Engaged to Die (7 page)

A sardonic voice hissed in her ear. “You can sure spot the sore losers.”

Annie jerked to face Edith Cummings. The island's canny research librarian, who had a sharp eye for human foibles and a tongue to match, waggled a shrimp toward the cluster of people near the painting of a woman in white kneeling by a bed of crimson poppies. “Talk about looking daggers!” Edith's dark eyes glinted with mischief.

Annie knew that Edith wasn't describing the figure in the painting, whose cool gaze was pensive and remote. A shaft of light from a wall sconce cast a bright swath over Irene Neville, elegant in a white lace jacket and white satin trousers, and her sister-in-law, Susan Neville Brandt, equally striking in an off-the-shoulder full-skirted dazzling red georgette. Irene's compelling oval face made her husband, Carl, look even more ineffectual in comparison. At the moment, her beauty was marred by narrowed eyes and a scowl that drew her black brows into a straight line. Susan, her fine-boned face uneasy, watched her sister-in-law. Susan looked much like Carl, smooth fair hair, severe features, weedy frame, but she held her head high. No one would term her ineffectual.

Edith munched a celery stick. “Irene's forgotten that pretty is as pretty does. Susan's afraid Irene may dash the family's hopes by telling Virginia to her face what a fool she is. It may happen,” Edith said hopefully. “Irene may let loose right here and now. Susan knows they'd better handle Virginia carefully. If they really offend her, she may spend all the money on her new husband.” Edith chortled. “What if Irene's face freezes like that! Hmm. Maybe that would wake Carl up to the dangers of cuddling with an adder. Adders, yes. Also
known as common vipers, though harboring a viper has always seemed highly uncommon to me….”

Annie half listened to Edith's malicious nonsense. She felt a chill. Not so much from Edith's chatter, but from the reality of the repressed anger emanating from Irene Neville and Susan Brandt. Poor Virginia Neville. Annie didn't know the woman, but she felt sorry for her.

“…and Susan's husband looks like a boiled pig about to explode….”

Annie pressed her lips together to suppress a giggle. Edith didn't need any encouragement, but her image certainly described Rusty Brandt's choleric appearance, faded red hair, flushed cheeks, heavy frown. Either Rusty had drunk too much champagne, had rampant hypertension, or was teetering on the verge of a temper tantrum.

“…Rusty's a real jerk. I've always liked Susan. You have to wonder”—Edith bent closer to Annie, dropping her voice—“if she knows he's screwing around on her. I've seen him out with Beth Kelly. She teaches at the middle school. She's really pretty, a creamy complexion and a sweet smile. Divorced. You'd think Beth would have better sense. But hey, women are always fools for men, and who knows that better than I? Speaking of fools, here's Virginia now. Fur's going to fly.”

Annie didn't need Edith's excited pronouncement. All she had to do was follow the gazes of Irene and Susan as they stared at the slender woman framed in the doorway. Annie scarcely recognized Virginia Neville as the somber widow in black who had stood quite alone at Nathaniel Neville's graveside while the rest of his family—son Carl, daughter-in-law Irene,
daughter Susan, son-in-law Rusty, sister Louise, and grandchildren—gathered at the other end of the bier. At the funeral, Virginia had been an indistinct wraith. Tonight she sparkled, seed pearls twined in her coronet braids, her delicate face eager and happy, her pale cheeks tinged with pink. Her dress—a swirling silver georgette—was artfully cut to give her thin form unexpected fullness. She swung toward Irene and Susan. For an instant, her glow dimmed. Then, lifting her chin, she swept toward a group of guests, pausing to receive enthusiastic accolades with the grace of a queen.

Edith finished the celery stick. “To the manor born. Not. But a pretty good imitation. Wonder if she's been watching old Di film clips?”

“Don't be mean, Edith.” Annie spoke lightly, but she meant every word.

Edith gave a whoop. “Honey, I'm always mean. That's what—oh, hey, here comes lover boy. Wouldn't Irene like to scratch his eyes out. Or worse. Susan looks pretty grim, too. Even Carl isn't a happy camper. To see the family fortune scooped out of your grasping hands would turn most people nasty. Of course, Virginia may not leave everything to her new husband—when and if the wedding occurs—but I think by law, he'll get some of it when she kicks off.”

