White Elephant Dead by Carolyn G. Hart Page A

of a battleship. Obviously, it wasn’t lost on Emma that Henny might well still be in danger.
    In the hall, Emma headed for the back exit. Annie followed, though she had no idea where they were going or why. Emma pulled open the heavy door with a capable hand and charged up the interior stairs.
    On her heels, Annie said mildly, “Do you have a particular destination in mind?” If it was a stop at the women’s restroom, Annie knew there was one near the emergency waiting room next to the vending machines that were exerting a tidal pull on Annie.
    “ICU.” Emma’s tone was abstracted.
     
    Max sliced medium rare roast beef, piled it an inch thick on crusty white bread, added a swipe of tart mustard and a thicker layer of creamy horseradish mayonnaise, crisp romaine lettuce, slices of home-grown tomatoes, bread andbutter pickles. As he worked, he took hasty bites of his own sandwich. He fixed two sandwiches for Annie, then wrapped three raspberry brownies in waxed paper and poured fresh coffee into a thermos. He worked quickly and efficiently, but his mind was focused on tomorrow and everything that needed to be done. It was clear that Chief Garrett considered Kathryn Girard’s murder solved. There was no suggestion he would look deep into Kathryn Girard’s background.
    Max checked the kitchen clock. Almost ten-thirty. He’d asked Billy Cameron to call with information about the contents of Kathryn’s purse. There had to be some personal information, enough to help Confidential Commissions begin a search for information on Kathryn.
    Max was filling the picnic basket when the phone rang.
    He reached for it with a grin. Good old Billy. “Hello.”
    “Parking lot. Seaside Inn. By the Dumpster. Fifteen minutes.” The connection was broken.
     
    The second-floor hallway was long, quiet and fairly dim. A sudden rising giggle sounded as peculiar as an oompah band at a blues nightclub.
    When they reached the nurses’ station, the night nurse was eating with slow, savoring bites a huge piece of delectable white cake frosted with a mixture of pineapple and crushed pecans. Annie exhibited the kind of character celebrated in John Buchan’s The Runagates Club and resisted lunging for the uneaten portion. She was so pukka sahib she deserved a ten-ounce filet mignon with béarnaise sauce.
    The giggler, well-known to Annie and indeed to all involved in good works on the island, bounced indefatigably to her feet, clutching a notebook. If she’d stood any straighter, Annie would have saluted.
    “Annie. Emma.” Pamela Potts’s dun-colored hair was contained within what looked like a mesh bag made of white netting. Annie dimly remembered her grandmother once talking about a snood, although perhaps she was justweak with hunger—the nurse took the last bite of cake—because “snood” didn’t sound like a word that would describe anything but a mound of something edible in a Dr. Seuss book. Pamela envisioned herself as an angel of mercy, so she was partial to white. Tonight her crisp blouse reminded Annie of water chestnuts and her stiff slacks would have pleased a meringue chef.
    Annie licked her lips. Was there an old bag of gummies in her purse? She fished in the oversize carryall but her scrabbling fingers encountered only the flotsam and jetsam of a purse but no food, not even a stray after-dinner mint.
    Pamela’s serious blue eyes gleamed with happiness. “I came on duty at nine-thirty-seven. Patient Henny Brawley is resting comfortably. No change in status. As a matter of course, I brought a Tropical Surprise cake for the staff”—a beaming smile at the night nurse, who gave a sigh of repletion; Annie’s hands clenched—” and have endeavored to make myself useful by answering the telephone. However, I have not stirred from my post, as I was instructed to keep the entrance to the ICU under observation at all times.”
    Emma nodded. “Very good, Pamela. I want to impress upon you the seriousness of your