Part 12 (1/2)
MONDAY:.
6:10 P.M.-Annie knocked unconscious. 6:15 P.M.-Harriet murdered.
Annie took the sheet. It didn't help a h.e.l.l of a lot, though Archie Goodwin would probably have deemed it a creditable effort. But Archie was awfully good-humored.
”How did the murderer get in?”
”How?”
”How? I had the place locked.”
His face crinkled in thought. ”Okay. Keys. Presumably the Island Hills Clinic doesn't leave its doors open for the world to enter, so the killer had keys there. It isn't hard to come up with keys, and there's nothing special about the locks at either place.”
The idea that a killer could come and go in her shop at will wasn't exactly a cheering one.
”The killer came into my place about nine forty-five. The phone rang about ten minutes earlier, but I ignored it. Whoever called figured the place was empty.”
”You wouldn't normally be there Sunday morning?”
”No. I was trying to decide what to do about the Sunday evening session.”
”It would only take a couple of minutes,” Max reconstructed. ”Nip into the store, hide the dart on the floor by the wall, then tie thread to the breaker switches, and run that along the floor into the cafe area. Presto, the stage is set for a murder.”
Annie couldn't help admiring the plan. ”Whoever did it was d.a.m.n smart. It was beautifully plotted. You know, I told Elliot those cigarettes would make him sick someday. And they really did, because the murderer counted on the red tip of his cigarette to serve as the target for the dart. h.e.l.l of a throw.”
”Avoid talking about good throws,” Max cautioned. ”Let's hope Saulter doesn't dwell on your Softball prowess.”
”I skunked his pitiful team, eleven-zip.”
”Poor planning.” Max absently rubbed his bristly jaw. ”Unlike our murderer. It all went like clockwork. During the confusion of the blackout, all he had to do was yank on the thread until it broke and reel it in. When the lights came on, he could drop it un.o.btrusively into the wastebas-ket, along with the cotton soaked in polish remover. Voila: one corpse and nothing to link the murderer to the crime.”
Annie pulled the quilt up to her shoulders. ”I'll bet Dr. Thornd.y.k.e could have found some traces if he'd been there with his small green box.”
”He didn't have to trifle with search warrants, et al.”
”Lacking the good doctor's expertise, let's try to ratiocinate, like Sherlock Holmes. Okay, Dr. Watson, why was the back door open when I came to check the circuits?”
”Just a little bit of insurance. It would have been easy for the murderer to slip into the storeroom and open that door while everyone was squabbling over the cofiee and snacks. That open door was to make sure Saulter considered the possibility of an outsider.”
”But Saulter didn't look past me,” Annie said bitterly, ”much less outside.”
”Well, you have to admit it was brilliantly thought out.” He sighed and got up to pour himself a drink. ”And we don't have an iota of proof to show Saulter.”
Annie gingerly ma.s.saged her temples. If only her head didn't ache quite so much. Words jiggled in her mind: sc.r.a.ps, proof, papers...
”My G.o.d, Uncle Ambrose's book. Max, his bookl”
”You told me about it,” he said soothingly. ”He was working on a book about accidents that just might have been murder.”
Annie threw back the quilt, pulled herself to her feet, and wobbled, but her words came fast as shotgun pellets. ”Don't you see? We said Elliot might have picked up on what Uncle Ambrose suspected. Well, somebody beat us to the disk at Elliot's, but we can go through Uncle Ambrose's papers!”
When Annie unlocked the front door and turned on the lights at Death On Demand, Agatha rose, stretched leisurely, and focused two luminous, quizzical eyes on them. Annie scooped up the cat from atop the bookcase and rubbed her cheek against the ebony fur. ”Who came in Sunday morning, Agatha?”
But Agatha wriggled free and stalked down the center aisle. It wasn't the proper time for Annie to be in the shop, and her tail indicated her disdain for Annie's unprofessional hours.
Her nagging headache was forgotten. They were nearing the end of their hunt. She felt almost lightheaded as she led the way to the storeroom.
The chalked outline was no longer in front of the coffee bar. Dear Ingrid.
She was holding down the fort in every way.
”I gathered up most of his stuff and put it in the two back cupboards,”
she chattered to Max. ”There were folders and photographs and news clippings, along with his ma.n.u.script pages. I never had a chance to go through any of it, I've been so busy with the store.”
Max hauled out two huge cardboard boxes.
It took almost an hour to wade through it all.
When they were done, Annie stared soberly at the heaps of materials.
”Oh, Max, he was murdered. There isn't a single page of his ma.n.u.script here. Not a page.”
”Are you sure he had actually written any of it?”
”Of course I am. He never talked much about it, but he worked on it at home in his den. He typed on an old Smith Corona and used yellow second sheets for copy paper.”
”Are you sure the ma.n.u.script was in this stuff when you packed it all away?” He waved his hand at the materials spilled across the worktable.
”I'm sure.” She looked grim-faced at the empty cartons. ”Some b.l.o.o.d.y thief took it out.”
It could have happened at any time in the three months since Uncle Ambrose died.
Without a great deal of hope, Annie went to the front desk and dialed Capt. Mac.
”The cases Ambrose was interested in?” Capt. Mac paused. ”Let's see.
There was the explosion in the Armbruster plant in Montana, killed Old Man Armbruster. Supposed to have been a labor dispute, but he had a worthless son who inherited six million. And Ambrose was suspicious of the Vinson suicide in Hawaii. You remember that one? And, of course, the Winningham case. That happened when I was at Silver City, but I was only a.s.sistant chief, and the chief played investigations pretty close to his chest, so I didn't know much that was helpful to Ambrose. That's all I remember. You know how close-mouthed your uncle was. A great one for letting the other fellow talk.”
”Did he ever mention a case that involved anyone here on Broward's Rock?”
”Oh. I see where you're going. No, he didn't, and frankly I don't see any connection with the three cases I mentioned. That Armbruster heir lives in New York, and Mrs. Vinson's husband stayed in Hawaii. As for the Winningham case, everybody involved is dead. Gale Winningham went down in a plane crash not long after he 'accidentally' shot his wife. If Ambrose was onto something close to home, he never let on to me.
Sorry, Annie. I wish to h.e.l.l he had.”
She walked down the central aisle back to the coffee bar, scuffing her feet in mounting disappointment. Max was making a diligent foot-by-foot survey of the entire store.