Death On Demand Part 25

The problem was, he didn't have any evidence.

Just give him one tangible piece of evidence to tie her to the crime scene. Of course, her fingerprints were all over the circuit breaker box at the store, but her smarta.s.sed lawyer would make mincemeat of that. And so far there wasn't anything at the vet's or the Edelman murder.

Evidence. Something to put the nail in Annie Laurance's coflin. Or anything else that would tie her to Morgan. He glared at the last two boxes of papers from Morgan's house. He was sick and tired of reading this guy's stuff. But a careful cop keeps looking.

The phone rang, his hand jerked, and hot milk sloshed over his fingers.

G.o.d, if it was another of those reporters... He lifted the receiver.

"Saulter here."

"Chief, you've got to get over to Death On Demand. I've called a meeting of all the suspects there in half an hour. We'll catch the murderer tonight!"

The pain in his stomach flared. He'd get this wise-guy little murderess if it was the last thing he did on Broward's Rock. "Ms. Laurance, if I come over there, I'll have a warrant for your arrest in my pocket," and he slammed down the phone.

That little dingo. As if he didn't have enough troubles without her horning in on his investigation.

Annie took a two-and-a-half-minute shower, dried off quicker than pelican diving for mullet, and dressed in a flurry- white linen slacks, a yellow cotton pullover, and yellow flats. She glanced at the clock as she raced out the front door. Everyone was due at Death On Demand in fifteen minutes. She needed to make coffee and organize her thoughts.

It took a minute to start the Volvo. She had hardly driven it since Max arrived. Her golf clubs rattled in the back seat as she drove up the rutted road toward the blacktop. Not even a sliver of moonlight pierced the thick canopy of the swamp. When she reached the main road, she picked up speed until she turned into the oyster-sh.e.l.l lot behind the harborfront shops.

Her footsteps crunched loudly across the broken sh.e.l.ls. It was a soft Carolina night, the air as silky as Agatha's fur. She unlocked the front door of Death On Demand, flicked on the lights, and hurried toward the back. Agatha peered inquisitively after her, then jumped lightly to the floor and padded toward the cofliee bar. Annie poured a twelve-cup measure of Kona beans into the grinder, then turned it on. Good hostess prepares to receive murderous guests. She grinned and took a deep breath, delighting in the heady mixture of freshly ground coffee and old, musty books.

She glanced around the coffee area. Oh, good grief. She must clear out Max's papers. No point in letting the suspects know just how much they had on them. She gathered up the sheets and paused to read Max's list of questions.

1. Whose goose would have been charbroiled if Elliot had finished his talk Sunday night?

2. Why did the murderer show up Johnny-on-the-spot when Annie was in Elliot's tree house?

3. Was Elliot blackmailing Emma? Annie says yes; Carmen, no.

Carmen should know. (Thanks, Max.) 4. Were Carmen and the dumb cop really on the beach when Morgan was killed? Pretty convenient timing.

5. Did Harriet score twice with her camera? What if she didn't?

The coffee finished dripping into the pot. Annie found her favorite mug, The Yellow Room (Rinehart, not Leroux), poured a cup, and leaned against the coffee bar to think.

Her guests began arriving promptly at eight.

Annie greeted them cheerfully, but her perspective had indeed changed since Sunday evening.

Emma Clyde's cornflower blue eyes scanned the coffee area with the same shrewd intensity. Her dress, a swirling mixture of orange and magenta, contrasted as sharply with her stiff bronze curls. But Annie would never again see her as a clever housewife. She didn't carry chips and dip tonight.

"So you've called a meeting of the island residents who are most knowledgeable about crime," Emma observed. "I feel so flattered to have been included." Her tone was tart.

Kelly Rizzoli and Hal Douglas came in together, spookily reminiscent of their arrival Sunday. Then she had seen them as incipient lovebirds.

Now it was difficult not to see Grace Poole and Bluebeard.

Capt. Mac came down the central aisle, his tanned face grim. He looked at Annie questioningly. The Parleys stood at the edge of the coffee area.

