Part 11 (1/2)

HAL DOUGLAS. Harold Clifton Douglas, born March 18, 1955, in Wiesbaden, W. Germany, son of career Army officer. Grew up on Army posts in Europe and the United States. BA from Was.h.i.+ngton University at St. Louis. Married to Lenora Harris 1978; writer with Hallmark Cards, Kansas City, 1976-79; publicist, Sierra Leone Films, Hollywood, Ca., 1980-82. First novel, The San Bernardino Heist, a 1983 best-seller.

Bought home, Robber's Nest, on Broward's Rock, March 12, 1983.

Max frowned and reread the paragraph on Douglas. Annie had mentioned Douglas and Kelly Rizzoli as a twosome. So where was Lenora Harris Douglas?

HARRIET EDELMAN. Born July 5, 1948, Carlisle, Pa. BA from Penn State, 1969. Lived in Nice, France, 1969-75. Immediate success with Macintosh series, the first two, Ride a Wave and Gentleman's Smile, set in Nice. Ride a Wave Edgar winner for Best First Mystery. Contributor to Armchair Detective. Purchased a home on Broward's Rock in 1976.

Zero on weaselly-faced Harriet. The net hadn't fished up anything useful. But Annie'd mentioned that Harriet'd been mad as h.e.l.l at Elliot, because he was hinting she'd cribbed somebody else's book.

JEFF and JANIS FARLEY-Jefferson Allen Farley, born Feb. 3, 1953, St.

Louis, Mo. Foster child. Married Janis Corey 1970, BA in journalism University of Missouri, 1974. Collaborated on their first book, Danny's Delight, in 1975, Jeff plotting and writing, Janis drawing the pen-and-ink ill.u.s.trations. Jeff employed as a crime reporter on the St.

Louis Post-Dispatch, 1974-1984. Purchased island home Sept. 22, 1984.

Janis Corey Farley, born April 11, 1955. Foster child. Married Jeff Farley 1970. Ill.u.s.trator.

Jeff and Janis Farley. Could be volumes there. Both of them foster children and marriage at a sadly young age for Janis. It helped explain her utter dependence on that stiff. No schooling for her, but lots of talent with pen and paper.

FRITZ HEMPHILL-Born April 16, 1945, in Long Beach, Ca. Graduated from Long Beach City (Jr.) College, 1964; U.S. Army, pfc., 1964-66, Ft.

Ord, Saigon, V. N.; BA, Loma Linda University, Loma Linda, Ca., 1968; LAPD, 1968-80, patrolman, sergeant, detective; married Doreen Norris 1968, divorced 1980. One child, Alice, now sixteen. First police procedural, The Agony Chain, published 1972. Third novel, Kerrigan's Heart, runaway best-seller, sixteen weeks on The New Yorfc Times best-seller list. Purchased Broward's Rock harbor condo Sept. i, 1980.

Max wiggled his shoulders and stretched. Without losing his place, he rose and used peripheral vision to cross the living room to the kitchen, open the refrigerator, and pick out another Bud Light. This time he settled on the couch, feet propped on the rattan coffee table, took a double gulp, and continued to read.

JOHN MCELROY, police captain (ret.). Born April 24, 1930, in Ft. Walton, Fla. Attended Jacksonville University, 1948-50; OCS U.S. Marine Corps, 2nd. Lt, 1950-52, Camp Lejeune, La., Korea; Miami PD, 1952-60; a.s.st. chief, Silver City, Fla., 1960-80; capt, Silver City police, 1980-84. Married Thelma Farris 1954. Three children: John, age 30; Theodore, 28; and Michael, 26. Divorced 1962. Purchased home on Broward's Rock, July 20, 1984.

KELLY RIZZOLI. Born Aug. 26, 1959, Ft. Smith, Ark. Attended College of the Ozarks, 1977-78. BA in psychology. University of Arkansas, 1983.

First novel, The Shuttered Mind, a paperback best-seller in 1983. Sad Song sold 55,000 in hardcover two months after 1984 publication.

Bought Magpie Plantation on Broward's Rock in July 1984.

Max pulled a legal pad closer, sighed, and rubbed his face, then downed the rest of the tepid beer. d.a.m.n, he was getting hungry.

He looked up. For a moment, his tired eyes refused to focus, then they noted the open living room windows, the slatted, tropical blinds not yet closed for the night.

For the night...

