Dare to Die (12 page)

Laurel brightened. “Going to the mission is a wonderful idea.”

Annie tensed. Laurel was quick to share thoughts, emotions, and information to all comers, especially if she felt praise was due. Clearly she wouldn't hesitate to tell everyone, friends and strangers alike, about Annie's plan to create a spirit poster for Iris and how Annie and Max were traveling all the way to Savannah for information. If word got back to Billy Cameron about their Sunday afternoon plans, Billy might wonder how Annie knew about the mission. He would by now be well aware of the contents of Iris's purse and would certainly have talked to Brother Doyle. There wouldn't be any harm in Annie and Max talking
to Brother Doyle. However, it would be better if Billy didn't know about their trip. If Billy put two and two together, Annie would have some explaining to do, especially since she and Max had solemnly promised not to get involved. She didn't think the idea of a spirit poster would impress Billy.

Annie bent near, whispered. “That's a secret. Don't tell a soul.”

“Oh.” Laurel's eyes glowed. “I understand. There's more to this than appears on the surface. Oh, my dear, wild horses shan't drag a word from me. My lips are sealed.” She crossed her arms, glossy pink nails lightly resting on the shoulders of her pale blue silk blouse.

Annie gulped more tea. She'd gone from bad to worse. Laurel now believed she and Max were involved in the investigation. Maybe Annie should confess, explain that she'd entered Cabin Six and discovered the address of the mission. She gazed into eyes filled with admiration. Laurel would be enchanted with a surreptitious entry and even more convinced Annie and Max were seeking clues.

The bell at the front door sang.

Annie dropped from the coffee stool. Maybe it would be a customer. She'd get Laurel involved. If she and Annie plunged back into the everyday business of selling books, Laurel would see that Annie wasn't involved in the investigation of Iris's murder.

She was midway up the central aisle when she saw the post-woman, a newcomer to the island who'd been, as she enjoyed telling everyone, a carrier in Minneapolis, where the elements made mail delivery as difficult as any polar expedition, but she surmounted every obstacle with her determination and dedication to the United States Postal Service. Her name was Helen and she took herself and her job very seriously.

Helen marched forward, listing a little from the weight of the heavy pouch hung over her left shoulder. Light brown hair safely in a snood, wire glasses magnifying stern brown eyes, thin lips compressed, she clutched a wad of mail in one hand, in the other she held up a single envelope.

She planted herself in front of Annie. “Postal regulations are clear. It is prohibited for any mail receptacle to be used for nonofficial purposes. And”—she leaned forward, continuing in a hiss—“it is absolutely forbidden for a letter lacking postage to be placed in an official receptacle. Mailboxes must not be used for the transmission of unauthorized material. Such acts undermine the sanctity of the mails. It is the responsibility of the owner of the mail receptacle to prohibit such illegal acts. Moreover,” Helen's voice rose higher, quivering with outrage, “this letter lacks not only a stamp but there is no return address. It is your responsibility to inform the author of this missive as to the proper use of mail receptacles.”

Annie wasn't irritated. Instead, she felt a little spurt of happiness. How nice to deal with ordinary, everyday nonsense. She kept her face attentive and grave. “I will definitely see to it.” She held out her hand for the letter.

Helen yanked it back. “Forty-one cents postage due.”

When Helen was duly paid, she once again ignored Annie's outstretched hand. “All mail,” she said in a grim tone, “will be properly deposited in its official receptacle.”

A few minutes later, Annie returned from the end of the boardwalk and the rank of pull-down letter boxes for boardwalk merchants. She dropped catalogs, magazines, and assorted bills on the front counter and looked at the envelope with her name printed in tiny capital letters.

It was sealed. She'd expected to lift the flap and find a casual
note. She used the letter opener and slit the envelope. She pulled out a folded sheet, opened it. Small printed letters in all capitals were stark in the center of the page:

B
illy Cameron tapped a quart-size plastic bag that held the anonymous letter. “I wish you'd called. I would have picked this up.”

Annie looked surprised. “You're busy. I didn't want to take up your time.”

