Dare to Die (16 page)
Authors: Carolyn Hart
Max's eyes glinted with determination. “Let me handle this. Next time the murderer may have a gun.”
Annie wasn't swayed. “Oh sure, I'll take up tatting, maybe try out for a little theater role while you chase around the island”âshe refrained from staring at his bandaged feetâ“so you can get shot and I'll be a brave little widow. I don't think so.”
He looked at her. Despite a clear effort, his lips flickered into a reluctant grin. “You don't think so?”
“No.” She smacked the table for emphasis. Silverware rattled.
He spread his hands in surrender. “I should have known better. You've never ducked a fight and you won't start now. All right, Nora.”
She was scared deep inside, but there was liberation in confronting danger. They could no longer stay on the sidelines. This was now their fight. She managed a grin. “All we need is a wire-haired terrier, Nick.” She glanced toward the window seat and a somnolent Dorothy L. “But hey, we've got a smart white cat.” Her smile slipped away. “We didn't set out to get involved. Now we don't have a choice.”
She reached across the table, gripped his hand, his wonderful, strong, alive hand. The two of them together could handle anything.
She hoped.
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T
HE WHEELCHAIR SPED ACROSS THE MARBLE FLOORING OF
Emma's main hall. Max was getting the hang of maneuvering it. Annie hurried to keep up. Sunshine flooded through a skylight, turning the mist from the waterfall near the front door into diamond-bright sparkles.
Annie poked her head into the drawing room. Gold-leaf baroque columns framed a dais. In a turquoise caftan, purplish hair now fashionably spiked, Emma sat in an oversize teak chair with crimson cushions, chin on hand, staring seaward.
Annie hesitated. Clearly their hostess was communing with the muse, sleepy from too much breakfast, or posing for an
Architectural Digest
photo.
Without looking back, Emma gestured peremptorily. “Come in.”
Annie was impressed. Either Emma had eyes in the back of her spiky-haired head or exceedingly acute hearing. As they approached the dais, Annie saw their reflection in a mirror.
Emma nodded toward the bone white divan that faced the dais, the queen granting audience to her courtiers. “Come join me.” She nodded approvingly. “Sleek rats this morning.” Before Annie could drop onto the sofa, Emma continued briskly. “I've put the book aside to join the hunt.”
When neither spoke, Emma pursed her lips, her stare flinty.
Annie realized applause was expected. Emma was making the most generous offer she could make, choosing to help old friends rather than devote every thought to her manuscript. “Emma, that's grand.”
Emma gave a regal smile, the queen of crime sacrificing for her friends.
“Absolutely grand.” Max was hearty. He kept his face suitably grave, but his eyes glinted with amusement.
Homage paid, Emma nodded gracefully. “It is my pleasure. I will likely spell the difference between success and failure. I've applied Marigold's acuteness to the problem.”
Annie maintained her admiring gaze. Emma was bright, quick, and clever. If only she wouldn't present her own thoughts as Marigold's. But friends must be forbearing with friends. “And what,” Annie asked brightly, “does Marigold think?”
Emma's bright blue eyes gleamed. “Marigold points out that Iris Tilford was staying in Cabin Six at Nightingale Courts. That's where I fell. What was I doing in that cabin?”
Emma was nobody's fool, and now she had every right to know. Annie was matter-of-fact, her tone carefully neutral. “You were intrigued when Duane told us that Iris arrived alone on a bicycle in the rain. You took a key from the office”âAnnie refrained from using the accusatory filched instead of tookâ“and slipped”âhere she substituted slipped for sneakedâ“into her cabin, carrying towels so you could pretend to be housekeeping. Now it seems obvious you didn't fall. Someone was behind the door who was determined not to be seen.”
Emma's eyes widened. “I should have known. When I wrote the scene, I realized that Marigold must search the cabin if she hopes to find out anything about the girl. Marigold obtains a passkey and pretends to be a maid and takes towels. An intruder is hidden behind the door and Marigold is struck down.” Emma lifted stubby fingers to lightly touch the small bandage on her forehead. “Clearly my subconscious knows what happened.” Her gaze became distant, misty, as if she plumbed far recesses of her mind, hunting, seeking, hoping. “If only I can rememberâ¦I almost remembered in the hospital when you came.” There was no trace of the imperious author in her voice. She sounded uneasy. “I almost remembered that instant
before everything went dark. Something in the hospital brought it back.”
“I was at the hospital. And Pamela.” Annie had been delighted when Emma glared at them, her old demanding, impossible self.
