Death On Demand Part 8

"What about Fritz Hemphill?"

"Keeps to himself. Plays a lot of golf. I did some work for him once, digging for a sea wall. He tried to cheat me. I told him what happened to the last man tried that."

"What happened?" Max asked dutifully.

"Funny thing. His car blew up one morning when he started it." Parotti's rheumy blue eyes were as cold as an early frost.

"Hemphill pay what was due?"

"Yep."

"Know anything about the Parleys?"

Parotti jerked his head eastward. "They live a couple miles from here.

One time I ran out of gas near their place. Heard somebody screaming."

"Screaming?"

"A woman. I went up to the house, called out, and in a minute he came to the door. I asked if there was anything wrong, told him I heard screams. He said his wife had burned herself, spilled hot grease on her hand."

Max remembered Janis's air of tension and the way she looked constantly to her husband for support. Hot grease.

"Do you know the middle-aged blonde, Harriet Edelman?"

Parotti grimaced. "I stay away from women like that. Reminds me of my first wife." He shuddered in loving reminiscence and gulped down the rest of his beer.

"How about Hal Douglas?"

For a moment, Parotti looked blank. "You mean the fat one that lives on Blue Magnolia, grins a lot? He seems all right. Another newcomer. Just been here about a year."

"There's one more, a pretty redhead, Kelly Rizzoli."

Parotti opened the refrigerator door and surveyed the contents before taking out another can of Schlitz.

"That's a funny one. Saw her one night, streaking down the beach like a crazy woman. Turns out she was chasing another female. Caught her on a dune not far from my cabin. They were kickin' and rollin' around in the sand, and I almost went out to see what the h.e.l.l, then the first woman kind of gave up and started bawling, and the redhead led her away down the beach."

Annie hadn't been in the store fifteen minutes before she understood why Ingrid had shown up. It was a deluge. Twenty-seven customers before lunch. She didn't even have time to do more than open Elliot's package, see that it was a floppy disk with a folded note, and slip it behind a package on the storeroom table.

It took only a few more minutes for her to realize that half the curiosity seekers believed this was their big chance to rub elbows with a Lizzie Borden-her. Typical was Mrs. Porter Fredericks, who bought six hardcovers while watching Annie with walleyed fascination. The woman didn't even know the books she'd grabbed up, which included one first edition Mike Hammer and two James Bond t.i.tles. Annie was tempted to offer to cut off a sprig of hair and price it at fifteen dollars. Ingrid worked grimly and fast, saying once out of the corner of her mouth, "By G.o.d, if they come in, they're going to buy something!" Annie would have been delighted at the constant ring of the register, but the price was pretty high. More than one customer jumped back perceptibly when she approached. Ingrid finally shooed her off to the storeroom. "I can handle this." She resembled a militant sparrow, darting up and down the aisles coercing the sightseers into purchases. Annie was absurdly grateful for her support.

Mrs. Brawley squeezed down the central aisle at one point and poked her head into the storeroom. "Miss Laurance, I hate to bother you-"

"The Pollifax is not in."

"Oh, I know that, but I wondered if you could just give me a little hint on that picture with the butler in it." She fluttered her bejewelled hand toward the watercolors pinned to the back wall. "I think I have all the rest of them."

Annie was impressed at this evidence of singleminded devotion to the hunt, but she shook her head chidingly. "Now, now, Mrs. Brawley. That would be cheating, wouldn't it?"

Grudgingly, Mrs. Brawley turned away. She was still posted in front of the watercolors twenty minutes later, and Annie heard her muttering to herself, "Just one more, and I can get my Mrs. Pollifax free!"

The only fellow suspect to come in was Harriet Edelman, whose arrival almost caused a traffic jam on the verandah when people realized they could see two of the people who were there.

Max drove fast. He had time for just one more stop before he met Annie for lunch.

He tossed the names up in his mind like confetti, then glanced down at the crude map he had drawn with Parotti's help.

Max squealed onto Sandpiper Terrace. Number Eleven was the third house on the left, a yellow two-story stucco with a long clear pane of gla.s.s in the front foyer. The largest hanging fern he'd ever seen glistened in the sunlight on the front porch. He parked and strode up the manicured gravel path past crisply trimmed monkey gra.s.s. Summer marigolds and zinnias still bloomed. Mauve and gold chrysanthemums Hooded a square plot by the front steps with autumn colors.

He stepped up on the recently painted porch and rang the bell.

A voice boomed, "Come on around here. I'm out in the garden."

Turning, Max saw Capt. Mac. He wore khaki slacks and a tattered pale blue polo. Max's mouth turned down. James Bond. Then he managed a smile.

"Glad I caught you."

McElroy led the way down a flagstone path past the house to a tiled patio beside a swimming pool. He waved Max to a white, webbed patio chair. The air carried the scent of honeysuckle and c.r.a.pe myrtle from the back stockade fence.

"You wanted to see me?" McElroy's voice was friendly, but his gray eyes were wary.

Max tried b.u.t.ter. "Annie tells me you were a super cop."

"Really? I don't remember ever talking about my work with Annie, Mr.

Darling."

Strike one.

"I guess someone else must have told her. You were a police chief in Florida?"

"Chief and a.s.sistant chief. On the Gold Coast. Before THEATER that, I was a cop in Miami. The Gold Coast is a good deal more pleasant."

Max glanced up at the house. It wasn't large, but it was nice. Very nice.

And the figure-eight pool was a beauty.

"You retired to the same kind of place."

"Right. The only difference is, I don't know all about everybody here."

"You didn't like that?"

