Authors: Carolyn G. Hart
She returned, waving the printout he’d given her earlier, and plopped down beside him.
Max groaned. “I thought maybe you’d forgotten.”
“Forgotten? After Freddy?” Then she squinted in concentration. “Max, why Freddy?”
“Why concentrate on Freddy? Why
any
of it? Why the cut curtain-rope, why the—”
“No. Freddy’s important.” she insisted. “That was vicious. Don’t you think it shows a particular malice directed at Janet? Why else would such a hideous notion even occur to anyone?”
“Maybe it’s as simple as the fact that our creepy friend wanted to put something nasty in the window seat. And what could be nastier than someone’s pet? You’re probably lucky they picked on Freddy.”
She stared at him, appalled. Her voice stricken, she said, “You don’t think somebody would shoot Agatha. Do you?” She leaped to her feet.
Max reached out and grabbed her hand, pulling her down. “Annie, I’m sorry. Of course nobody would shoot Agatha. That would be really crazy.”
“Maybe somebody is crazy,” she whispered.
“No, no,” Max insisted.
“So, okay,” she demanded, “if nobody’s crazy, then what’s the point of the sabotage?”
“If I knew, I’d tell Saulter and get the nut—” He stopped and waved his hands. “No, no, I don’t mean nut—get the
prankster
arrested. You can bet there’s a rational reason. Somebody’s gone to a hell of a lot of trouble. There has to be a reason.”
“Maybe we ought to go over to the store. Check on Agatha.”
“Annie, she’s all right. Relax.”
But she wasn’t satisfied until they’d driven at a furious pace to Death on Demand, and she held a sleepy and surprised Agatha in her arms. Then the cat, thoroughly irritated at being disturbed, wriggled free, jumped to the top of the coffee bar, and glared.
Annie got out fresh food, crooned endearments to an unimpressed feline, and put on a fresh pot of coffee, decaffeinated chocolate.
Max settled comfortably at the wooden table nearest the coffee bar and watched with amused eyes. “Satisfied?”
“I guess. But I’d almost board her for a while.”
“Nobody’s going to catch Agatha with her paws down. You know how she disappears when strangers come in. She’ll be all right.”
Annie pulled the printout from her purse and spread it on the table. “We
have
to get to the bottom of this.” She tapped the sheets. “We know these people. I mean, you can’t rehearse for a month without learning more than you ever wanted to know about everybody’s basic personality. We should be able to figure out who’s causing the trouble.” She riffled through the pages, then asked, “Do you think we should include Vince Ellis, Father Donaldson, and Ben Tippet?”
“Because they were on hand for Freddy’s discovery? Nope.” Max was emphatic. “Not unless you think we have two saboteurs at work.”
“Two?”
“The saboteur had to be among us when the stink bomb went off. That was an Act Two rehearsal. Father Donaldson, Vince, and Ben weren’t there.”
That limited their list, at least a little. Max ticked the others off on his fingers. “Henny. Janet. Hugo. Arthur. Shane. Me. You. Sam. Burt. T.K. Cindy. Carla. Eugene.”
Max picked up the printout and began to read aloud. (He did enjoy the sound of his own voice. Attractive as it was, she wondered if this foretold lengthy excerpts from newspapers and magazines after they were married. She preferred reading her morning newspaper in absolute silence.)
“HENRIETTA HOLLIDAY BRAWLEY.
Born July four, 1923, in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, only daughter of prosperous cotton broker. Convent educated. Attended Sophie Newcomb, left college in 1943 to train in the Women’s Airforce Service Pilots. Trained at Avenger Field, Sweetwater, Texas, receiving her silver wings, September 1943. Served as a test pilot and is credited with developing an innovative landing technique for the P-thirty-nine fighter. Married Robert Brawley, Captain U.S.A.A.F., December 1943. (Major Brawley killed in bombing raid over Berlin 1945.) At Wright Field, Dayton, Ohio, became one of the first jet pilots, testing the YP-fifty-nine, twin-turbine
jet fighter. Honorable discharge, 1946. B.A., University of Texas, 1948. Taught English lit. in San Antonio, Texas, at a girls’ school, retiring 1975. Received a gold watch and a commendation for never having missed a day of school in twenty-seven years. Joined Peace Corps, spent two years in Zaire building fish ponds and teaching English. Proficient in Tshiluba. Commended for supervising construction of more fish ponds (thirty-seven) than any volunteer in the history of the Peace Corps. Spent next two years backpacking around the world, including jaunts to Tibet and Antarctica. Returned to U.S. in 1979, having inherited property on Broward’s Rock from a cousin. Member Altar Society, St. Francis of Assisi; moderator, Broward’s Rock Public Library; champion bowler, Cha-Cha League; member, League of Women Voters—”
Annie held up a hand. “More?”