As soon as Virginia Neville turned, the georgette dress rippling like a silver cloud, Annie understood. The older woman and her young lover. This was what Boston Mackey had told them about, the April-September love affair. Bright lights aren't flattering to older women, even a slender woman in a beautiful dress. The brilliance spilling down from the chandelier made clear her age, possibly in her late forties. She
was attractive, and happiness added an aura of youthfulness. But she was youngish, not young. Opposite her, the focus of her unashamed adoration, was a very handsome and very young man with dark curly hair, chiseled features, and a flair for elegance. He bent toward Virginia with a smile, completely at ease in a beautifully cut tuxedo with a dramatic green paisley cummerbund. She looked old enough to be his mother. Well, maybe not quite. But old enough to be a big sister or an aunt. Annie pushed the thought away. Okay, society thought it was fine when older men married very young women, often younger than the children they'd fathered in a first marriage. Why shouldn't Virginia Neville choose a younger man for a husband? April-September marriages, including those of young men to much older women, sometimes succeeded fabulously, witness Agatha Christie's marriage to a man fourteen years her junior. But Virginia Neville was more than likely twenty years older than the man she planned to marry.

Edith popped a glazed pecan into her mouth. “Annie, the pecans are scrumptious.” She wiped her lips with a red paper napkin, flapped it toward Virginia and her young lover. “Quite the dandy, isn't he? Of course, it's hard to recognize him without his cap. If I had gorgeous hair like Jake's—look at those curls—I wouldn't always hide it under a cap. But he's not satisfied with drop-dead good looks. He must think he's a modern Beau Brummell. He dresses like a matinee idol from the thirties, a white suit and panama hat in the summer and an argyll sweater and a golf cap in the winter. Not your usual good old—”

Annie stared at the doorway and remembered Chloe's husky, eager, love-struck voice: “…wears a
cap. You know, the kind golfers used to wear years ago.”

Annie reached out, grabbed Edith's thin arm. “Who is he?”

Edith raised a quizzical eyebrow. “My, my, should I warn Max that you too are smitten by the undeniable charm—”

“Edith, knock it off. Who is he?” Annie's voice was grim.

Edith's eyes narrowed. “Do I detect a decided interest in the young man since the mention of his headgear?”

Annie gritted her teeth. Nobody ever said Edith was slow. Maddening, yes. Slow, no.

“Okay, okay, simmer down, Annie.” Edith was brisk. “His name is Jake O'Neill. He works for the Neville Gallery and he's a so-so artist. Actually, he does good portraits. He did one of Ken”—Edith's voice softened as she mentioned her teenage son—

“and it's wonderful. Anyway, Jake arrived on the island last summer, and Virginia fell for him when he did her portrait. As you can imagine, the Neville family is less than thrilled. I understand they really have their collective nose out of joint since Virginia's combining the announcement of her engagement to Jake with Boston's reception tonight.” Edith smoothed out the crumpled red napkin and held it out to Annie. “See?”

Annie glanced at the fire engine red napkin. At the top in green letters was the name: Neville Gallery. Below the name was an outline in green of the ante-bellum house. Down one side in gold letters were the names Virginia and Jake. Below the names were two gold rings intertwined. Down the other side in silver letters was Boston Mackey's name. Below his name glittered a silver artist's palette.

“Gaudy as hell.” Edith's fingers closed around the napkin, reducing it to a tight red ball. “The Nevilles pride themselves above all on tastefulness. Maybe they're afraid Virginia will start putting out knickknacks for sale. Little ceramic porpoises or a miniature of Parotti's Bar and Grill.”

Annie didn't, at the moment, give a damn about the Neville family's concerns. She scanned the dining room and the visible portion of the central hallway. Was Chloe here? “Edith, have you seen Chloe Martin tonight?”

Edith blinked. “The girl who works for you over the holidays? Nope. But I haven't been looking.”

“If you see her…” Annie broke off, shook her head.

“Never mind.” She swung away, left Edith staring after her in surprise.

In the central hallway, admirers crowded around Boston Mackey. His arm was firmly draped around the bare shoulders of a young woman who gazed up at him with heavy lidded eyes and a sleepy smile. People drifted up and down the stairway, easing past the musicians on the landing. In the drawing room, the tall windows were open to the cool January air, but the high-ceilinged room was warm, loud, and crowded. Annie, smiling, called out quick hellos, but she kept moving and looking. Near the buffet line in the library, Annie resorted to several quick jumps into the air to see over the heads and shoulders of taller persons.

