Dare to Die (22 page)

It was time to get back to Confidential Commissions, see if he and Barb could nose out some fact, any fact, that would give them a lead. He smiled as he turned the cart south, knowing he would make a minor detour. One of the great charms of the Franklin house was its nearness to downtown. He'd check and see if any progress had been made in the repairs. By the time he got back to Confidential Commissions, there might be some responses to the flyer. Max followed a bike path to Bay Street.

He felt content as he turned into the drive to the Franklin house. Soon, he and Annie would move in. He eased the golf cart to a stop in front of the two-story tabby house with piazzas both downstairs and up. The house sat high on tabby foundations. No matter what category hurricane hit the island, the Franklin house would likely be safe from the storm surge.

It wasn't until he swung out his feet that he stopped in dismay. Sure, he had a wheelchair, but there were no ramps. Damn.

Oyster shells crunched behind him. Russell Montgomery's white pickup curved toward the house, stopped behind the golf cart. Good. Russell could give him a progress report. Maybe he'd have a firm date when the house would be available. Max lifted a hand in greeting as Russell swung heavily down from the cab.

Russell was crisp in a blue-and-white checked shirt, khakis, and work boots. His face was in shadow beneath a broad-brimmed Panama. He moved like a man ready to fight, hands bunched into fists, stride bullish.

Max stiffened.

Russell's shadow fell across Max. He looked down at Max seated in the golf cart. “I dropped by Liz's shop. I saw Annie leave in her car and you head this way in that.” He jerked his head at the golf cart. “I figured you were coming here. I got a problem with you two.”

Max curled his hands into fists. If ever he wished he was standing on his feet, it was now.

Russell talked fast, his voice hard. “Twice now Billy Cameron's hammered at me because of ‘information received.' Billy says he has ‘confidential sources.' We all know who's running around the island, poking into people's lives. I'm here to tell you that if you people go around talking about me, you're going to regret it.”

“Are you threatening me?” Max met his gaze directly.

Russell's face flushed. “I'm telling you I've had enough. Stop trashing me.”

“Not trash. Truth.” Max met his gaze without wavering. “Whether you want to admit to it or not. And whether you like it or not, Annie and I will do everything we can to help solve Iris's murder. Somebody told Annie about you and Jocelyn at the sports picnic. Jocelyn wanted to talk to you and you tried to stay away from her. Jocelyn was crying. Today someone else confirmed that. Another classmate overheard you and Jocelyn. Jocelyn told you she wasn't talking to you about the baby.”

Russell's face was suddenly unreadable. “There's no proof.” His voice was a rasp. “There will never be any proof.”

Max fought a wave of anger. “Why don't you tell your side? If you have a side.”

“Back off, Max. My life is none of your business.” Russell leaned forward. “Things get ugly for people who go looking for trouble.”

The moment stretched and held.

Max's muscles tensed. He was ready to launch himself, head down, and butt Russell in the gut when Russell swung away and strode rapidly toward his truck.

 

T
HE GONG SOUNDED MELLOW.
A
NNIE HAD INTENDED TO
hurry to her computer, see if Fran had e-mailed a memory for Iris's spirit poster. Instead, she stopped near the cash desk to look in amazement at the throng of women in the coffee area. The gong sounded again. Annie moved down the central hallway. Dim lighting turned Death on Demand's nooks into shadowy enclaves. Not good for reading, but soothing to a harried soul.

At the fringe of the crowd, Annie slipped out of her shoes to join the other barefooted women. Although she scrambled to keep up, she felt she did a good job of moving the moon across the sky. Fifteen minutes passed. Peace touched her as they concluded with a slight bow, left hand cupped over right on the lower abdomen.

An aura of contentment permeated the coffee area even as the tai chi enthusiasts chattered and drank coffee or tea, each clutching a book purchased before the exercises.

