Engaged to Die (8 page)

She grinned. “Only if slathered with cream cheese.” Her smile faded as she walked to the edge of the porch, leaned on the balustrade to look down at the circular drive. She was still there, though shivering, when Max returned. She nodded her approval at the coconut-fried frog legs, crab cakes, salmon strips, chilies rellenos, and pistachio-stuffed mushrooms. Nary a carrot stick in sight.

Annie kept her gaze on the drive as they ate and tried to ignore the damp cold of the night. She waved the coconut-encrusted frog leg. “Max, this is divine.”

“Not for the frog,” he murmured.

She paused in mid-munch. “Let us not put this on a personal level.” She dropped the half-eaten leg and speared a salmon strip. After all, salmon in her mind were fuzzily somewhere far distant in Washington State rivers, while there were platoons of lusty—Max was always admiring of their passion for the ladies—deep-throated frogs who inhabited the lagoon behind their house.

The food was excellent, and Max had brought coffee, which helped against the chill. When they finished eating, Max pointed at his watch. Almost time for the program. Annie hesitated, then nodded. As they stepped into the upstairs room—a lovely room with faded green walls and dark green drapes and the lovely glow of Mackey's muted yet warm Low Country paintings—she felt relaxed. Chloe hadn't appeared. It looked more and more likely that she'd decided not to come. Tomorrow Annie would have to tell her. That wasn't a pleasant prospect. But Annie was inclined to let tomorrow take care of itself.

There was a general movement toward the stairs. Annie took Max's arm, smiled up at him. The program might be interesting, and later there would be a band. She and Max did a polished tango. Okay, maybe their performance was just this side of campy, but they had loads of fun and always ended to a round of applause from onlookers. If Max had a thin black mustache and she had a rose to grip in her teeth…Annie was smiling as they reached the stairs, merging into the thick stream of guests beginning to descend.

Henny, elegant in a high-necked black chiffon, waved a black lace handkerchief. Over the crowd, she called, “I know this is too easy for you, Annie. Red-
haired, loves the ladies, photographic memory, his boss's answer to physical effort.”

Annie was casual. “Archie Goodwin.” Nero Wolfe's office assistant added great charm to the Rex Stout novels.

Henny laughed and moved on down the stairs.

“Annie!” Edith Cummings was on the landing. “I've been looking everywhere for you. I thought you'd want to know. Chloe Martin's here. I saw her a little while ago. She's really pretty with that dark red hair.” Edith's tone was admiring. “Looks like polished mahogany in the sun. And what a dress! Kelly green taffeta, low cut, but with this gorgeous matching stole. Shades of Tara. And talk about drama—I was only a few feet behind her when she came face-to-face with Jake O'Neill.”

Annie took a deep breath. “What happened?”

Edith's eyes glistened. “Big-time shock, I'd say. His face froze. He gulped. She ran up to him, excited as could be. He looked around, and then he took her by the arm and pulled her into the study. I'd love to have been a mouse with big ears on the scene.”

The stairs were packed. The crowd moved slowly. On the ground floor, Annie once again made little leaps to scan the surroundings. Max, too, was searching.

A throaty voice called out, “Still leaping. Dear Annie, how marvelous to know you have such spirit, such élan, such indefatigability.”

Annie grinned at her mother-in-law. “Practice makes perfect.” But her smile slipped away as she poked her head into the study. Nope. Neither Chloe nor Jake were present. Annie backed into the hall, took Max's arm. They spilled out with the crowd onto the back porch. Annie gazed out into the foggy night. Was
Chloe out there somewhere with her midnight lover? The guests were simply dark forms, indistinguishable in the pale smudges of color from the Japanese lanterns. Anyone could be part of that mass of guests moving slowly toward the tent.

The tent was set up to the left of the back porch in the north parking lot. The path was marked by luminarias. Straight ahead lay the gardens, famous for crimson azaleas in the spring. The land stretched away to the ocean, hidden now by the fog. Strings of tiny white bulbs sparkled in the nearby live oak trees, little glimmers of soft light in the fog.

Running footsteps sounded to the right. A dimly seen figure burst out of the foggy darkness and veered away from the house to disappear behind the pines that screened the service area from the gardens.

Annie gripped Max's arm. “Was that Chloe?”

He swung around, but the figure was gone, disappearing around the end of the house.

