Laughed ’Til He Died (3 page)

“How do you know that?” Max looked around. The only figures he saw were Billy’s officers, Lou Pirelli and Hyla Harrison. Obviously summoned from off-duty, Lou wore a Braves T-shirt, baggy sweat shorts, and running shoes. He moved step by careful step around the perimeter of the crime scene, set off by yellow crime-scene tape. Lou’s flashlight beamed at the gray dusty ground. Hyla held a notebook, her reserved face preoccupied as she made quick notations. As always, Hyla’s uniform was fresh and crisp.

“Look.” Billy pointed at the pockets of the dead boy’s blue jean cutoffs. Both pockets were pulled out, the white interior lining distinct despite the gathering gloom. “Empty pockets. Same thing in back when we turned him over. Did somebody accost him, make him hand over everything in his pockets? I don’t think so. If he took everything out himself, why would he pull out the lining? That looks more like he was robbed after he died. Somebody pulled out the pockets, took everything he had.”

Max frowned. “He wouldn’t have had much. Anybody going to the trouble to kill someone to take their stuff would pick a victim with a better payoff. I’d be surprised if Click had ten bucks on him.”

Billy’s eyes narrowed. “Whatever he had, it was taken. The guy who found him, a tourist on a bike, said the pockets were pulled out. He buzzed 911. I called you when I saw the friendship band from the Haven. No ID on him. No cell phone. So maybe he had something that linked him to somebody. You say he wouldn’t have had much money. How about drugs?”

“Not Click.” Even as he spoke, Max knew drugs were al
ways a possibility. He didn’t believe that Click, who had been cheerful and eager to please and good-natured, had used drugs. He would have been shocked if Click sold drugs. But he had been shocked before.

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Billy’s voice reflected years of battling the deadly scourge found everywhere from the loveliest sea islands to New York penthouses to Iowa farm towns to L.A. slums. “Doc will run the tests. If he’s clean, then maybe he had an accident and some scum wandered by and cleaned him out. Anyway,” he clapped Max on the shoulder, “sorry to screw up your evening. Thanks for helping us out.”

A
NNIE LOVED MANY
aspects of their old-new home. Since she and Max had moved into their restored antebellum house, she’d especially enjoyed the golden pool of sunlight that flooded through the east windows of their master bedroom, especially in summer. They slept with the windows open, even though Texas-bred Annie was quick to hike up the air-conditioning in the daytime to combat the sticky, humid heat. The house had been designed to capture the night’s offshore breeze. Since Franklin House had ample surrounding land and no neighbor near enough to glance through their windows, the shutters were flung wide with nothing to impede the rosy early-morning sunshine.

Usually, Annie woke to the distant sounds of Max in the kitchen downstairs. Yesterday he’d made pineapple coffee cake and an omelet with fresh spinach and Parmesan.

This morning he stood on the balcony in his boxers, but there was no aura of a man joyfully greeting the day.

Annie rolled up on an elbow. “Max?”

Slowly, he turned and walked to the bed. He sat down on the edge, took one of her hands, his expression somber. His face softened. “Good morning, Mrs. Darling. Did you know you’re beautiful even with your hair tangled and no makeup? In fact,” he smiled, “you don’t need makeup.” His free hand smoothed back a lock of hair, traced her jawbone, lightly touched her lips. “Beautiful Annie. Sometimes that’s all I see. But then there are mornings like these,” the darkness in his eyes spoke of summer days when they had feared their life together was done, “and I know I can count on you. I have to go see Click’s family. You’ll come, too, won’t you?”

B
ROWARD’S
R
OCK WAS
always beautiful, even when marred by squalor. A breeze stirred Spanish moss in the live oak trees, some of the silky silver-gray tendrils brushing rusted hulks of old cars. Honeysuckle running amok half-hid a ramshackle shed, scenting the air as sweetly as expensive perfume. Two ruby-throated hummingbirds hovered over clusters of bright orange, trumpet-shaped creeper flowers twined in a drooping, barbed-wire fence.

A wooden shack, weathered to dull gray, appeared deserted. The porch sagged. Two treads were missing from the front stoop. A porch swing dangled from one chain. Flies crawled on a discarded fast-food container. The only sounds were the caw of crows and the whirr of insects.

Annie ducked from a cloud of flies. “Are you sure this is right?”

Max gestured toward the rural mailbox at the edge of the rutted road they’d followed. “The numbers match.” He shifted the cooler on his hip and took a big stride to the porch that
creaked beneath his weight. He reached the screen door. The front door was open to dimness within. “No bell.” He knocked, a firm bang that sounded overloud in the silence.

Annie cautiously gripped a splintery railing and pulled herself past the missing steps and onto the porch. “Where is everybody?” When someone died, people came. Family. Friends. Church. Neighbors.

Max banged again.