Henny rapped smartly on the coffee bar. “Ladies.” Henny's alert dark eyes gleamed with enthusiasm. “Our new Mystery Club will meet next Monday evening. We will discuss”—she held up a hand for silence—“Peter Robinson's Inspector Alan Banks series. You'll want to buy the new book. At a discount, of course. We've ordered them especially for you and if you'll take your place in line—”

Annie watched in amazement. The dutiful readers—maybe tai chi was the answer to the world's angst—swarmed into an
orderly queue leading up to the cash desk and a big stack of beautiful books. Hardcovers. If each customer bought a hardcover in addition to an earlier purchase, Death on Demand might set a one-day sales record.

Laurel and Henny swooped to the cash desk.
Ka-ching, ka-ching.

When the front door closed behind the last mellow mystery lover, Annie clapped. “You're wonderful. Both of you. Thank you for keeping the store going. Since Duane is back, I can take over now.” Life would almost be whole again. Someday maybe she would sleep through the night and not awaken with a start, remembering the crackle of flames and smell of smoke, fighting away a sweep of terror.

Henny led the way down the central aisle. She radiated eagerness, dark eyes gleaming, narrow intelligent face alight. Laurel high-stepped behind her, silver blond hair swirling, red tai chi uniform perfectly draped on a figure that any chick might envy.

Laurel gave a final kick. “Dearest Annie, Henny and I have wonderful plans.”

“Plans?” Annie hoped the word didn't resemble a desperate mouse squeak. “Some special getaway as a reward for all your hard work here?”

Henny patted Annie's shoulder. “We have a mission. We have always loved Death on Demand, but now we know we can make a difference for you.”

Annie leaned against the coffee bar. They were wonderful, but they overwhelmed. Death on Demand was her world, hers and Agatha's and Ingrid's. How would Ingrid feel if Henny and Laurel became permanent fixtures?

Laurel beamed. She curved her arms up, pulling down yang. Or was she pushing up yin? “You will be thrilled, dear child.”

Henny moved comfortably behind the coffee bar, obviously at home there. She filled three mugs, set them on the counter.

Annie noted the names on the mugs:
Tell You What I'll Do
by Henry Cecil,
Shoot a Sitting Duck
by David Alexander, and
The Takeover
by Richard Wormser. Were they portents of her future?

Henny beamed. “We have a new schedule planned. Subject to your approval, of course. Laurel and I will be in charge every Monday. Ingrid has talked for years about creating reading lists with brief summaries of the books. This will give her time to do the research. Mondays off will afford you and Max long weekends. Mondays will be special.” Henny clapped her hands together. “Tai chi every morning, the Mystery Book Club at night.”

Laurel beamed. “Isn't it wonderful, dear child? We call ourselves The Tai Chi Mystery Mavens.”

Once a week.

Delight made Annie euphoric. Only on Mondays. Of course she was always interested in improving Death on Demand and Laurel and Henny provided a dash of color. Moreover, they were adept at parting customers from their cash. But how glorious that they would invade her domain only on Mondays. “That's great! Oh, how can I thank you?”

“Oh well, if you insist.” Eyes gleaming, carrying her steaming mug, Henny headed directly for the collectibles.

Laurel waved her hands like clouds and looked thoughtful. “I've been dreaming of a very special treasure hunt. I don't quite have it worked out, but this would be a good place for the hunt to end.”

Henny returned with two books.

Annie left them at the coffee bar, Henny trying to decide between a seventy-dollar good-condition edition of
Fingerprint
by Patricia Wentworth or a forty-two-dollar some-wear edition of
A Is for Alibi
by Sue Grafton.

Annie smiled as she slipped behind her computer in the storeroom. How lovely to think about tai chi and mysteries. Those thoughts helped hold at bay the somber moments they'd endured. Tonight she and Max would be safe and comfortable at Emma's. Soon the Franklin house would be ready. Nothing could be wholly right with their world until Iris's killer was found, but she intended to savor this happy moment.

Annie clicked on her messages: forty-three. Sometimes she wished for the good old days of letters or phone calls. Combined, she had never received forty-three letters and phone calls in one day. Annie scrolled, deleting, saving, occasionally responding. She was midway down the list when she stopped, clicked print. Fran's message would help complete the spirit poster for Iris:

Annie could see Fran's irregular features with their surprising charm, imagine her impatiently brushing back a tangle of dark curls. Annie was sorry that Fran was upset. But Jocelyn and Iris were dead. Annie doubted anything would ever be quite the same for that tight group of friends locked together then by a fatal night, pushed apart now by suspicion and uneasiness and fear.