Janis tried to keep her bruised face in the shadows, but Annie saw Emma's eyes widen.

Fritz Hemphill arrived last. He gave no greeting to anyone, and his dark eyes sparkled angrily in a set face.

"Grab a cup of coffee," she offered. "Then if you'll take your places-where you sat Sunday night-we'll get started."

They moved around the coffee bar, but there was no repartee as they took their cups to the tables.

"Now that we're all here-"

"Not quite." Hemphill's voice rasped like a rusty gate. "Where's the boyfriend? And your twittery clerk, Ingrid?"

"n.o.body could possibly think Max and Ingrid had anything to do with Elliot's murder. Max never met him until that night, and Ingrid wasn't on Elliot's list."

Hemphill wasn't deflected. "So Ingrid's not in the party. Okay, I buy it.

But where's the boyfriend? Searching our places while we sit here?"

"Of course not," she objected hotly. "He's not even on the island."

"That's true. I saw him take the ferry at six," Hal agreed. "But what happened on the dock with you and the cop, Annie?"

Annie stood with her back to the coffee bar and felt control slipping away.

"No big deal," she responded quickly. "Max had some errands to run in Savannah, and I didn't go with him."

"So how come you got left at the dock?" Hal pressed.

"Because that charming cop was going to arrest me if I left the island."

Her voice wasn't so good-humored now.

Emma attacked. "So you want us to figure out the crime and save your skin."

"Everybody will breathe easier if we solve the crime. I see no reason why anyone should oppose that-except the murderer."

No one said a word. Seven pairs of eyes watched Annie stonily.

It was time. En garde. Annie pointed at the nearest table. Color blazed in Jeff Farley's pale cheeks above his sleek blond beard. His thick horn-rimmed gla.s.ses glittered in the overhead light. His chest moved beneath his caramel-colored sweater as his breathing quickened. Janis, her shoulders hunched, pressed her knuckles against her mouth.

Her thick, pancake brown makeup was designed to hide the ugly bruise on her cheek. Instead, it emphasized the alabaster fairness of her neck.

"Jeff Farley couldn't afford to let Elliot Morgan live," Annie began.

Emma Clyde leaned forward, her eyes intent on Jeff's face. The others sat as quietly as mice when a cat nears.

"Jeff is sick." Her voice shook a little, because this wasn't nice. It wasn't fun to peel away the protective layers to a wounded core. "He hurts Janice. Elliot knew this, and, if he put it in a book, it would be the end of everything for Jeff as a writer."

Farley stumbled to his feet, the chair clattering to the floor behind him.

"Jeff, no. No!" Janis's voice rose in a desperate cry.

Capt. Mac was across the brief s.p.a.ce in two strides, pinning Jeff's arms to his side. Without a struggle, Farley sagged against the stronger man.

"Sit down, and don't move again." Capt. Mac gently pressed the younger man back into his seat, then turned toward Annie, his face rock hard.

"Don't you think this is a little much? Let's leave the investigating to the cops."

"Only the murderer should object," she said steadily.

"People don't like having their dirty laundry spread out in public."

"This isn't public. We were all here Sunday night." She looked from face to face. "We are all under suspicion until we find the murderer."

"That's quite true," Kelly said mildly.

"Go for it," Hal joined in.

Capt. Mac, his face tight with disapproval, shrugged and returned to his table.

Annie knew she didn't have a friend in the house.

"Emma."

The square-faced, sharp-eyed woman nodded curtly. "Here." She took a deliberate sip of coffee. "Good brew. As we used to say, the atmosphere is stimulating. I wouldn't have missed it for the world."

"You don't miss much, do you?" Annie demanded. "You know, if you aren't the murderer, I'll bet you know who did it."

Those keen blue eyes regarded Annie without a quiver. But Annie knew she'd hit the truth. "What do you know, Emma? Why don't you tell us?"

Again, Emma sipped her coffee, taking her time. She smiled, but it was as artificial as a potted plastic plant at a gas station. "I know one thing."