“Another half page.”
“I get the picture.”
They grinned at each other.
“Maybe we should leave it to Henny,” Max suggested.
“She was so sure Shane was the culprit, but I saw her staring at him and shaking her head tonight. Who knows? I’m sure she’ll keep us informed.” Annie reached for the printout.
The phone rang. Annie jumped and stared like a deer at bay.
“Tsk tsk.” Max evinced grave concern. “I’m worried about you, Annie. What’s happened to your nerves?”
She glared at him. He knew damn well what had happened to her nerves.
The phone rang again.
Annie didn’t want to answer. She was only too afraid she knew who was calling. But she had never been able to resist the imperious summons of Ma Bell. With a strangled groan, she yanked up the receiver.
“Death on Demand.”
“Annie, I’m so glad I caught you.” A pause. “You don’t sound quite yourself. Is everything all right?”
“Of course I’m all right,” she replied sharply. “Henny, how in the world did you know I was here?”
“Your place, Max’s, or the shop. Where else?”
For an instant, Annie felt nonplussed. Was she really that predictable? After all, she certainly had many interests unknown to Henny Brawley. But Henny was plowing right ahead.
“I’m starting over, my dear. One point is clear. Shane, whatever else he may have done, certainly didn’t hide that cat in the window seat. I followed him home after rehearsal Sunday. He didn’t leave the house all afternoon. When the first guests arrived, I ducked into the pool cabana and changed for the party. Then, right after the party, I pedaled back to the school, already had my bedroll on my bike, and spent the night. Right onstage. Then I popped up, brewed some tea in the parking lot on my Primus stove, and pedaled back to the Petrees'—and I followed him all day yesterday.” She sniffed.
Annie didn’t feel like inquiring into the activities that prompted that disgusted sniff. She grappled instead with the barrage of information.
“So Shane could’ve killed Freddy, since he was late to rehearsal Sunday, but he never had a chance to put him in the window seat ’cause you were either on Shane’s tail or at the school from Sunday afternoon on.”
“Right.” A discouraged sigh. “So, obviously,” and a Virginia accent became noticeable, “I’ve misinterpreted my data. Well, I’ll just have to look a little harder. And it seems to me the only thing to do is not to leave the stage unguarded for an
instant.
And I won’t.” The Southern accent was heavy now. “Never fear.
Nil desperandum!”
And the connection was broken.
Annie stared at the receiver for a bemused instant, then shook her head slightly. “Miss Julia Tyler. I’m pretty sure.”
He looked at her inquiringly.
“Southern accent and quoting Latin. Probably wearing a charming blue chambray dress. Miss Tyler is Louisa Revell’s retired schoolmistress-sleuth.”
He was impatient. “Does she really clear Shane?”
Annie repeated Henny’s report, then sketched the times on the bottom of the printout.
1:45 Sunday (approx.)—Freddy sunning on retaining wall.
2:00—Rehearsal begins.
“Remember, we finished our coffee so we were a few minutes late. I guess we got there about ten after,” Annie recalled.
2:30—Shane arrives.
4:10 (approx.)—Burt ends rehearsal.
Which was a simple way of saying he called it off after all hell broke loose.
4:15—Henny follows Shane home.
10:45—Henny camps out onstage.
Monday—Henny tails Shane all day, up to arrival at rehearsal.
There was a moment’s quiet while they studied the timetable.
“I’m confused,” Annie admitted.
“It’s pretty straightforward. Shane could have shot Freddy before he arrived at rehearsal around two-thirty on Sunday
but
he didn’t bring the body then and he was under surveillance from that point on.”
“Under surveillance,” Annie repeated. “That has a nice ring to it. Henny would be thrilled.”
“So, it looks like Shane’s out of it,” Max concluded. He rubbed his jaw. “The tricky part is, when was Freddy shot? The Hortons didn’t see him after they got home from the rehearsal. Of course, they probably weren’t thinking about the cat at that point. But, in all likelihood, since he didn’t show up for dinner, he was already dead. Let’s say he was killed some time between one forty-five and six
P.M.
That means someone hid him, then trucked him over to the school after rehearsal let out and before the Petrees’ party started.”
“There wasn’t time for anyone to have shot him before rehearsal,” Annie objected.
“Except us,” he pointed out.
She ignored that and threw up her hands. “Everybody else was at the rehearsal when we arrived, which means they all must have gotten there about two
P.M.