T
he front door to Confidential Commissions was locked, which indicated Barb was out and about. Max used his key and maneuvered the wheelchair inside. He turned on the light and paused to admire the new decor of the anteroom, which was replicated in his office, spare, angular furniture and black-and-white-tiled floor. The new decor reflected the vitality of faraway New York. He'd never regretted his move to Broward's Rock. Where Annie lived would always be home for him, but New York's magic remained a part of him and often beckoned, the rhythm of blaring horns and hurrying crowds, life lived full throttle.

He wheeled to his office, still thinking about Annie and New York and champagne breakfasts. He opened the door and stopped, startled to find the light on. He was sure he'd turned the light off when he left. Barb wasn't here and it was unlikely she'd turned the light on.

He shrugged and wheeled toward his desk. The smell struck him first. He stared at the desktop. There wasn't much blood. Blood must have spewed where death had occurred. The long, thin, headless body of an eastern diamondback rattler lay limp and still atop papers and folders.

Max had a quick memory of Russell Montgomery, red-faced, fists bunched, leaning toward Max. Russell would shoot a rattler with ease, had probably done so fairly often. Diamond-backs were no stranger on the island. As if watching a film, Max pictured Russell moving brush and hearing that distinctive warning. Did he keep a handgun in his truck or a rifle? In any event, how easy for a good marksman to shoot the snake. One less dangerous predator to deal with.

 

B
ILLY LOOKED AT THE BACK DOOR
. “J
IMMIED.”

Max was furious. “If anybody knows how to get inside a building, it's Russell Montgomery.”

“No proof.” Billy glanced up and down the alley. “Whoever brought the rattler would have made sure no one was around.”

Max looked, too. The alley was beginning to fill with afternoon shadows. He and Billy were the only people in the service area behind the shops. “Like now.” Max turned away. In his office, he stood by the desk as Billy used a gloved hand to lift the carcass from the desk, ease the dead snake into a box.

Billy shrugged. “I don't know what the hell good it will do to keep the snake. I'll tag it for the Tilford case.”

Max used damp paper towels to swipe away the traces of blood and body fluids. “We may not be able to tie the snake to Russell, but I'm sure he brought it. Maybe that will turn out to
be a big mistake on his part. Sure, we knew he had a hell of a motive, but now we know he's ready to get ugly.”

Billy tied twine around the box. “Yeah. There's one interesting thing.” Billy's tone was thoughtful. “It could have been uglier. He could have left a live rattler.”

As the door closed behind Billy, Max's nose wrinkled as he smelled the musty scent of rattlesnake. He wheeled to the kitchen area and found Clorox wipes. He returned to his office, wiped papers and folders and scrubbed the desk.

The dead snake was not only a warning, its presence in his office was a contemptuous dismissal of locks.

Max pulled the stacks of folders nearer and saw a note in Barb's flamboyant handwriting:

Max was disappointed. He'd hoped others attending the oyster roast might have glimpsed Iris walking into the woods with her killer. He scanned the names. Kim Holland, a bouncy blonde, taught fourth grade and never missed an event at Death on Demand. Ruddy and brusque outdoorswoman Joan Kelly raised Afghan hounds and volunteered at The Haven. Amiable Mike Peterson taught golf at the country club (“Keep your elbow straight…”).

Max wrote the time on a legal pad. He felt a flicker of hope. Maybe another guest would pinpoint Iris's presence before or after seven-thirty. That would narrow the period when it would be important to establish the whereabouts of Buck, Fran, Russell, Liz, and Cara.

Max scrawled the time in large numerals: 7:10–7:30. Maybe a picture was slowly taking shape. The serving line was still open at half-past seven. Darlene was at her station with a clear view of the entrance to the woods during that twenty-minute period. Darlene would easily recognize Iris and her other classmates. Maybe a net was beginning to close around an elusive, swift-moving, deadly figure.

