Free White Elephant Dead by Carolyn G. Hart

part of the ground crew for the Confederate Air Force. He’ll besorry about Henny.” Henny was a longtime pilot and often flew her restored P51 Mustang at air shows.
    “That’ll work.” Max was as delighted as Agatha Christie’s Miss Lemon upon vanquishing a stenographic challenge. “Okay”—the Maserati turned left—“when we get to the gate, you can tell him how she’s doing and what the doctor said and—”
    Annie glanced at Max’s handsome profile. He gripped the wheel, staring straight ahead, like a Manning Coles hero coming up on a German sentry. “Well, sure. But what’s the big deal?”
    He shot her a grin that was sheer Joe Hardy. “You’ll see. We’re going to act on information received—”
    Annie loved the police jargon.
    “—because it’s all up to us.”
     
    Navy slacks, navy tee, navy tennies. Max’s clothes were equally dark. The only exception was the gloves. It occasionally drops into the thirties during a Low Country winter, but mittens aren’t required so Annie scrounged around in the garage and found a couple pairs of white cloth gardening gloves.
    “That’s okay.” Max stood at a kitchen counter, scrawling a quick map. “We won’t need the gloves until we get inside. Look, here’s how we’ll go….” Max made a box for their house on Scarlet King Lagoon. “See, we can take the golf cart paths all the way to the bike trail that goes through the forest preserve—”
    The island Chamber of Commerce claimed that Broward’s Rock boasted more miles of bike trails than Hilton Head. Annie suspected the Chamber was counting some trails twice but certainly you could get quickly from one end of the island to the other on a bike.
    “—and skirt the gate. If anybody ever asks Sam, he’ll swear we drove past the gate about ten o’clock and didn’t come out again. Nobody will connect us with a break-in at Kathryn Girard’s store.”
    As they wheeled their bikes out of the garage, Annie dropped a flashlight in her basket. Max waggled a slender pencil flash. “This will show us enough to find our way and it will look more like fireflies.” As they rode, he occasionally pointed the narrow beam on the trail. It was like riding inside a black velvet bag. The storm had done nothing to ease the humidity and Annie felt sweat beading her face and sliding on her skin. The golf paths were fairly easy to follow but once they plunged into the forest preserve, the darkness was so impenetrable that Max said softly, “Let’s walk this portion, Annie.”
    She pushed her bike and followed the dip and slide of the sliver of light. She concentrated on keeping to the asphalt trail and tried not to picture their surroundings and the myriad of curious eyes belonging to bats and raccoons and snakes. A splat of something wet spangled her cheek. She doggedly marched on. It was nothing more than droplets of water from the forest canopy. Where were all the alligators? But surely an alligator would have something better to do with his time than loll around on a bike trail waiting to be bumped. “It’s asphalt,” she announced. Any self-respecting alligator would prefer a mud wallow.
    “What did you say?” Max paused and she swerved to avoid running her bike wheel into his heel. The wheel came up hard against a solid barrier. Annie’s heart lurched until she realized there was no movement. She must have struck a log. An alligator would have already made an hors d’oeuvre of her leg.
    “How are we going to get inside?” Had Max brought any tools? What if Kathryn Girard’s store had a burglar alarm?
    Max repeated Billy Cameron’s ambiguous answer. “I don’t think we’ll have any trouble. Besides, I think there’s a balcony over the front porch. We’ll find a way.” Max was moving on up the trail. “I dropped in last Christmas to try and find something for Mother. You remember her musical pig phase?”
    Annie remembered Laurel’s musical pig phase. Annie had scoured Web sites around