’s drapes were drawn, too, but that was only because she wasn’t there to open them and let the sun shine in. Brilliant orange and yellow marigolds flourished in a front flower bed that glistened with pine needles, neatly herded there by a blower. Beside the carport, sweetgrass bloomed in pinkish masses like cotton candy. Beneath the carport sat Ingrid’s car, a new blue Pontiac. The presence of the car brought a sudden ache to Annie’s throat. Ingrid had been so proud of her car, the first one she’d ever bought brand new.

By golly, Ingrid was going to have the joy of that car for years to come! Determination burned within Annie. What was it about Jesse Penrick that had caused his life to end so violently? It was up to her to find out. She felt a surge of
energy. Michael Gilbert’s Henry Bohun rarely slept more than two hours a night, and look what he achieved as an investigator! Lifting her chin, Annie strode toward Cabin 2. Frilly white curtains hung in the windows, and green ceramic frogs perched on the front steps. Annie peered at the bright pink card taped beside the brass number. It read: OPHELIA BAXTER in black Gothic letters and
Psychic Consultant
in script. Oh, yes. Laurel’s gateway to the beyond. A pudgy guru in a red and green housedress and black turban. With chartreuse hair.

The brass knocker was shaped like a pyramid.

Annie knocked, waited a moment, knocked again.

No answer.

A sudden movement drew her eyes to the left-front window. The curtain rippled, then a gorgeous, furry face peered at her.

“Anybody home?” Annie called.

The Persian cat rose on hind legs and began to shred the curtain.

Annie regretfully turned away. She wanted to talk to Ophelia Baxter, who had so artlessly revealed Ingrid’s hot encounter with the soon-to-be-murdered Jesse Penrick. Time to find out whether that revelation had indeed been artless.

She passed Ingrid’s cabin. Yellow police tape fluttered in the breeze. When had Jesse’s body been removed? Was the autopsy done yet? When it was, how could they find out anything with Chief Saulter away? Maybe Henny would have some means of extracting information from the Southern Division Office of the Beaufort County Sheriff’s Department.

Cabin 4 had a disheveled air. The drifting needles from the yellow pines lay as they had fallen, with no effort to marshal them. The morning paper had been flung midway between the circle drive and the front steps. Drawn shades closed out the sun here, too. She hurried up the steps and knocked, sharply.

The door opened slowly. Duane Webb stared out at her stonily, his bleary eyes magnified through his thick-lensed wire-frame glasses. He hadn’t shaved yet, and the whitish stubble emphasized his receding hairline and sparse ring of greying hair. The scent of dust and old air rushed out at her,
air that had been closed in for a long time. He was still dressed as he had been in those frantic hours of the night, in crumpled khakis and a faded sports shirt.

“Ingrid?” The slurred voice rose ever so little in inquiry.

Now she identified another scent, too, the sour reek of bourbon.

“Nothing yet. They haven’t found her.”

He turned away, shambled back into darkness.

Annie hesitated, then opened the screen door and entered.

Webb sank heavily into an armchair and picked up a tumbler half filled with whisky.

Although the room was dusty and cluttered with newspapers, it was well furnished. She stared in some surprise at the nubby linen-upholstered couch and matching chairs of Swedish design, with clean, plain lines. All the furniture coverings were variations of lemon. Against the south wall hung a huge modernist painting with splashes of black, orange, cobalt, and cherry. White bookcases, jammed with texts, books, and pamphlets, filled two walls. The chairs, the paintings, and the bookcases dwarfed the small living room. Annie felt certain they once had stood in cool, spatial elegance in another time and place.

It was a room that cried out for sunlight and laughter.

Without thinking, the words popped out. “Why are you sitting here in the dark?”

He slumped in the chair, staring at the tumbler that he held in both massive hands. His head looked like a candy skull for the Day of the Dead, pasty white with staring eyes. Deeply indented lines of pain were etched from nose to chin.

“Who the hell are you?” But the demand held little energy, as if the combative words erupted automatically. It was the roar of a toothless tiger.

“Annie Laurance.” She spoke quietly, gently. “Ingrid’s friend. We came last night, when Ingrid called. My husband and I.” Which reminded her. “Actually, Annie Laurance-Darling.”