So nobody in the cast and crew could have shot him!”
Max nodded thoughtfully. “Okay, if none of us could have killed Freddy, then that means someone who
wasn’t
at the rehearsal shot him.” His eyes glowed. “Harley Jenkins!”
“Harley wasn’t in the theater when the stink bomb went off,” Annie argued.
“Obviously, Harley has a confederate.” He sighed. “But I didn’t find any link to Harley among the cast and crew, except the obvious ones. Burt and Carla lease store space from Halcyon Development. T.K.’s been in some business deals with him.” He snorted. “Harley uses Eugene’s cleaners. Dammit.” He glared at the printout. “Somewhere in there, there has to be a clue. Let’s stop worrying about Freddy and concentrate on the people who we
know
were in the theater when the bomb went off. Surely we ought to be able to figure out if one of them is slimy enough to have planned the sabotage.”
Annie glanced absently at her bookcase with its glorious collection of paperbacks, augmented by some hardcovers. Ira Levin’s
A Kiss Before Dying
caught her eye. She shivered. Who could really be sure of what might be found in anyone’s mind? Dreadful images rose.
“It’s the psychology we have to understand. Just like Poirot,” she insisted, scanning the top shelf of her collection. Psychology was everything in
The Hollow
and
Crooked House.
“If we understood
why,
we’d know
who,”
she explained.
Max gave her an absent nod. It was more polite than Poirot’s disdain for Hastings’s intellectual processes, but not much. So she continued to study her titles, searching for inspiration, while Max pursued the fruits of his afternoon’s research.
The labryinth of the human mind was explored so well in Celia Fremlin’s
The Hours Before Dawn.
And frighteningly so in Patricia Highsmith’s
Strangers on a Train.
Annie sat up straight, feeling as if she were on the verge of a great discovery. A sick and cunning mind but capable, oh, so capable—
“Don’t you think so?” Max demanded.
“Huh?”
“Annie, haven’t you been listening? I laid it all out.”
The faint glimmer in her mind faded. “Sorry. Tell me again.”
He managed not to look long-suffering, but just barely. If he were a cat, his ears would have slanted sharply backward. She almost told him so, then brought her mind to heel and listened respectfully.
“—Burt is actually the most likely person.”
Intense, hardworking Burt with his passionate devotion to community theater, his long hours of effort to keep the players going, good years and bad?
“Max, that’s absurd!”
He held up a printout. “Just listen.
BURTON HOWELL CONROY.
Born March three, 1927, in Savannah, Georgia. High school chemistry teacher. Retired five years ago. Widower. Used savings to set up gift shop on harborfront. Two years ago borrowed heavily from local bank against the store. Used money to meet medical expenses of spinster sister in Pine Bluff, Arkansas. Still deeply in debt, even though shop is prospering.”
He looked meaningfully at her. “So, Burt needs money.”
“Of course.” Annie’s head bobbed in agreement. “That’s why he’s working so hard to get the theater back on the waterfront. Performances will draw people in the evening, but it won’t compete with his gift store. So your argument’s a boomerang. Burt would be the last person to torpedo the play.”
“Isn’t he perfect for that bloated rat Jenkins to corrupt?” he demanded. “What if Jenkins offered Burt ten thousand dollars to blow the season?”
Annie stared at him. “Oh, that’s creative. Do you have any proof that Jenkins might have done that?”
Max had the grace to look uncomfortable. “Well, no. It’s inductive reasoning.”
She raised an eyebrow. “A little careless of Burt’s reputation, isn’t it?”
“I’m not telling anybody but you. But he’s the only one who really doesn’t have an extra dime, except Sam, of course.”
“Actually, I can see Sam taking a payoff long before I can see Burt with his hand out.”
“Oh, no,” Max objected. “Sam’s desperate for good reviews. And those, money can’t buy. Look at his bio.”
Obediently, Annie read:
SAMUEL BRATTON HAZNINE.
B. 1953, Brooklyn, N.Y. B.A. in Dramatic Arts, New York University. 1973. First directing experience
off-off-Broadway. Received notice for work on TV soaps. Made it to off Broadway in 1979, then meteoric rise, hottest young director in town, with raunchy comedy,
Kiss ’Em Off, Buchanan,
in 1982. Equally swift decline with two disastrous openings, especially
The Trial,
which closed on opening night. Reduced to directing dinner theaters and summer community theater, desperate for a comeback. Married and divorced three times. Accompanied to Broward’s Rock by Tonelda Divine, an aspiring actress.