Steps sounded. Heavy, slow, shuffling steps. “Yeah.” A big man, a very big man, perhaps three hundred pounds, stood on the other side of the screen door. He was shirtless. Blue shorts hung beneath a bulging belly. He brought with him a smell of beer. In the dimness of the interior, he was hard to see, but he looked unsteady. One hand gripped the doorjamb.

“Mr. Garvey, I’m Max Darling. We met last year at the Haven summer program night.”

There was no response and no change of expression in the drooping face.

Max was somber. “I taught Hubert how to sail. I’m very sorry about his death. My wife and I brought some food.”

Garvey was slow to answer. Finally, he gestured. “You can take it next door. Miz Peebles is looking after everything.” He pointed vaguely to his left. “I got the day off.” He blinked again. “Thank you.” It was as if he drew the words from a long-ago memory. He turned away.

They walked in silence away from the house. “So much for that.” Max sounded resigned. “I wanted to ask him if everything had been the same lately with Click. I doubt he’d know or care.”

Annie nodded. “Drunk.”

“Yeah. Do you suppose Click’s little brother is in there? I’ll
ask Billy to check.” They followed a dusty path that disappeared around the honeysuckle-shrouded shed. “I’ll talk to some of Click’s friends at the Haven, see what I can find out.”

Annie hurried to keep up with his long strides. “Find out about what?”

Max’s look was a mixture of uncertainty and determination. “His death appears to be accidental, but there has to be a reason why his pockets were emptied. I want to make sure there’s no drug connection at the Haven. He was a good kid. But even good kids make mistakes.”

On the other side of the shed, the difference in properties was the difference between despair and joy. They faced the backyard. A vegetable garden groaned with plenty, snap peas, corn, cucumbers, squash, and watermelons. Four boys knelt in the heat, digging out weeds between rows. They looked dusty and sweaty.

A tall, thin black woman stood on the back porch of a recently painted white frame house. She held a tray with big glasses of lemonade and a plate of cookies. “Snack time, boys.” She came down the steps and carried the tray to a trestle table beneath the shade of a live oak tree.

Three of the boys scrambled up and ran, pushing one another, laughing, though they were careful not to trample any of the vegetables. Lagging behind was a little boy who shot them an anxious look as he climbed up on the bench.

The woman, crisp in a starched housedress, walked toward Annie and Max, her expression polite but reserved.

Max looked at her inquiringly. “Mrs. Peebles?”

She nodded, folded her hands, and waited.

“Mr. Garvey sent us over. He said you are taking care of everything for Hubert.”

Her lips folded for an instant into a thin line. “Somebody has to. I spoke to the preacher. The neighborhood’s taking up a collection. We’ll manage.”

“We brought some food.” Max held up the cooler.

Her face softened. “That’s mighty nice. People have been real kind. Ms. Hughes came this morning from the Haven. She thought a lot of Hubert. How did you know Hubert?”

“I volunteer at the Haven. I’m Max Darling. This is my wife, Annie.”

She smiled, her face softening. “I’ve heard about you, Mr. Darling. My granddaughter Samantha’s told me about you.”

Max looked eager. “Were Samantha and Hubert friends?”

She gestured toward the picnic table. “Hubert was older. Samantha’s the same age as Hubert’s brother Willie. He’s the little one. The one not laughing. Arlen sent him over this morning. He knows I’ll take care of Willie. Like I did Hubert. Their mother was my friend.”

Max looked toward the dejected little boy who slumped against the table, his face tight with misery. “Mrs. Peebles, I’d like to talk to Willie for a minute.”

Her smile disappeared. “Why?”

“He might know why his brother went to the nature preserve yesterday.”

She folded her arms. “Any rule on this island a black boy can’t go to the nature preserve?”

“It seems a funny place for him to go.”

Her face folded into stern lines. “I don’t need you to paint me a picture, Mr. Darling. You got it in your head Hubert was mixed up with something wrong, something hidden. I can tell you that isn’t true. I know boys. I’ve had a passel and raised them. One of mine went bad, sold drugs. He’s in prison now.
You know when they’re younger than Hubert if that’s the way they’re headed. I’m tired of a young black man dying and everybody thinking he had to have done something to deserve it. Arlen told me Hubert fell from the ladder on the viewing platform. Anybody can have an accident. As for talking to Willie, asking him about Hubert, that would just upset him more. I got Willie helping my boys in the garden. I’m going to get him good and tired and let them play in water from the sprinkler after supper and then Willie can sleep in with my Sam. As for Hubert, I can tell you Hubert was the same yesterday as every day I ever saw him, smiling at me and asking if he could help carry anything into the house. Willie sat on my back porch all yesterday afternoon, waiting for Hubert to come home. Hubert had told him he was going to take him on a shopping trip. But Hubert never came.”