Emma stared into the distance. “Pamela.” She waited, slowly shook her head. Her gaze settled on Annie. Another slow shake of her head. “It's here.” She touched her fingers to her temples. “Something in the hospital triggered a memory. Though”âshe was ruminativeâ“I don't see how that will help. Marigold walks into the room. She's looking straight ahead. She's pushed forward. She's thrown into the bed and knocked out. Obviously, she has no glimpse of her attacker.” Once again Emma brushed the small bandage. “That's how it happened. That's why my back is sore. I must remember to go back and put a bruise between Marigold's shoulder blades. Marigold can't see her assailant, but still she's gained some knowledge, there is some fact that she knows, something that matters.” Square face set in determination, Emma announced, “The way forward is now clear. I will leave the overt investigation to you and Max. I must write the book.”
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A
NNIE STOOD BESIDE THE PINK GOLF CART WITH A MATCHING
pink fringe. Max awkwardly swung himself into the seat. His face stiffened with pain as a foot banged against the side. She hurried around to reach for the wheelchair, but he was already folding it to swing it into the cart. “I can manage.” He lifted worried eyes to her. “Why don't you come with me?”
She understood. He wanted her next to him. He wanted to keep her safe. But she wasn't ready to give in to fear. “I'm fine.”
She may have spoken a little loudly. She was aware, more aware than she had ever been, of the fragility of life. The slant of sun on Max's face, the blue of his eyes, the smell of the sea, the rustle of a magnolia were beautiful. She felt tears inside and a quick rush of anger. She was fiercely determined to live with Max in happiness on their lovely sea island. She would do what had to be done. “I'll be fine.” Possibly she might meet danger, but that was the price to be paid for freedom. “We're going to find out what happened, Max. I can't run scared. You go to your office. Find out everything you can. I'll come as soon as I've talked to Henny.”
A
nnie loved the view from Henny's deck. The incoming tide was flooding the spartina grass to its tips. A great blue heron stood immobile. Suddenly its head shot down, long black plumes quivering, to snatch a brown snake from the water. A tufted titmouse sang its sighing song as if in applause. When the tide ran out, the mudflats would be exposed, steaming in the warming sun, a hint of how the marsh would burgeon with life in summer.
Henny placed the tray with a pitcher of iced tea and glasses brimful of ice with a garnish of mint. They sat at the wicker table.
Annie crushed the mint, drank tea, and smiled at her old friend.
Henny placed a plate near Annie. “Icebox cookies. I know they're your favorites.”
Small things bring happy memories. The old-fashioned rec
ipe always carried Annie home to Amarillo and her mother cutting her a slice of the refrigerated dough to eat before putting the cookies in to bake.
Henny handed a high school annual to Annie, ornate gold letters bright against a dark blue faux-leather cover.
Yellow sticky notes protruded from pages. Annie turned to the first marker, a full-page portrait of that year's homecoming queen, Jocelyn Howard. Annie was glad for the April morning in the marsh, brimming with life, a counterbalance to the sadness generated by the long-ago picture. Pictures of Sam Howard and Jocelyn Howard and Iris Tilford now held the mournful fascination of photographs taken when death must have seemed far distant. Only the observer is aware that time was running out.
In the senior class section, the first note in Henny's elegant handwriting was beneath the photograph of Elizabeth Katherine Ames:
Liz was a good student, diligent, careful, precise. Never an original thought, but capable of absorbing information. She was always serious and tried her best. She was a dusty blonde then. Her hair turned white when she was in her midtwenties. Liz usually managed to be near Russell Montgomery. He was nice to her, but he never saw anyone but Jocelyn.
I'm very much afraid Liz hated Jocelyn.
Annie would have found that last sentence shocking a week ago. “Last week I would have laughed at the idea of Liz hating anyone. Not anymore. She was like a piece of granite when I asked her for a memory of Iris. Malevolent granite.”
Henny looked away. She took off her glasses, drew in a breath.
Annie was surprised. Had Henny found Annie's characterization of Liz offensive?
Henny's face folded in a worried frown. “Unproven accusations can ruin lives.”
“That's true.” Annie met her uneasy gaze. “But someone tried to kill us last night.”
Henny nodded, replaced her glasses. “That's why I have to tell you. But I've never known if my suspicion was right.” She took a deep breath, spoke quickly. “Jocelyn's car was vandalized in the school parking lot. A brick was thrown through the windshield. A pine grove screens the parking lot from the school. I was on the way to my car. I had a dental appointment. I saw Liz hurrying in a side door. It was during class. She could have had a hall permit to take care of some kind of errand. But there was something furtive about her movements. Later I heard about the damage to Jocelyn's car. At the time, Jocelyn was involved in a campaign against cockfighting. There had been other incidents, but they all happened late at night at the Howard house. The attack on her car was attributed to the men behind the cockfights. But I always wondered.” Henny looked sad. “It would take great anger to throw a brick that hard.”
