Part 8 (2/2)
”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 s.h.i.+rt 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.
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