They all turned toward Emma and waited expectantly: Jeff Farley, his hands balled in fists, his face still flushed; Janis Farley, her eyes enormous, her arms crossed tightly over her chest; Kelly Rizzoli, her dark red hair falling softly around her face, her green eyes not the least bit dreamy; Hal Douglas, his pudgy face closed and empty; Capt. Mac, his dark eyes watchful, alert.

"I know a fis.h.i.+ng expedition when I see one," Emma said caustically.

"You don't know a d.a.m.ned thing, Annie."

Annie eyed her adversary. "But you know a lot of tricks, Emma. You're the smartest one in the room. You know the best defense is a good offense-and you know d.a.m.ned well you pushed your husband over the side of your yacht."

Something moved in those calculating, observant eyes. "I know I can afford a slander suit. One more crack out of you, and I'll call my lawyer."

Annie ignored her and leaned her elbows back against the coffee bar.

"Murder will out, whether it's ever proved or not. n.o.body can prove it, but there are some people in L.A. who know Fritz Hemphill blew away his best friend in a so-called hunting accident so he could inherit some property in Carmel."

As usual, Fritz looked the part of a Broward's Rock islander; pale pink cotton broadcloth s.h.i.+rt, a blue ribbed pullover, gray slacks. So civilized.

Except for those dark, hot eyes.

Annie met that gaze boldly. "How many cops have you ever known to have an accident with a gun, Fritz?"

When he made no answer, she nodded slowly. "Elliot knew. He knew about Jeff and Janis, Emma, and Fritz. And he knew about Kelly and Hal."

That ideal couple watched her unblinkingly.

"Kelly keeps her sister a prisoner. She claims the girl is mentally ill. I wonder what the truth is? Maybe somebody should talk to her sister. As for Hal, n.o.body's ever seen his wife since she disappeared from their cabin at Lake Tahoe. He didn't like the way she ran around with other men."

Hal looked like he'd been jabbed in the throat. His head swung toward Kelly. Her face was as placid as a tidal pond, and she reached out to touch his hand.

Capt. Mac slammed his palm hard against the table where he sat alone.

Harriet had been his companion Sunday evening. Coffee slopped out of his mug and ran in a slow trickle across the table. He ignored it.

"G.o.ddammit, you've gone too far. And I'm not going to sit here like a schoolboy waiting to be scolded." His face, dark with anger, turned toward the others: "I'm next. What did Elliot have on me? A paternity suit, if any of you give a d.a.m.n." He rose and faced Annie. "I've tried to be helpful to you. I don't think you killed Elliot or Harriet. Or Jill Kearney.

But I do think you've let your so-called mystery expertise go to your head, young woman, and I've had enough of it."

He s.n.a.t.c.hed up his soft cap and started down the central aisle. Other chairs sc.r.a.ped. Everyone was leaving.

Her denouement was collapsing like an overcooked souffle. Now was the time-if she were Hercule Poirot or Nero Wolfe or Asey Mayo or Miss Marple or Miss Silver- when she would raise her hand and point at the guilty party, and the curtain would ring down.

There was one small problem.

She didn't know who in the h.e.l.l the murderer was.

Her suspects were moving with stiff alacrity up the central aisle, and n.o.body was saying what a good time they'd had.

Emma Clyde paused at the head of the pack, looked back, and taunted, "I a.s.sure you, Annie, Marigold Rembrandt would have done it better."

That was the last straw.

Dammit, one of them was a three-time-no-four-time murderer, counting Uncle Ambrose.

"All right," she called out angrily. "You can all laugh now. But I'll have the last laugh tomorrow when I give Chief Saulter a photograph of the murderer."

The exodus stopped.

"Where in the h.e.l.l did you get a picture of the murderer?" Emma demanded.

"The murderer's not so d.a.m.ned smart. Did it ever occur to any of you that Harriet had a clear view of Elliot's house? And she was up in her widow's walk Monday afternoon-with her camera."

Nineteen.