“Max, we'd better see.” Annie hurried down the steps. She knew the area fairly well. The gallery was a popular site for teas and meetings. Oyster-shell paths went in several directions. Tonight the fog hung damp and thick near the house, but Annie knew that one path led along the back of the house to the north parking lot where the tent had been erected. Straight ahead was another path. As Annie recalled, this path curved in a lazy figure eight among banks of azaleas and ponds. To the right, another path curved toward a grove of pines, ending ultimately at the ruins of the Civil War fort that overlooked the ocean. The girl Annie had glimpsed—the girl in a green dress—was running toward the house on the fort path, but she veered away near the kitchen and disappeared behind the pines that screened the service area.

“Come on, Max.” Annie hurried toward the kitchen area. She and Max moved against the stream of guests heading toward the tent. Slams and bangs from the kitchen signaled the cleanup of the buffet. They followed a twisting path through the pines and reached the service area. The pines threw dark shadows over much of the blacktop, but the back end of the caterer's van was open and its interior light flared over a burly man shoving closed bins in place. Annie recognized him. Tony Hasty was one of the premier caterers on the island. Annie picked up speed and skidded to a stop beside him. “Tony, did you see a girl just now?”

He swung around, stared at Annie. Close-cropped iron gray hair covered a blunt head with a light fuzz. Yellowish eyes glowed in a mashed-up face that suggested contact sports or barroom brawls. “What the hell's going on?” His voice was deep and brusque.

“A girl in a green dress came this way. Did you see her?” Annie looked past him, but there was no one else in the area.

He slapped big hands on his hips, poked his head forward. “What's up, Annie? You're the second woman to run this way. Somebody bothering you?” His massive shoulders tensed as he looked past her at Max, his face disdainful of any man who couldn't protect his woman.

“No. I'm okay.” She realized Tony had never met Max. “Tony, this is my husband, Max. We're hunting for that girl.” Annie looked around the shadowy service area. Only a few cars were parked there. “Was she wearing a green dress?”

“Yeah. What's the problem?” He used the back of his hand to rub a heavy jowl. “She was crying. I asked her—just like you—if something was wrong.” He
tugged at the bunched front of a stained apron. “She kept on running and didn't say a word.”

Annie swung toward the path to the front of the house. “Did she go that way?”

“Yeah. What's the deal?” He looked ready for action.

Annie didn't want to embarrass Chloe. Besides, she was probably long gone. She must have parked along the road leading to the gallery. “Oh,” she said vaguely, “a lovers' quarrel, I'm afraid. We'll find her and see what we can do.”

The tension eased out of his big body. “Okay. Let me know if you need any help.” He turned back to his cart, hefted a bin.

Annie walked toward the front of the house, calling out, “Chloe? Chloe, where are you?”

Max pulled out his car keys. “I'll get a flashlight from the car.”

Annie was halfway down the front drive, calling Chloe's name and pausing to listen, when Max caught up with her. They stopped at the foot of the drive.

Max swung the light back and forth, but silvery fog swathed the trees, turned the night to cotton. “Annie, if she's out there, she doesn't want to see us. She's probably halfway home right now. I don't think there's anything you can do tonight.” The beam danced against cars, poked into low-hanging fog in the live oak branches, startled a raccoon who jerked his masked face toward them.

Annie felt stymied. But maybe this was best. Chloe obviously had discovered the perfidy of her romantic stranger. Let her run away and deal with her hurt in private. Annie turned back toward the house. “I'd like to punch him in the nose.”

“Oh, what goes around comes around.” Max's voice was easy. “Hey, I hear trumpets.” He glanced at the luminous dial of his watch. “It's ten after. I'll bet the program's started. Let's put this”—he waggled the flashlight—“back in the car and go see.”

 

The sweet scent of evergreen filled the tent. The swags made a deep green contrast to the strings of red and pink and yellow lights. Almost every chair was taken. Despite the dim lighting, the contrast between black tuxedos and vivid gowns was dramatic. Sharp white spotlights threw the low stage at the far end of the tent into bright relief. A beaming Boston Mackey stood by an easel. The painting on display glowed with color, splashes of orange and lime and red. Carl Neville, his thin cheeks flushed with excitement, hurried toward the platform and up the steps. At a podium, he grabbed the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Neville Gallery's celebration of the work of our wonderful Low Country artist Boston Mackey.”

