Something Wicked (17 page)

Max folded his arms and grinned. “I’ll bet you make a helluva stump speech.”

Saulter sucked his breath in.

Annie flapped her hands, but Max ignored her. Good grief, couldn’t he see that he was infuriating Posey? Lordy, did Max
want
to get arrested?

The phone rang.

Posey jerked his head imperiously at Saulter, but he never took his eyes off Max.

Annie didn’t even have time to object. After all, it was
her
phone. But the chief answered and, after a moment’s exchange, handed her the receiver.

“Hello,” she cried abstractedly.

“Annie, my sweet, I will take care of everything.”

Annie heard Laurel’s dulcet tone and, louder and stronger, Posey’s infuriated roar.

“I’m in touch with Mrs. Crabtree, and
everything
will be all right …”

“You think you’re very, very smart, don’t you, Mr. Darling. We’ll see how—”

“… crowning the veil with myrtle …”

“—know a motive when I see one and—”

“… sweetest custom! Ten yards of sheeting wrapped round and round the bride!”

“You didn’t like it one little bit, did you, Mr. Darling?”

“Really, the Irish have some wonderful ideas. Drench the fruitcake with brandy! Of course, we can’t let Uncle Waldo have any because …”

“Laurel,” Annie shouted, “we’ve had a murder!”

There was an instant’s pause. Posey’s heavy head swung toward her in irritation.

“Oh, of course,” Laurel cried. “I know all about it. That’s why I rang up. I
know
how you and Max are, always
delving.
So put your mind at ease, Annie. I will take care of everything.”

The connection broke.

“How’s Laurel?” Max asked cheerfully.

Take care of everything. A thrill of horror shot through Annie. Where
was
Laurel? What in heaven’s name was she
planning?
What would she do
next?

“Darling, I’m not through with you.” Posey barked.

“I rather think you are,” Max observed with a distinct lack of interest. “You bore me.”

Posey’s face twitched with anger and vindictiveness. “You’d better listen, Mr. Darling. You think you can get away with murder because you’re a rich man. You’re used to having your way, everybody kowtowing to you. Well, I can tell you that Brice Posey doesn’t kowtow.” His eyes glittered. “Oh, yes, you have the strongest motive of all. You didn’t want to lose Miss Laurance, did you? You made sure she couldn’t belong to Shane Petree. You murdered him—and I’m going to see that you pay with your life.”

“Are you arresting me?” Max inquired, without a quiver of concern.

The prosecutor’s jaw bunched. “Not quite yet, Mr. Darling.”

“Wait a minute. Wait a
minute.”
Annie turned furiously toward Chief Saulter. “Can’t you tell this—this
idiot
—anything? My God, Shane Petree’s the last man in the world I would ever have been interested in. Max thought the whole thing was funny! He
knows
I’m not interested in anybody else—and certainly not Shane. Chief, can’t you tell him?”

Posey shot a look of clear dislike at Saulter. “A good investigating officer
never
lets personal friendship interfere with duty.”

Annie felt a chill. She could almost smell Posey’s blood lust. Dizzily, she pressed her fingers against her throbbing temples. Max didn’t shoot anyone—
couldn’t
shoot anyone….

“Can’t you test for gunpowder residue?” she demanded. Scientific detection,
à la
Dr. Thorndyke, that was the ticket. “That will clear Max. A paraffin test. That will do it.”

Posey’s mouth curved disdainfully. “That’s no longer done. Miss Laurance. It was not a reliable test. The modern police department—and certainly we pride ourselves upon our knowledge of and use of the most innovative techniques—relies upon neutron activation analysis, atomic absorption spectrophotometry, or scanning electron microscopy/energy dispersive X-ray analysis.” He didn’t stumble once. She wondered how he’d do with a pint of pickled peppers. “Unfortunately, in the instant case, we are too late. Many, many hours too late. As any skilled ballistics expert can attest, gunshot residue remains on the hands for up to six hours
unless, of course, a suspect has the opportunity to remove any detritus with the application of soap and water. In our present situation, there was more than enough time for the murderer to remove all traces of his insidious act. If careful procedure had been followed in the extant case, we might have flushed our murderer immediately.” His protuberant eyes focused on Max again. “But I am now on the case, and I will discover the truth—wherever it leads!”

He swung around, chest out, and strode to the door. Saulter followed reluctantly. The chief flashed a look of sheer disgust over his shoulder.