He looked at her quizzically. “Didn't it occur to you that anybody could see you walk into the station? I'm trying to keep you and Max safe. You brought Iris to the picnic. The murderer has to wonder what Iris told you. You know and I know there's nothing that gives us a lead, but murderers run scared.” Billy was suddenly stern. “Don't discuss the contents of this letter. But,” he said, frowning, “you need a reason to explain your visit here this morning.”

He was right. She would have been noticed going into the station. People would wonder and some would ask. She nodded. “I'll tell everyone you had more questions about the guest list.”

“All right.” He looked again at the letter. “This may mean the murderer is trying to focus attention on Buck. Or this may be gossip and someone thought we should know but doesn't want to get involved. I'm sure there's been a lot of talk over the years about Jocelyn's death. I think most people believe she committed suicide.”

Annie wondered if Billy realized what his statement revealed. Clearly, he saw Iris's murder as the result of Jocelyn's drowning. “Someone knows a lot about the night Jocelyn died.”

Billy shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. There are lots of possibilities: The information is true, half true, or a lie. It was sent to help solve Iris's murder, to divert us from something else, or to cause trouble for Buck Carlisle. Or”—his gaze was again troubled—“somebody wanted to see if you hotfooted it over here.”

Annie wished she didn't feel exposed and vulnerable.

“But you got the note, you came. I'll deal with it.” He started to rise. When she made no move, he frowned.

Annie took a deep breath. “Billy, I know something.”

“Annie, you promised to keep out of the investigation.”

She lifted a hand to forestall his attack. “I kept my promise. I haven't tried to find out anything about Iris's murder.” Or Jocelyn's. “I'm not horning in on your investigation. Instead,” and she felt buoyed by her decision, “I'm making a spirit poster for Iris. I'm going to talk to people who knew her and find out nice, funny, happy things about her life.”

Billy's thick blond brows bunched. “Iris didn't have a nice, funny, happy life.”

Annie felt mulish. “Everybody has good things to remember. Everybody.”

“You'll steer clear of the sports picnic, what happened there.” It wasn't a question. It was an order.

She raised a hand as if taking an oath. “I promise.”

Billy nodded. “What have you found out?”

“It wasn't my doing.” She was delighted to offer proof that anything she learned came to her without her instigation. “Fran Carlisle came to see me.” Annie felt as if she were betraying Fran, but Billy had to know. “If you talk to her, please keep me out of it.”

“That's easy enough. Annie,” his voice was reassuring, “stop feeling guilty about everything. Of course you have to tell me what Fran said.”

Annie felt relieved. “What she said may be important. The anonymous letter writer may have it all wrong.” She described Fran's emotional visit. “Jocelyn may have been in tears because of Russell Montgomery.”

Billy's gaze was cynical. “Maybe, maybe not. For all we know, Fran's scared that an old quarrel between Buck and Jocelyn will surface so she comes to see you to shift attention to Russell. Maybe there's no truth at all to the note and it was written to point suspicion away from…others.”

Annie felt rebuffed. Billy wasn't going to talk about Jocelyn's classmates. Yet Annie knew their identities. Fran had remembered the once carefree group of friends: Fran, Buck, Liz, Russell, and Cara. They were at the sports picnic the night Jocelyn Howard died. Jocelyn's brother Sam, who had also been one of the group, had died of a drug overdose the week before. Annie had no picture of Jocelyn or Sam, but she knew the others. She saw each face as she thought of them, intelligent Fran, likable Buck, dignified Liz, intense Russell, elusive Cara.

If Billy wouldn't talk about them, perhaps there was hope that he had a lead to someone else. In any event, Annie wasn't a player. All she wanted to do was to create a spirit poster for Iris.

 

A
NNIE LOOKED TOWARD THE HARBOR AS SHE WALKED TO
her car. A sloop with gold and green sails scudded near leaping porpoises. Two shrimp boats rode the jade green water in the distance. Seabirds circled above them, waiting for a succulent meal. She reached the Volvo and looked toward Main Street.