Cheers and applause. Mackey puffed like a pleased pouter pigeon.

Carl's pale face was tinged with pink. “This is an honor both to our island and to the Neville Gallery. Please welcome Boston Mackey.”

Applause boomed. Neville handed the microphone to the artist, then stood to one side, clapping vigorously. As Mackey moved forward, Neville joined his wife beside the platform.

The artist looked like a man who had enjoyed the party, hair mussed, tie undone, jacket hanging open.

Annie stood on tiptoe and whispered to Max. “Is that confetti in his beard? Or lipstick?”

Max laughed. “I doubt it's confetti.”

Oblivious to the pink smudge in his close-cropped white beard, Mackey stood at the edge of the platform. His voice rolled out to the audience. “Ladies and gentlemen, it is a pleasure to be with you tonight….”

Ranged in a semicircle behind the platform were some members of the Neville family. Irene Neville, laughing, held a champagne glass aloft. Susan Brandt's fair hair rippled as she pumped her fists in excitement. A thin, dark-haired woman nodded, her solemn face softened by a smile. Annie plucked a name from memory: Louise Neville, old Nathaniel's sister. Louise's smile slipped away as Virginia Neville hurried to her side and tugged on her sleeve. Virginia bent close, whispered. Louise shook her head, held a finger to her lips, and nodded toward the platform as if reminding Virginia that their guest was speaking and Virginia's attention was required. Virginia clasped her hands, stared at Mackey, but every so often, as if she were a puppet jerked by a string, her head swung toward the back entrance to the tent. She looked forlorn, like a child invited to a party only to find the door barred.

“…hope all of you filled out a slip for the drawing. Before our gracious hostess”—Mackey waved the microphone toward Virginia—“pulls out the winner, I want to introduce Harrison Beaumont. Everyone on the island knows Dr. Beaumont, but I want to take this opportunity to let you show your appreciation for his generosity to the Broward's Rock Art Museum. Dr. Beaumont…”

Virginia Neville took a final desperate look at the back entrance, then slowly turned back to the platform. Her face held no trace of the joy that had transformed the gentle features earlier in the evening, adding a saucy flush to her thin cheeks. She looked irresolute,
uncertain. One hand plucked at the silver diamond-studded butterfly that hung from an ornate silver chain. She kept glancing toward the flap. Once, she shaded her eyes from the stark light on the platform and looked out at the crowd, her gaze searching.

“…know you want to give a rousing cheer for Dr. Beaumont in gratitude for his gift of my great blue heron mural to the museum.”

The response was thunderous—clapping, cheers, whistles.

Dr. Beaumont, an orthopedic surgeon with a cue ball head and a pianist's hands, thudded on stage. “My pleasure. Now everyone on the island can enjoy your work….”

The flap to the back entrance moved. Virginia Neville's face lighted. She bent forward eagerly when a tuxedo-clad arm appeared. The flap was thrust aside. Rusty Brandt stepped inside. He looked warily toward his wife and sister-in-law, but both seemed absorbed in Dr. Beaumont's accolade to Boston Mackey. Brandt hurried toward the back of the platform. Virginia Neville's face sagged in disappointment.

On stage the two big men clapped each other heartily on the shoulders, exchanged shouts, and Dr. Beaumont bounded off the stage.

Annie scarcely heard the huzzahs and hurrahs. She was still watching Virginia Neville. The older woman's hands twined together, twisting, twisting.

“And now”—Boston's cheerful face glistened with sweat and glowed with bonhomie—“it is a delight to me and to everyone here to call forth our lovely hostess—Virginia Neville. Virginia stands now at the helm of the good ship Neville Gallery and she is carrying on in the fine tradition….”

Annie was not, she always insisted, prone to presentiments, that convenient foreboding so beloved of gothic authors from Mary Roberts Rinehart to Mary Stewart, but she could read the writing on the wall as fast as anybody. In a flash she mixed it all together—the planned announcement of Virginia Neville's engagement to Jake O'Neill, Chloe's arrival at the gallery, her distraught departure from the gallery gardens, Virginia's questing glances—and exclaimed, “Max, Jake O'Neill hasn't shown up. He's supposed to be here.” Annie flung out her hand. “I don't see him anywhere.”