Annie whirled toward Max, her eyes bright with alarm, her chin jutting out with determination. “Max, that odious circuit-whatever is lusting for your scalp. And you just egged him on!”

“I did, didn’t I?” he agreed cheerfully. “Let him lust. The fat man doesn’t scare me. Did you see him duck behind Saulter?” He chuckled.

“He who laughs last,” she warned. A few more Chinese aphorisms, and they could share a Charlie Chan button. But, actually, it wasn’t funny. Posey
meant
every word.

“Max, we’ve got to be serious. We’re going to have to find the murderer ourselves. Like Nick and Nora Charles.”

“Like Nick and Nora? Hey, do I get a martini?”

Max proved to be about as tractable as Nick Charles. They argued all the way out to his car. Annie fumed, “Why are you so impossibly stubborn! So incredibly obtuse! So infuriatingly pigheaded!”

He wasn’t even fazed. She didn’t know which exasperated her the most, his refusal to cooperate or his winsome confidence that his attitude was the essence of reason.

“Annie, love,” he said kindly. “You really do take life much too seriously indeed. In fact, Laurel and I were talking about that just the other day.”

“You were?” He didn’t even notice the dangerous edge to her voice.

“Yes. She
worries
about you. She’s concerned that you are so wound up, so intense.” His limpid blue eyes regarded her pensively. “She said, ‘Max, my sweet, we must lift the burden from dear Annie’s shoulders. You and I.’”

This dreadful prospect was almost enough to deflect her attention from the matter at hand, but not quite, though she lodged the worrisome phrase in her mind for later consideration.

As he dropped into the bucket seat, Annie made a last-ditch effort. “Max, this isn’t a game. Posey wants your scalp—and Saulter can’t do a thing about it. So we’ve got to get busy and see what we can find out.” She bent down to peer at him. “What do you have to do today that’s more important than saving your neck?”

“Oh, another engagement elsewhere.” He put the Porsche in gear.

Annie clamped her hand onto the doorjamb. “You are avoiding my question.”

He smiled winningly and blew her a kiss. “Have a good morning, honey, and—”

“Max, where are you going?”

“Here and there,” he replied airily, waving his hand.

“Where?”

“Oh, roundabout.” The car began to ease backwards.

Annie intensified her grip. “Max! Aren’t you going to help me find out what’s happening?”

“Nope. I am a private citizen. I am not responsible for the investigation of crime in Beaufort County. The duly elected officials of said county can pursue any and all investigations they like, but count me out.”

“Posey’s going to investigate you right into the county jail,” she snapped.

“Annie, Annie, I’m afraid Laurel’s right. We need to help you relax. The idea of my being considered seriously as a murder suspect is patently absurd.”

She shook her head, then brushed hair from her face, as the Porsche, unleashed, jumped backwards. Max waved a cheery farewell.

She stared after the bright red car for a moment, then stamped her foot, and stalked toward her Volvo.

In the storeroom of Death on Demand, Annie hunched over a notepad. It had a few scrawls on it, notations which would be unintelligible to other eyes. But she knew that long, stick-of-bologna shape was Max’s neck, which apparently she was going to have to save all by herself. The anvil-shaped appendage attached to one end was his bloated head, swollen out of proportion by an unsquashable self-confidence. A bulgy, gorillalike body represented Posey. She, of course, was the robed figure with a happy smile, topped by a halo. The pen moved, and she added another haloed figure. The Saint, of course. What would Leslie Charteris’s suave sleuth do, if transported across the Atlantic and faced with her problem? Probably bust a few heads and manage something spectacularly audacious.

But this wasn’t the proper milieu for The Saint. He belonged behind the wheel of a racing car or scaling the side of a French chateau. No, she needed inspiration nearer home.
Nero Wolfe was too cerebral, and besides, she didn’t have an Archie since Max had disappeared upon some obscure errand. (For his mother? The thought terrified her.) Miss Silver’s gimlet eye would soon pierce the veil of obscurity, but Annie’s group of suspects wouldn’t sit tamely in a drawing room to be gently questioned.

The storeroom door swung silently open, and Ingrid poked her head in. “Chief Saulter’s coming up the boardwalk. Shall I tell him you’ve left?” Hilda Adams couldn’t have been more ready to stand watchdog.

Annie had much to do. Most of all, she needed to think. But the chief might know something helpful. “No, thanks, Ingrid. Send him on back.”

Nodding, Ingrid bustled to the front of the shop.