After a moment, she dropped her car keys back into her pocket. Billy hadn't intended to focus her attention on her friends, but he had. She played doubles with Fran, Liz, and Cara. Max played golf with Russell. It had been special to Max and Annie to have friends who remembered the same movies and songs and TV shows. They were Annie and Max's friends. They had been Iris's friends. Wasn't it almost like an accusation that she hadn't spoken a word to any of them except Fran—and that had been Fran's doing—since Iris had been killed?

There was no law that she had to ignore them. Just because she and Max were staying clear of Billy's investigation, she didn't have to treat their friends like pariahs.

Annie looked across the street. A discreet sign in front of a tabby building announced: C
ARLISLE,
S
MITHERMAN, AND
C
ARLISLE,
A
TTORNEYS-AT
-L
AW.
A maroon Harley with chrome-plated shocks was parked at one side. Buck Carlisle loved raising a dust trail on the island's back roads. If he was in his office on a Saturday afternoon, he likely was catching up on the week's work and wouldn't mind a visit. Annie gave a decisive nod and crossed the street.

 

B
UCK
C
ARLISLE'S OFFICE WAS SMALL BUT ATTRACTIVE.
A
NNIE
recognized Fran's unerring taste in the russet glow of the maple desk with matching bookcases. The office furnishings
were new and of the best quality. Only the tall, dusty, beige law books were old. Two French windows, uncluttered by drapes or shutters, looked out to the harbor. One of Buck's hand-turned wooden bowls gleamed in the sun on a coffee table. Annie was always surprised by the delicacy and beauty of Buck's woodwork.

Buck made the office seem even smaller with his broad shoulders and stocky build. He sank down on the slate gray leather sofa beside Annie. He was casual in a yellow polo, faded jeans, and running shoes. His brown hair was tousled, his square face open and appealing. He reached out to take her hand, his expression earnest. “Fran said she'd talked to you. I almost called, then didn't know if I should.” He sounded uncertain, bewildered. “It's a nightmare. It's like those awful days after Jocelyn died. We had a terrible time when we were seniors.” His brown eyes were sorrowful. “Jocelyn and her brother died that spring. Iris ran away. I always thought she left because she was trying to forget everything bad. Her mom had died a few years before. People can only handle so much. But now, everything's crazy.” He looked bewildered. “Why would anybody kill Iris?”

“It does seem crazy.” Annie felt safe and normal. Buck was exactly as he always was, kind and friendly and open. “I didn't come to see you about what happened. It doesn't do any good to think about how she died. Instead, I want to do something in Iris's memory.” Annie described a spirit poster.

Buck's face softened. “That's a swell idea.” He gave her a grateful look. “Everybody will want to help.” He leaned back against the sofa, the tension easing from his body. “Iris and I had a lot in common.” His gaze was faraway. “Nothing came easy for us in school. She and I were yellow birds in the first grade.” He
shoved a hand through his curly brown hair. “Mrs. Blake put the readers in three groups, blue birds, red birds, and yellow birds. Everybody knew what it meant. Blue birds could read anything. Red birds stumbled. As for the yellow birds…” He squinted his eyes in a puzzled frown. “I hated being a yellow bird in front of everyone. I knew I wasn't very smart. But one day, something wonderful happened. Mrs. Blake wanted us to sing ‘The Bear Song.' You know, one person sings and everybody else repeats the line. She asked Iris to stand up and start. I guess Iris was sitting at the first desk or something. I don't know why she picked her. Jocelyn was always Mrs. Blake's favorite.” There was no rancor in his tone. “Jocelyn was everybody's favorite, beautiful and kind and sort of shining. When she walked into a room, you didn't see anybody else. But that day Mrs. Blake called on Iris. And”—wonderment shone in his face—“it was like we heard an angel. Iris's voice was high and clear and sweet and perfect. We all sat there and stared. Nobody knew Iris could sing. Mrs. Blake looked stunned. She was kind of a horsefaced old gal, gruff, impatient, demanding. It was so quiet, Iris looked scared, like she'd done something wrong. She started to cry. Mrs. Blake went over to her and put her arms around her and said, ‘Thank you, honey. That was beautiful. I should have known a yellow bird would sing the best song.' For years after that, Iris and I picked each other up when we were down. She'd look at me and say, ‘Yellow birds sing the best songs.' When I took first in a woodworking show when we were seniors, she came up and hugged me and whispered, ‘Yellow birds sing the best songs.'” His eyes reflected remembered hurt. “My folks didn't come to the show. Dad had a bar dinner. If I'd been on the football team, he would have come to the game. I wasn't good enough even for third string. So what good was it that I could make a beautiful bowl? But Iris
came.” He stared at Annie with mournful eyes. “She'll never be a yellow bird again.”