Annie looked into her old friend's concerned gaze. “We may be seeking someone driven by anger.” As she envisioned a young, furious Liz with a brick raised high, Annie turned to the next marked page.
Stanley George Carlisle IV smiled into the camera, his face a younger, fresher, less stressed version of the man Annie knew. She looked at the yellow sticky.
Buck often had a lost look, especially when his parents were around. With the kids, he was popular. He was friendly and
kind to everyone. He always got there with his schoolwork, but it took effort. Nothing academic came easily for him. He was a big guy, but he wasn't an athlete. That made high school hard for him because Friday night lights shine pretty bright on the island.
Annie needed no explanation. High school football was a religion in the South.
Sam Howard treated Buck like a flunky. He called Buck “sonny.” Sometimes, when Sam and the other football guys were together, he'd ignore Buck. Kids are vulnerable at that age. It's desperately important to belong. Hanging out with Sam was Buck's ticket to the inner circle. Sometimes Buck was in, sometimes he was out.
I may have been wrong, but Buck appeared more shaken by Sam's death than seemed normal. He was distraught, unresponsive in class for several weeks. He seemed devastated. Certainly the death of a friend can be shocking, upsetting. But there was something more here, something deeper.
Annie was startled. “Do you think Buck's gay?” Buck was virile and exceedingly attractive to women. There was always undeniable awareness between heterosexual men and women, whether or not acknowledged. She absolutely didn't think Buck was gay.
Henny was decisive. “I'm not talking about sex. As a matter of fact, Buck and Caraâ”
Annie looked at Henny in surprise. Buck and Cara? Buck was married to Fran.
“âwere inseparable most of their senior year. I don't know
what happened. I think Buck and Cara quarreled. They started avoiding each other. As for Fran, she was dating off island. She had an aura among the kids because she had a big romance going with an âolder man.'” Henny smiled. “He was probably in his twenties. I heard he was a bartender at Frankie's where she worked on the mainland. But when Cara and Buck broke up, Fran went after Buck. They were dating by the time of the sports picnic. As for Sam, he always had a circle of girls for easy sex. They weren't important to him.” Henny looked regretful. “Iris was one of his conquests. She was anybody's girl who'd look at her. You know the scene. Not the popular girls, the ones with respect for themselves, but the girls who are desperately hungry for attention and deep down don't feel they have any worth. It isn't that nice girls don't have sex. They do, but not one-night throwaway hookups. Iris was available, though she and Sam did seem to be a pair that spring. I remember being surprised, but, frankly, it was just another indication of Sam's willingness to use people without caring for them. But when Sam died, Buck stumbled through the weeks like a ghost. I don't think it was grief. If I didn't know better, I'd say he looked guilty, as if he'd done something dreadful.”
Annie gazed at Buck's young smiling face that gave no hint of trouble. Although if she looked hard, perhaps weaving in what she knew with what she saw, there might be uncertainty in his gaze. Buck lacked swagger. He'd been a yellow bird since he was a little boy.
Henny shook her head. “I must be wrong. After all, there's no question how Sam died.”
The next sticky marked Jocelyn Mary Howard's class picture. The beauty of classic features seemed poignant now.
Jocelyn was a quintessential princess. She expected everyone always to do everything to please her, yet she was basically thoughtful. It's hard to know how Jocelyn would have turned out. She was bright. A superb debater. I rather thought she might be a lawyer. If she believed something was right or wrong, she wouldn't be budged. She loved animals. She led a march on a body shop near Shank swampâ
Annie pictured a rundown area of the island with dilapidated houses, a seedy bar, and a few businesses that started, failed, were reborn, never quite succeeded.
âwhere cockfights were held every Monday night. They were run by a couple of tough brothers, Joe and Gus McCoy. One night a kerosene-filled pop bottle filled with a burning rag stuffed in the neck was tossed on the Howard front porch and caused some damage. Several nights later some shots were fired into her upstairs bedroom window. The attack on her car happened about this time. Jocelyn led another march and this time she had every charitable group on the island involved. Almost two hundred people showed up. Frank Saulter started twenty-four-hour surveillance on the body shop. Finally the guys left the island. The local SPCA gave Jocelyn a medal.
Annie looked at Jocelyn's bright, clear gaze and resolute mouth. Jocelyn was beautiful. She was well aware of her beauty and expected admiration. Yes, she was a princess, but she was more than a pretty girl. “A brave princess.”
Henny's dark eyes were somber. “Brave, perhaps foolhardy. I'm afraid she was unable to see a threat. If Frank had been a
good-old-boy cop and hadn't backed her up, she might have been hurt. That last night she may not have realized she was pushing someone too far.”
