Design for Murder (Death on Demand Mysteries, No. 2) - Softcover

An accomplished master of mystery, Carolyn Hart is the New York Times bestselling author of more than fifty-five novels of mystery and suspense including the Bailey Ruth Ghost Novels and the Death on Demand Mysteries. Her books have won multiple Agatha, Anthony, and Macavity awards. She has also been honored with the Amelia Award for significant contributions to the traditional mystery from Malice Domestic and was named a Grand Master by the Mystery Writers of America. One of the founders of Sisters in Crime, Hart lives in Oklahoma City, where she enjoys mysteries, walking in the park, and cats. She and her husband, Phil, serve as staff—cat owners will understand—to brother and sister brown tabbies.

1
 
The typist nodded. It was finished, as neat a design for murder as could be envisioned. Murder with malice. To be enjoyed by a select group. Well, wasn’t it deserved?
 
For an instant, the writer hesitated. Was public humiliation deserved? There was no question as to the answer. And perhaps the effect would be to break the pattern of silken domination, to end the ruthless manipulation masked by charm.
 
A gloved hand gently loosened the last sheet from the typewriter. It was an agreeable irony that the plan should be typed on the old machine that sat in the corner of the director’s office of the Chastain Historical Preservation Society. Should these pages ever be linked to this particular typewriter, it would reveal only that the manuscript had been produced on a machine easily accessible to the cream of Chastain’s social hierarchy.
 
When the pages were neatly folded and placed in the waiting envelope, the writer read the cover letter again, then painstakingly traced a signature. It took only a moment to slip the letter inside and seal the envelope. Everything was in readiness. As soon as the mystery expert was officially hired, the letter could be mailed.
 
The writer looked up at a wall calendar which pictured the Prichard House, one of Chastain’s oldest and loveliest antebellum mansions. A crimson circle marked April 7.
 
2
 
Idell Gordon tugged restlessly at her sheets. She should have gone to the dentist. Well, too late now. The upper-right back molar throbbed. She kept her eyes squeezed shut, hoping for the blessed release of sleep. But sleep wouldn’t come. Finally, wearily, she struggled upright and levered her ungainly body to the edge of the bed, peering at the luminous dial on the bedstand. Almost three o’clock. Swinging her legs over the side, she slipped into her scuffed pink satin houseshoes. Oh, her jaw, her jaw. She padded across the room to her bath and reached up for the brown plastic vial of Valium tablets. One of them might help her sleep. She filled a bathroom cup with water and swallowed the tiny pill, then suppressed a groan. It would take a while for the drug to help. She almost walked to her easy chair, but she knew she would feel better if she kept moving. She crossed the room, dodging the potted plants and the rocking chair and the rickety maple whatnot, and opened the French window to step out onto the second-floor balcony. The soft night air swept over her, soothing and calming. It was almost warm enough to walk out in her nightdress, though it was only mid-March, but she grabbed up a shawl that she’d thrown over her rocking chair earlier that evening. The moonlight speckled the grounds below, hiding the burgeoning weeds in the beds along this side of the Inn. She sighed. Her back always hurt when she hoed, but she couldn’t afford to hire a gardener this spring. Occupancy of the Inn had been down, and it was going to be touch and go on the bills. A little flicker of panic moved in her chest. What was she going to do if the Inn failed? It would be jammed for the house-and-garden tours in April, but that wouldn’t make up for empty rooms later in the summer. She paced up and down on the balcony, gingerly holding her jaw and trying not to whimper, and careful, too, to step quietly so as not to arouse any of the sleeping guests. Then, sharp and harsh as a peacock’s cry, the gate to the grounds of the Historical Preservation Society squeaked open. Idell recognized the sound at once. She’d known it for years, the sound of the gate that marked the boundary between her Inn and the Society grounds. But why would the gate be opening? And at this hour? She bent to peer over the railing. How curious! How strange! She would have to ask—fiery hot pain lanced her jaw. She gave a soft moan and turned to go back inside.
 
3
 
Corinne Prichard Webster stood in front of the ormolu-framed mirror. Despite the dusky, aged glass, her reflection glistened as brightly as crystal. She always enjoyed her morning encounter with her own image. Beauty was her handmaiden and had always been so. She felt confident that to men she represented the unattainable goal of perfection. Once, when she’d asked Tim if he’d like to paint her, he had been silent for a long time, then he’d said, even if grudgingly, “You’re like the first streak of rose at sunrise.” Tim was almost as poetic as he was artistic. It sickened her to realize that he’d been beguiled by Sybil, who was no better than a slut for all the glory of her old name and her wealth. Well, they needn’t think she would let Tim take his paintings from the museum. After all she’d done for him, he must realize that it was his duty to stay in Chastain. Her mouth thinned with determination, then curved in a humorless smile. They thought it was settled, but he couldn’t very well have a show in New York without any paintings—and the paintings belonged to the Prichard Museum.
 