“Ballet?” a husky voice inquired. “Or perhaps a version of perpetual motion. Oh dear, I hope not indigestion, though the holidays are notorious for challenging delicate systems.”

Annie smiled at her mother-in-law, who, as always, looked beautiful and elegant, her patrician features quite classically lovely, her ice blue gown a perfect foil
for Nordic blue eyes and spun gold hair. “Laurel, I grew up eating lamb fries.”

“The prospect appalls.” Husky laughter gurgled.

“Have you seen Chloe?” Laurel and Chloe had enjoyed discussing authors at the store Christmas party.

“No.” Laurel touched Annie's arm lightly. “You look worried. Is there anything I can do?” Her blue eyes, which often were spacey and sometimes impudent, were filled with kindness.

Annie found her mother-in-law unnerving, fascinating, and dear. She gave her a swift hug. “If you see Chloe, tell her I need to talk to her.”

“Of course.” As Annie slipped past, Laurel called after her, “If you discover perpetual motion, my dear, do please share.”

In the hallway, more guests were arriving. Annie frowned. Chloe could be anywhere, upstairs or down. They could have passed each other in the crowd. Annie debated stationing herself on the front verandah, decided instead to survey the second floor.

She was stepping onto the second floor porch when Max found her. “Hey, I've been looking everywhere. Ma pointed me upstairs.” He looked puzzled. “She murmured something about jeté and her pleasure at your grace and agility. What was she talking about?”

“Darling, if you don't know your mother by now…” It was a familiar—and effective—response. Max's mother was prone to sudden enthusiasms, ranging from communing with the saints to night vision photography. Some pastimes resulted in situations Max found unnerving, and he remained vigilant to monitor Laurel's more peculiar pursuits.

Max was not quite defensive. “Well, she seemed perfectly…” he paused.

“Normal?” Annie inquired sweetly. Then felt ashamed. After all, it wasn't Laurel who'd been hopping about making a spectacle of herself. Quickly, Annie explained. “…and the guy Chloe met on the pier is the same one Virginia Neville's going to marry. If Chloe shows up and sees him, it will be dreadful for her. Oh, Max, I wish I'd called her this afternoon.”

He shrugged. “Even if you had, you probably wouldn't have found the guy.”

But Annie couldn't shake the feeling she'd let Chloe down. She knew how much Chloe had invested in those romantic meetings on the pier. She should have been willing to help in the search. If she had, quite possibly Chloe would not have come tonight. Annie had a deep sense of foreboding. She looked anxiously at Max. “Did you see Chloe when you were hunting for me?”

“Nope. Maybe she changed her mind about the party. Come on, let's get some food.” He glanced at his watch. “It's already half past eight. There's a program at nine.”

“Program?” Annie looked around. “Where?”

He waved his arm in the general direction of outdoors. “There's a big tent set up in the north parking lot. That's why everybody parked up and down the road.”

Annie shivered. The night air had to be in the low forties. “Outside?”

“It's okay. I poked my head into the tent when I was looking for you and there are heaters. It smells kind of oily”—he wrinkled his nose—“but it's pretty warm. Anyway, there's a platform and chairs for an audience and a dance floor. Somebody said Boston's going to give a painting away and then Virginia is going to thank everyone for coming and announce her engage
ment. The tent company will pick up the chairs and a band will play and everybody will dance. So let's go get some food.”

Annie was always interested in food. She loved to graze buffets. Who knew? There might be salmon caviar or mushrooms stuffed with snails or pears with curried crab filling or smothered alligator. She stepped inside. The buffet beckoned. They were almost to the stairs when she stopped. “No. I'll stay on the porch, keep a lookout for Chloe. Will you get us some plates? Anything will do.”

Max reached gentle fingers to touch her face, as if to smooth away her frown. “Annie, she has to find out about him sooner or later.”

“I know.” Her voice was sad. “But Chloe thought he was wonderful. Obviously, he's not. If I see her, at least I can keep her from finding out right in the middle of a crowded room.”

Max bent down, kissed her lightly. “It will work out.” His voice was hearty. “After all, she's lucky to find out his ratlike qualities before it's too late. You return to your post, and I'll get the food.” As she moved toward the porch, he called out, “Carrot sticks?”