Max sketched the pavilion and marked the site of the restrooms with
X
s. Iris may have been on her way to a restroom when she stopped to visit with Mike. Someone could have followed her from the picnic area with gloves and a length of cord. Iris's expression of fear and decision convinced Max he was right. This was the fateful moment. Iris saw the person she suspected. Mike returned to the picnic tables. Iris and her classmate spoke. Iris was persuaded her fear was unfounded.

Max immediately pictured familiar faces. Had Buck beckoned Iris to enter the woods with the promise of truth to come? Had Fran offered a solution absolving them all? Had Russell professed to remember that foggy night and claimed he could explain Jocelyn's sad death? Had Liz insisted Iris's memory was faulty? Had Cara recalled Jocelyn's distress and said Jocelyn walked away alone toward the harbor?

Max turned to the dossiers:

Max wondered how Jessica Carlisle, Buck's regal mother, dealt with her daughter-in-law's modest origins. Probably with grim reserve. He doubted Jessica had ever eaten at Parotti's with its down-home atmosphere or Frankie's, which had a shady-lane reputation for backroom gambling and introductions to willing ladies. At least Jessica should be impressed by Fran's academic achievements and acquired social graces. Fran had left her shabby background far behind. Max picked up Buck's folder.

Buck was distracted and worried the last time he and Max played golf. Buck didn't relax until his cell rang and Fran assured him she'd taken Terry in to see the pediatrician and her sore throat wasn't strep. Buck had earnestly related that strep was always a danger for Terry.

Max shut the folder. Buck always reflected his thoughts at the moment. He had little natural reserve. He wasn't a man accustomed to dissembling. Max was certain Buck had lied about his last conversation with Jocelyn.

Max felt impatient. Liz's bio was accurate as far as it went, but there was nothing to reveal the passions that fuel lives. Henny believed Liz hated Jocelyn and had vandalized Jocelyn's car. Did Liz know Russell had fathered a child that was never born? Did Liz push a hated rival from a pier? Would she kill again to prevent exposure?

He picked up Russell's folder.

Max wished he had X-ray vision to check out the contents of the car pocket in Russell's pickup. If Russell's Glock 34 had been recently fired, it would be nice to know. He reached for the phone, let his hand drop. Billy didn't have enough evidence to ask for a search warrant. Moreover, Russell owed nobody an answer about his gun. Not unless a crime was proved. So far as Max knew, it was still lawful to shoot off the head of a rattler.

And Russell could continue to refuse to admit anything about his last talk with Jocelyn despite what Darlene Hopper overheard. That came down to “he said, she said” and who could prove anything?

Max picked up the last folder.

Max gently closed the folder. He'd always found Cara brittle with a sardonic flippancy. Now he understood. He stacked the folders. He'd take them with him, offer them to Annie. Maybe she would see something he'd missed, some fact that might point the way.

Maybe that would be unnecessary. If all had gone well, Billy would have found Darlene Hopper. Darlene may have seen what Billy needed to know, the identity of the person who walked into the woods with Iris. Armed with knowledge and the power that comes with certainty, Billy might now be talking to one of Iris's classmates.

 

“A
DEAD RATTLESNAKE?”
A
NNIE SHUDDERED.

Max's voice over the phone was calm. “As Billy said, it could have been worse. What if he'd left a live one? Not to worry. I'll e-mail the dossiers to you. See if they suggest anything.”

Annie put down the phone. At her computer, she opened the attachment and read quickly. She felt sadness for Cara, but she didn't see that any of the information pointed to a double murderer. She closed down her computer.

As she stepped out of the back room of Death on Demand, she checked out her surroundings, ears tuned for a fateful rattle. She shivered as she pictured a dead rattlesnake draped on Max's desk.

Despite her uneasiness, fueled by Max's call, she felt a sense of accomplishment. She'd handled everyday work and organized the stack of materials ready to use for Iris's poster. Death on Demand was empty except for her and Agatha. Now that Henny and Laurel were gone, the bookstore was, though she was loath to admit it, rather lonely. Of course when Ingrid returned, there would once again be a companionable presence.