Annie pictured the end of Fish Haul pier. A girl stood at the railing. Had her companion pointed out at the water, spoken of a boat or a light? As Jocelyn bent forward had a hard, violent push sent her flying down to darkness? Had death come as a surprise?
Annie's gaze moved to the next photo: Samuel Edward Howard. The golden boy, handsome, commanding, a Friday night hero.
Sam gloried in being the quarterback. He moved through the halls as if he owned them. He was the handsomest, richest, most athletic senior. Russell was a linebacker. Sam treated Russell almost as an equal. Did I like Sam? He could be appealing. He had charm. I'm not sure he had a heart.
Annie turned pages to the yellow sticky at Frances Fay Kinnon's photo. Even as a high school senior, Fran had an aura of success, stylish hairdo, expertly applied makeup, perfect posture, a smile that exuded confidence.
Every class has one: the girl most likely to succeed. Fran came up the hard way, single mom with a drinking problem, food baskets from the church, secondhand clothes. As soon as Fran was old enough, she started working part-time. She was quick to pick up manners and styles from her classmates. She learned to go to the Junior League shop in Savannah and pick up really beautiful clothes on the cheap. She worked at Parotti's until she figured out she could make more money from big tips at
Frankie's, a swanky restaurant on the mainland near the ferry dock. I never doubted that Fran would do whatever it took to lift herself in the world. It made her admirable if not especially likable. She was too self-absorbed, too driven to be appealing. She used the same focus in school. She was a top student and it paid off. Every year Letitia Campbellâ
Annie knew Letitia Campbell, a steely-eyed, elderly woman who had run the Altar Guild at St. Mary's for years. The family had lived on the island for two hundred years and managed to stay wealthy despite wars and declines in rice and cotton. When one avenue closed, a canny Campbell found another. Letitia's late husband made another fortune in electronics and her sons were entrepreneurs in Atlanta and Dallas.
âprovides a four-year scholarship to Clemson, Letitia's alma mater. The scholarship is awarded on the basis of scholarship, character, and need. Fran was hands down the winner her year. Buck went to Clemson, too. I think she made up her mind she was going to be Mrs. Stanley George Carlisle IV and return to the island as part of the social class her mother never belonged to. Buck and Fran married right after graduation.
Annie felt sad. “I think Fran's scared for Buck.” Annie repeated Fran's revelations about Russell.
Henny was thoughtful. “Russell seemed to be trying to stay away from Jocelyn at the picnic.”
The next yellow sticky marked the photo of Russell Robert Montgomery.
Annie was struck by the marked difference in Russell then and now. His face had been lean; now it was heavy. His eyes
then were somber, his expression guarded; now he appeared genial if still somewhat reserved.
Russell looked haunted after Jocelyn died. Again, just as with Buck and Sam, I felt there was something more, something deeper than loss. In fact it had been obvious for a couple of weeks that Russell was avoiding Jocelyn. That could have made him feel guilty after she died, especially if he suspected she'd committed suicide. Russell was from a military family. His father was a retired Marine colonel. Col. Montgomery went to The Citadel. Everyone knew Russell had to go there. He was grim about schoolwork. He would have been scared to go home if he brought in poor grades. Russell served in the Marines for five years before he came back here and got into construction. His father had died.
The short, crisp sentences on the sticky note revealed a boy under the thumb of a domineering father. “If his father hadn't died?”
Henny swirled the tea in her glass. “I have no doubt Russell would still be in the Marines. I think they came back to the island because of Liz. She's from a big family and she missed being home. I don't think Russell was glad to be back.”
Annie wondered if Russell's antipathy to the island indicated guilt or did it simply reflect reluctance to return to a place with unpleasant memories of a controlling father. If Liz favored coming home, was that an indication she had nothing to regret? Or was the pull of family strong enough to overcome a past that she was now desperate to hide?
The last sticky marked Cara's class picture. There was no aura of sophistication. Cara Jane Jackson's sandy hair hung in a
smooth page boy. Her young face was open and eager. Those were not qualities Annie associated with Cara Wilkes of the gamine haircut, shadowed eyes, and aloof expression. She'd worn a simple cotton top. Now Cara flaunted the latest in expensive leisure clothes, accented by dramatic baubles and bangles.
When Cara and Buck quarreled, it was like watching a rose shrivel from fire blight. She turned sarcastic and bitter and was quick to take offense. I ran into her a few times after that. Buck and Fran went to Clemson. Cara worked part-time and put herself through Armstrong State. After her grandmother died, she stopped coming to the island. I was surprised when she moved back a couple of years ago. I've always wondered why. She's turned into a smart, fashionable woman. I think she does well selling real estate. She's pleasant and friendly, active in the community, and yet I sense emptiness when I'm with her. She's a shadow of the girl I once knew.
