Part 14 (1/2)
”I wanted to talk to him about some investments.”
On Sunday morning?
Her immediate a.s.sumption that Annie had blackmail in mind seemed to indicate she was accustomed to blackmail. But Elliot must have had more than suspicion if he were blackmailing Emma: Blackmail had to be based on more than speculation. There had to be a threat, something concrete Elliot had learned that could cause the investigation to be reopened, perhaps lead to a murder charge against Emma.
”The steward must not have been aboard that night.”
”That's right.”
”Did he normally have Sat.u.r.day evenings off? What about the rest of the crew?”
”Only the steward and the cook remain aboard when we are anch.o.r.ed.
I'd given them the evening off because Ricky and I had plans on sh.o.r.e.”
”But the steward didn't go ash.o.r.e, did he?” Here was Elliot's source, the steward or the cook. Someone heard cries or saw Ricky and Emma on deck together. Elliot had found a witness to the murder of Enrique Morales.
Emma didn't change expression, but there was a sudden relaxation of tension. Annie's question must have revealed that she didn't possess the critical piece of information.
”It's always heartbreaking when such a dreadful accident occurs. Isn't it, dear?”
Those shrewd blue eyes dissected Annie now, probing, weighing.
The silence between them was ugly, freighted with unspoken meanings.
”I'm sure you know exactly how I feel. And how upsetting it is to be the subject of vicious gossip. You, of all people, should understand that.”
It couldn't have been plainer if she'd shouted it. Emma saw a special kins.h.i.+p between them. Emma believed that she had pushed Ambrose Bailey to his death.
Annie clenched her hands. ”Does everybody think I killed my uncle?”
”h.e.l.l, no. That's just her guilty conscience in action.”
”She meant that everyone was talking about me.” Annie felt as if something slimy had touched her. She had been so happy on Broward's Rock, confident of her place in her own version of St. Mary Mead.
Instead, smiling faces hid ugly suspicions. The reality was a Ruth Rendell world.
As the Porsche ran beneath the interlocking branches of the yellow pines, Max reached over and squeezed her hands. ”Don't let an old battle-axe upset you.”
”I thought I had a lot of friends on Broward's Rock.”
”You do. Lots.”
Annie recalled the sensation seekers at the shop yesterday, and Chief Saulter. ”Who?”
Max scrambled. ”Ingrid Jones. And Ben Parotti. And Capt. Mac. Me.
Look at it. Your very own four musketeers.”
She knew who pictured himself as D'Artagnan. She managed a bleak smile.
”That's a girl. Don't let the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds get you down. Come on, you're one up, not Emma Clyde. You got a lot out of her, and what you got is d.a.m.n interesting.”
She twisted in the seat.””Max, this changes everything. Elliot must have been a blackmailer.”
The Porsche slowed for a stop sign, and Max turned back onto the main road. He glanced at his map and drove past the harbor shops off to the right, then followed the curve of the island to a sign pointing to beach houses. He turned right on Blue Magnolia. As he braked, he said abruptly, ”No, that can't be right.”
”Why not? I'd bet my first edition of The Murder of Roger Ackroyd that Emma's been blackmailed.”
”What's the point of blackmail?”
”You pay to keep someone quiet.”
”Right. But Elliot was going to stand up and reveal all to the world-or at least to the Regulars.”
Annie got out of the car slowly. Then she poked her head back inside.
”Maybe this was Elliot's fancy way of putting on the pressure for a bigger payoff.”
She mulled that over as she walked up the oyster-sh.e.l.l path, then she brought herself in hand. She'd better play this next interview better than the last.
A battered station wagon stood in the drive. The zinnias in the front bed were choked with weeds and the weeping willow beside the porch desperately needed a trim. Yesterday's newspaper rested unopened next to an empty bait bucket, which still smelled like chopped squid.
Her reception this time was warm if puzzled. Chunky Hal Douglas, unshaven, wearing a soiled t-s.h.i.+rt and torn tennis shorts, offered coffee, beer, or a drink. Unlike Emma's elegant home, Hal's was furnished with happenstance furniture, a shabby maple sofa, mismatched easy chairs, and a card table in one corner stacked with old magazines, Geo, Esquire, Playboy, and Omni. He tried frantically to straighten the litter as he led her to the den, sweeping a pile of newspapers onto the floor and grabbing up a damp beach towel, tennis shoes, and a racquet.
He was boyishly friendly, and she hated going into her spiel. What a way to kill a friends.h.i.+p. How do investigative reporters manage? The thrill of power had to outweigh the human need for approbation. A trade-off.
Annie took a deep breath. She'd be as forthright as Dagliesh. ”No, Hal, thanks. Nothing for me. Actually, I hate to be here.”
That was true.
His round face compressed into a worried frown. ”What's wrong? Can I help you? Is that cop bothering you?”
”That's the problem. And the thing is, I've got some information that could get him off my back, but I hate to give it to him.”
”Don't hesitate, Annie. You can't protect anyone in a murder investigation.”
Every kind word he uttered made her feel more like a louse. Another word and she would turn tail and run, but if she didn't see it through, she'd find herself in the island jail with the centipedes and roaches.
Annie blurted, ”Elliot mailed a copy of his talk to me.”
Hal's open face abruptly looked a good deal less pleasant.
”I don't want to tell Saulter the stuff about you. I thought maybe you could explain it away and then I won't have to.”
For the first time, she realized how big a man he was-tall, powerfully put together, with bearlike shoulders and arms. He was maybe twenty pounds overweight, which gave his face disarming roundness. He might be soft, but he was clearly strong. She slipped a hand into the pocket of her skirt and gripped the oblong, two-inch container of mace.
”I don't want Kelly to know.” He lifted those ma.s.sive hands and rubbed his bristly jowls.