She lifted a slender white hand to touch the tightness between her eyes, and the tiny wrinkles disappeared. She stared at her face appraisingly. Her eyes were still as vividly blue as always, her skin as smooth and soft as a young girl’s. She felt a flash of satisfaction. She did so despise women who let themselves go. Lucy’s face popped into her thoughts. Skin like leather from too many hours in her wretched garden and no more imagination in fashion than one might expect from a librarian. Boring, that was how Lucy dressed, although she could look quite nice when she chose. On Sundays, for example, she always wore a well-cut silk dress and a hat and gloves. Corinne shook her head. Hat and gloves. Almost no one wore them nowadays—except Lucy. It certainly dated her. Corinne looked at her reflection in continuing satisfaction. No one could say that about her. She was always au courant, and no one thought she was as old as Lucy, either. It was certainly a good thing she’d been firm years ago. It wouldn’t have done for Cameron to marry Lucy and make her a Prichard, not a girl whose father ran a clothing store. The Prichards had never been small shop-keepers. The Prichards owned plantations and, long ago, sailing ships and warehouses.
 
Her eyes narrowed, and she no longer looked at her reflection so she didn’t see the transformation. At one instant, the mirrored face was soft and beguiling, almost as beautiful with its classic bones, silver-blonde hair, and Mediterranean blue eyes as on her wedding day at nineteen almost forty years before. Then, as Corinne Prichard Webster thought about her niece, Gail, and the manner in which she was behaving, throwing herself at a totally unsuitable man, the face hardened and looked all of its fifty-nine years, the eyes cold and hard, the mouth thin, determined, and cruel.
 
The phone rang.
 
Corinne didn’t move to answer it, but she looked across her bedroom, past the silken canopied bed and the Queen Anne dresser to the compass rose desk which sat in an alcove, the blue velvet curtains unopened yet to the morning. The white and gold telephone, a French reproduction, rang again. Corinne waited, certain she knew the caller.
 
A gentle knock sounded at her bedroom door, then Marybelle stepped inside.
 
“The call is for you, ma’am. Mr. Roscoe Merrill.”
 
Corinne nodded. “I will answer it, Marybelle.”
 
As the maid softly closed the heavy door, Corinne moved to the telephone. Picking up the receiver, she lifted her chin. If Roscoe Merrill had been in the room, he would have recognized that stance. It was Corinne at her most imperious.
 
“Yes, Roscoe.” She listened, then said impatiently, “The private man reveals the public man.” He spoke again, but Corinne was shaking her head. She interrupted sharply, “It won’t do any good for you to take that tone with me. I will do what I feel is right. You should have considered the consequences of your actions. I certainly feel that Jessica has every right to know.” At his angry response, she depressed the cradle. Her face was implacable as she replaced the receiver.
 
The green and pink porcelain clock on the mantel delicately chimed the quarter hour. Vexed, Corinne shook her head. She was running late this morning, and there was much she had to do. There was that matter of the clinic and John Sanford’s foolish plan to expand it. That would draw more country people into Chastain, overburdening the hospital with the kind of people who couldn’t pay. John must be made to see that he was out of line. Corinne yanked on the bell pull. She would have time for Marybelle to draw her bath, then she must hurry. So many things to attend to. That silly mystery program, for one. She felt a surge of irritation. Such a cheap idea. For once she agreed with Dora, but it had been obvious that the Board was going to approve Roscoe’s stupid proposal. She’d voted yes, even though she was seething inside. After all, she couldn’t let it appear that the Board was taking such a major step without her approval. At least, as president, she’d retained control of hiring the mystery expert. That was another reason to make Roscoe pay for his actions, which she certainly intended to do. There was a proper way to act and an improper way. That reminded her of Gail. She would talk to Gail without delay. Corinne sighed, overburdened. There were so many demands on her time and energy. Then she straightened and looked toward the dusky mirror, her face again soft and unlined. After all, she was Corinne Prichard Webster. People depended upon her, so many of them. What would they do without her?