 

L
IZ
M
ONTGOMERY REMINDED
A
NNIE OF A
D
RESDEN SHEPHERDESS.
Annie wasn't sure whether the thought was engendered by Liz's round pliant face and flowery dress or the multitude of porcelain in her small but exquisite shop. It was easy to imagine Liz in a hat with streamers and rose-colored muslin against the backdrop of Victorian bisque figurines in soft pastel shades, cups and saucers that were elegant at teas two hundred years ago, mid-Victorian hand-painted and gilded tea sets, and a Gainsborough lady figurine from early-twentieth-century Japan. Treasures adorned every shelf and table.

“Annie.” Liz didn't smile. She came slowly forward.

Annie realized with a small shock that she was accustomed always to seeing Liz with her lips curved in a slight smile. Today there was no hint of cheer.

“I saw you going into the police station. What's happening?” The question was almost harsh. “Do the police have any suspects?”

Annie felt uneasy. Liz assumed Annie had inside information about Billy's investigation. She had to make it clear that she wasn't involved. “I have no idea. I don't know anything about the investigation. Billy asked for the guest list for the picnic.” It wasn't necessary to say she and Max had delivered the list early this morning.

Liz frowned and her cool gaze never left Annie's face. “I suppose the police will talk to everyone who knew her. Well, Russell and I barely said hello last night. Max told Russell you had a long talk with her.” Her unwavering stare was faintly hostile.

Annie wasn't surprised that Russell had already told his wife about his conversation this morning with Max. “Not really. She and I had a swim out at Nightingale Courts and that's why I invited her to the picnic. It was very casual.”

“Russell and I were surprised to see her.” There was no indication it had been a pleasant surprise. “We said hello but didn't have a real chance to talk.” She shook her head as if she regretted the short interlude. “Everything was fine when we left. I waved good-bye to Iris.” Something shifted in that seeking gaze, perhaps a flash of fear or perhaps the momentary shock of confronting eternity. Beringed fingers clutched at her amber necklace. “What happened?”

Annie turned her hands palms up. “No one knows. Apparently Iris went into the woods with someone.”

Now the fear in Liz's eyes was unmistakable. “Who?” The demand was sharp.

“I think Billy—” Annie stopped. She couldn't go around reporting what Billy had said. “I don't know.”

Liz's blue eyes narrowed. She was shrewd enough to know Annie had started the sentence with one thought and ended it with another.

“I don't have any idea what the police are doing.” Annie talked fast, trying to get past the awkward moment and the suspicion in Liz's eyes. “That's not why I came. I just visited with Buck about a tribute to Iris.” She described the spirit poster.

This time there was no rush of approval. Liz's round face was as unmoved as the forever frozen, milky white porcelain cheeks of a statuette. “I wish I could be helpful. But,” Liz's tone was icy, “I'm afraid nothing I remember about Iris would be appropriate.”

Annie found herself on the way out. “…need to run some
errands…glad you are bearing up so well…such a dreadful end to your evening…”

Her last glimpse of Liz in the shop doorway supplanted Annie's image of Liz as a quaint figure with the much more impressive figure of a focused woman with memories she would not—or could not—share.

 

A
NNIE HESITATED AT THE ENTRANCE TO
Y
ESTERDAY'S
T
REASURES,
then reached for the antique bronze knob. Once begun, her canvass for memories of Iris would look more suspicious if abruptly ended. If she spoke only with Buck and Liz, the others would wonder why. She had no doubt that Iris's classmates would be in touch and Annie's visits discussed. Annie had a distinct feeling that Max was not going to be pleased with her afternoon.