"A police chief in a high-cla.s.s resort gets to know more than he wants to sometimes." Capt. Mac's face was no longer genial, and Max suddenly had a glimpse of a tougher, harder persona than the retired man usually revealed.

"Is that true of Saulter?"

"Ask him." Not unpleasant, but not exactly forthcoming. Capt. Mac sat solidly in his deck chair, his posture almost military.

"I'm surprised you aren't lending a hand."

"Lending a hand?"

"Helping out. I don't suppose Saulter's ever handled two murders in one weekend. Or maybe even one."

"He knows the drill." But was there in that dry comment just a hint of disbelief in Saulter's ability to properly run such an investigation?

"You keep on top of it last night?"

McElroy leaned forward in his chair. The polo shirt fitted him snugly, revealing the strength of his upper torso. "Saulter didn't quite want to throw me out, so I hung around. He did okay. He secured the area, made a list of all the physical evidence. Photos. Dusted for fingerprints."

"What did he come up with?"

Capt. Mac squinted. "What's your interest, Mr. Darling?"

"Call me Max."

McElroy waited.

Finally, Max said baldly, "My interest can be summed up in one word: Annie."

The deeply tanned face softened. "That I can understand." He scowled.

"I'm a little worried there, too."

Max had an uncomfortably empty feeling in the middle of his chest. If this ex-cop were a little worried, Max was a lot worried.

"Why?" he asked sharply.

McElroy picked up a cigar from a humidor on the gla.s.s-topped patio table and offered one to Max, who declined. He rolled the cigar in his fingers. "I don't want anybody to think I'm critical of another cop."

"Of course not."

He took his time putting the cigar in his mouth, lighting it. He didn't look at Max.

"Thing about it is, Saulter thinks the simple answer is the best." He blew a thin stream of smoke that hung in the soft, pine-scented air. "Of course, that's how cops are trained to think. The simple answer usually is the right answer."

"So what's the connection between the simple answer and Annie?"

McElroy tapped the ash from the cigar. "Let me tell you how a cop thinks. One, who had the best opportunity to set up the kill? Two, does that person have a motive? Saulter's worked it out.

"Who could rig the lights to go out?

"Whose fingerprints are all over the circuit box?

"Who could hide a dart at her leisure?

"Who had an argument with Elliot Sunday morning and was obviously furious with him on Sunday night?

"Who faced financial disaster if Elliot raised the rent on her shop?

"Who was the champion pitcher and batter on the Island softball team in August?"

Capt. Mac took a deep breath and frowned significantly.

"There's one name that fits-and that's Annie."

"What about the writers?" Max demanded hotly. "Didn't you tell him what was going on? That Elliot was about to dump everybody's inmost secrets out on the floor? Did you tell Saulter about that?"

"Sure, but that's too fancy for Saulter. Besides, how much dirt could Elliot possibly have on these people? If they'd done something criminal, how could Elliot know about it and not the authorities? No, I'm telling you, Max, Saulter sees this as an open-and-shut equation: Annie fought with Elliot, Annie was mad, it's Annie's store. Who did it? Annie. All he's doing now is looking for proof."

Max felt like someone had kicked him in the stomach.

But Capt. Mac wasn't through. He gripped the cigar so hard it dented.

"And there's something you don't know, son. Something bad. Saulter's got another d.a.m.n fool idea-"

Eight.

One of Annie's first purchases for Death On Demand was an Apple computer to keep track of inventory and sales. It was a wonderful, almost miraculous timesaver which could balance her books, churn out a mailing list, keep an appointment book, and check her spelling.

What it couldn't do was read the disk Elliot Morgan had mailed to her.

Okay. She understood that. Elliot used a different computer. She remembered one evening when the writers had discussed their machines. Elliot had an Epson. Some of the machines were compatible if you had the right software, but she didn't have the right software or the right machine.

Elliot knew that. So he mailed this disk to her with a snide note: Dear Annie-/ figure you are the only one of the Sunday Night Regulars who can be trusted not to destroy this on receipt, so be a good scout and keep this for me for a few days. Your wearisome honesty must be a result of your provincial upbringing. Don't you see how the wages of sin are infinitely more rewarding? I have the goods on everyone on this disk.

I'll share it Sunday evening. Yours in sleuthing, EM.

Of course, he'd been far too arrogant to expect that he was going to be murdered. Obviously, however, he was uneasy. Why else would he send her a copy of the disk? Had he intended to safeguard himself by telling someone that another copy of the information existed? What was on that disk?

She set to work unloading the used books she'd bought from the Texas estate sale and tried to ignore the sounds of shuffling feet and whispers outside the storeroom. She briefly considered going out to help Ingrid, then furiously decided to deny those sensation-seeking eyes their afternoon treat. She lifted out the seventh Phoebe Atwood Taylor novel, a first edition. What should she do with the d.a.m.n disk?

This would drive Max crazy. He had pestered her for information on the Sunday Night Regulars. With any luck, the disk contained whatever dirt Elliot had managed to sc.r.a.pe up on all of them.

But someone had killed Elliot to prevent him from revealing what he knew. That information absolutely had to go to the police.

Still, she argued, she didn't know for a fact that one of the writers had murdered Elliot. Sure, it was a reasonable a.s.sumption, but the back door to Death On Demand was open last night. It would be unspeakably cruel to throw everybody on that disk to Saulter. At least, not until she knew what was on it. Max wouldn't hesitate: he was dying to investigate the whole mess anyway. Personally, she didn't want to have anything to do with it. But she did have that d.a.m.n disk.

Did anyone else on the island have an Epson?

She ran through them in her mind. Writers are inordinately proud of their word processors, each convinced his own is best. No, the only Epson belonged to Elliot.