Inspiration. Well, she couldn’t do better than Miss Marple. What was it the sleuth of St. Mary Mead always warned? Things are often not what they seem. Could that be the situation here? But how could she know what was real and what was show? What did the long series of malicious pranks have to do with Shane’s murder? Nothing? Everything?

She turned when a tap sounded on the door. Saulter looked at her mournfully, like a hound dog left behind on hunt day. “Thought I’d drop by.”

“Come on in, Chief.” She waved him to the other straight chair in the cramped storeroom. It was wedged between the receiving table and the back door.

He pulled it out, turned it around, and straddled it. “Sure sorry about this morning, Annie.”

“Not your fault,” she said quickly.

Some of his gloom lifted. “Glad you see that. Nothin’ I can do about Posey. He’s running for reelection—and he sure hates rich folks. Thing about it is, Max is the kind of rich folks he hates most. Born to it. He sort of likes Harley Jenkins. He made all his own money.”

“Chief, you don’t think—” She swallowed. “He doesn’t have enough to really go after Max, does he?”

Saulter scratched at his sparse topping of graying brown hair. “Hell of it is, Max is as good a suspect as anybody. I mean, nobody sticks out.”

Annie sketched a dangling noose on her notepad. “What about Sheridan? Doesn’t everybody look at the wife first?”

His sallow face colored, and he stared down at the floor. “Don’t let on I told you, but it looks like she’s got the hell of an alibi.”

“Alibis are made to be broken.”

“Hers is Harley Jenkins,” he mumbled. “They both swear they checked into the Crown Shore Motel before ten and didn’t leave the room ’til after midnight. And it checks out. Windows open onto a patio. Bartender on the patio says nobody came out that way. Desk clerk swears nobody poked a nose through the door.”

“How long’s she been sneaking around with Harley?” Annie sketched in a four-poster.

He lifted his faded brown eyes. “You think she set it up?”

“Fortunate for her, isn’t it? Wouldn’t
you
have looked at her pretty closely?” Annie added a row of hatchets for chopping cherry trees.

“I would have.” He poked at a copy of H.R.F. Keating’s
A Perfect Murder.
“Tell you what, Annie. I’ll see what I can find out, let you know.”

“You’re all right, Chief,” she said softly. He reddened again, then stood and returned the chair to its place. “Wish I could do better than that. I’d like to find the killer right under Posey’s nose.”

“Maybe we can, Chief.”

“Now look, Annie. You be careful, hear? Don’t go pokin’ in a rattler’s hidey-hole.”

“I’ll call you if I find anything at all.” She reached out and gripped his gnarled hand. “I promise.”

“You do that.” He rubbed his chin. “You might be lookin’ out for a discarded gun. We haven’t found the twenty-two yet. Course it will take days to go through all the stuff in the prop storage area.”

She hadn’t thought about the gun and what might have happened to it. A .22. She sighed. They were easy to come up with.

He paused in the doorway. “I’ll get back to you, if I find out anything to help Max.”

And what was
she
going to do to help Max? Even if he stubbornly resisted help. And where was Max right this minute? She shook away the lingering feeling of uneasiness and
glanced down at her notepad. Was the jaunty figure of The Saint looking at her reproachfully? What was her plan of action?

The phone rang.

“Death on Demand.” She and Ingrid answered simultaneously.

A crisp English accent announced, “Murder does not sprout overnight. As any half-witted gardener well knows, a bloom is the culmination of months of germination. But I can dig up the truth. I intend to find out every germane fact in Shane’s life. Even if it smells like a compost heap. I have succeeded in locating his best friend. Another womanizer, apparently. And I intend to wring the facts out of this young man.”

Annie was impatient. She didn’t have time for Henny’s foolishness. She needed to
think!

Henny didn’t wait for an answer. “The seed of this crime shall be unearthed.” The line went dead.

John Sherwood’s Celia Grant, no doubt. Until now, Annie had enjoyed Henny’s sleuthing. But nothing was very funny with that lout Posey lusting for Max’s scalp. The fact that Max refused to admit his peril only made it worse. Even her storeroom was gloomy and somber. She’d always enjoyed working here in the mornings, with sunlight spilling in through the single high window, but now a thick bank of clouds presaged a storm and the air was heavy. She flicked on the overhead light. Several cartons needed to be opened. One was from a used book dealer in London and should include an autographed jacketed first edition of Michael Gilbert’s
Smallbone Deceased.
Normally, that would have been the highlight of her morning. Now, she gave it a single, disinterested glance and began to pace.