Darkness had fallen. He looked at his watch, and an empty, sick feeling moved inside him. 7:15. Annie had left for the five-minute bike ride to Elliot's house a few minutes before six.

Where the h.e.l.l was Annie?

Ten.

Annie moaned. The sound came from her, but it seemed separate and far away. She tried to lift her head, and pain seared down into her shoulder. She moaned again and rolled her head. The pain caused her to cry out. She opened her eyes. And saw nothing. An instant of panic flared. Her heart thudded erratically, and she fought down the nausea.

Elliot's house. The disk.

She was lying on her back, her hands outstretched. Something heavy lay in one hand, her left hand. Something heavy and nastily sticky.

Unsteadily, Annie rolled on her side. She let go of the horrid thing, whatever it was, and propped herself up, then attempted to get up.

She stood and swayed as if the floor moved beneath her feet.

She was going to be sick.

Moving heavily, one hand clasped to her mouth, she reached the doorway. Elliot's tree house was built to the same pattern as hers, the only difference was his second bedroom. She turned left toward the bathroom, flicked on the light and made it just in time to heave violently into the toilet. Sick. Sick. Sick. Finally, clinging to the edge of the lavatory for support, she knew the sickness was past.

Breathing unevenly, she stared down into the basin.

Then she saw the reddish stickiness on her left hand. Slowly, she turned her hand, looked down at the palm, at the blood smeared across it. Blood streaked the whiteness of the lavatory where she had gripped it.

Blood.

Her head.

Annie looked up and saw her face in the mirror. A smeary face. Blurred vision. Clumsily, she moved her right hand up to her head, gingerly touching her scalp behind her right ear. The swelling felt spongy. But her fingers located no cut or fresh wet blood. She turned the spigots and thrust her hands under the cold rus.h.i.+ng water, ridding them of the unpleasant stickiness, then patted water on her face. She used a pale yellow towel to dry her hands. It was pink where she had touched it.

Her head. Somebody hit her. That's what had happened to Jill Kearney.

But Jill had a skull like an eggsh.e.l.l. Annie's head felt like h.e.l.l, but it must be as thick as Max had always maintained it was. No blood. Where had the blood on her hand come from? Must have been a little cut, already dried.

Dried. G.o.d, how long had she been here? She'd better get- The disk. She was reading the disk.

Annie moved like a drunken June bug, misjudging distance. Swaying unsteadily, she reached the hall, started up it toward Elliot's office.

She saw the blood first, spatters of it dark and ugly against the ridged bamboo wall. As if blood had sprayed upward, clots of it, then finer particles...

The head was shattered, unrecognizable. Blood and tissue were smeared across the back of the pale yellow t-s.h.i.+rt. One hand was outflung. Even in the dim light, Annie recognized the large red ruby ring that Harriet always wore.

Bludgeoned. That's what Harriet had said had happened to Jill Kearney. Harriet was wrong. Jill had been struck once. Harriet had been bludgeoned, the entire side of her skull was a pulpy ma.s.s-bone, tissue, blood, and hair indistinguishable.

Annie jolted around and again made it to the bathroom just in time.

Harriet dead. Why? Crazy, crazy... Saulter called it nutty when Elliot was killed. Elliot was dead, and Saulter suspected her of his death and of Uncle Ambrose's. Now here she was at the scene of another crime.

Good luck, Annie Laurance. Who would believe she hadn't done it? Just like Pam Frye in Octagon House. But she didn't have Asey Mayo to save her. Then the fiery pain in her head gave a measure of relief. Her own head. That was it. Someone had struck both her and Harriet down.

Resolutely, Annie once again faced the hall. This had gone too far. This time she had to call Saulter. She moved sideways down the hall, like a reluctant crab. G.o.d, she couldn't get past Harriet, get past all that blood. Elliot's office. There would be an extension in there.

She stepped into the office and turned on the light. She was stumbling across the room, her hand outstretched to pick up the telephone when she saw the blackjack. Her shoulders hunched.

A blackjack. And then she knew. Someone had killed Harriet with that blackjack. There was blood on it and hair. The blackjack lay where she had been. Heavy. Blackjacks were heavy. The blood on her hand. She had awakened with the blackjack in her hand. Her fingerprints would be on it. She remembered what Capt. Mac told them, that Sunday evening. Leather holds fingerprints very well. Very well indeed.

Moving in a thick gray fog, the only reality the pounding ache in her head and the thick crimson spatters on the bamboo wall, Annie returned to the bathroom. Her movements were slow and clumsy.