T
he Haven building had once served as a small school on the north end of the island. The school had been closed and abandoned after World War II. James Frost, an ornithologist, retired to Broward’s Rock in the 1960s and bought the dilapidated structure along with a nearby home and barn. He restored the building for use as a studio. He began an informal association with the island high school, teaching summer classes on local birds. His favorite was the anhinga, and a carved black anhinga with its distinctive webbed feet perched atop the gable. He was a widower, his only son killed in the Battle of the Bulge. When Frost died in 1984, he bequeathed his home and property, including the studio, for use as a center for island youth. Under the leadership of two dynamic directors, the Haven had added several small structures, paved an outdoor basketball court, and graded a field for football and soccer. A pier poked out into a
good-size lake rimmed with cattails. Construction was almost complete on a new gym provided by Booth Wagner.

As Max’s Jeep curved around a stand of pines, Annie pointed at the anhinga, glistening with a coat of new black paint. “Laurel once said I reminded her of an anhinga.” She managed not to sound resentful. Almost.

Max looked stunned, but rallied quickly. “I’m sure she meant it as the highest compliment. Anhingas—” even Max was occasionally at a loss for words, “—anhingas,” he said manfully, “have spectacular orange beaks.” He eased the Jeep to a stop near the old school building that held the main office.

Annie nodded encouragement, waited expectantly.

“Anhingas, well, they swim like fish. So do you,” he concluded triumphantly. He popped out of the car with the air of a man who had surmounted a difficult challenge. At the front steps, he looked up in admiration at the glistening black bird. “After all, anhingas were Professor Frost’s favorite birds.”

Annie gave the carving a jaundiced glance and followed him inside.

Children worked on crafts in one room. Two burly teenage boys sweated in a vigorous Ping-Pong game. In the wi-fi nook, most of the worn beanbag chairs were occupied.

Jean’s office door was open. A ceiling fan stirred hot air. The old building didn’t run to air-conditioning. The room was small, perhaps twelve feet by fourteen, space enough for a worn wooden desk, two metal filing cabinets, and a couple of straight chairs. She held the phone, her face anxious. “…Everybody’s welcome this evening. The reception begins at seven thirty and the program will start about eight thirty. We’ll have free popcorn and Kool-Aid. Yes. Please come. Thank you.” She put down the
phone and looked at Max with wide, staring eyes. “Have you heard about Click?”

Annie had felt sorry for Jean yesterday. Now, she felt a quick liking. The director faced the loss of her job, but her first thought when she saw Max, whom she had begged to help her, was about the dead boy, not her own plight.

Max nodded. “Yes. I want to talk to you about him. May we come in?”

“Of course.” She glanced wearily around the room, tried ineffectually to straighten some papers.

They stepped inside, and Max closed the door.

“Everything’s kind of a mess.” Jean looked overwhelmed. “I’ve got to get things tidied up. Larry Gilbert—he’s one of the directors—called to say he was doing an inspection this morning. He said it’s his responsibility to report on the buildings and grounds at the board meeting next week. We’ve got a leak in the boys’ bathroom and I can’t help it that the plumber didn’t do a good job. And somebody broke the padlock on the prop shop near the outdoor stage.” She glanced at Annie. “Nothing’s messed up, thank God. Everything is where it should be for the show tonight. That would’ve been the last straw. Of all mornings for him to come—” She broke off. “Anyway this morning’s bad. And now the awful news about Click. Please sit down. I know those chairs aren’t very comfortable.”

The wooden chairs were rickety. Annie felt a splinter snag her skirt.

“Click was a nice boy. I don’t know why it’s always the nicest people who die young.” Jean choked back a sob, looked embarrassed. “It’s just…everything’s too much.” She took a deep breath. “Anyway, it’s awful about Click. We’re going to gather down at the lake at ten thirty—everyone who wants to come—
and say good-bye to him. Anybody can speak out, say what they remember or why he was special. I brought roses from home,” she pointed at a vase thick with pale white blooms, “and everyone can throw a rose in the water for him. You’re welcome to join us.”

Max’s reply was swift. “We would like to come.”

Jean’s eyes were bleak. “I have trouble believing he’s gone. Why, he was going to check out some things on my computer this morning. And the police say he died in the nature preserve. I can’t imagine why he went there. He never much liked being outdoors. I tried to get him to play some sports, but he was always too busy with video games or his laptop.”

Max asked quickly, “Why do you suppose he went to the nature preserve?”

The director shrugged. “I guess there had to be a reason. But he hated to be hot.”

Max looked somber. “Maybe he was meeting someone and he didn’t want anyone else to know.”

The director’s expression was puzzled. “Why would he do that?”

Max was blunt. “Drugs.”

“No.” Her reply was swift and certain. “Not Click.” A sudden smile touched her face. “A girl maybe. He was really starting to be interested in girls.” The smile fled. “But he wasn’t into drugs. I can tell. Great big eyes.”

Annie knew what Jean meant: dilated pupils. She might not have the vocabulary, but she had street smarts.

“Acting funny. Talking like your tongue is thick. Too much money.” She hesitated, then said, “Booth has plenty to say now about how unqualified I am for my job, but I can keep my mouth shut. We had a problem a few months ago. Nobody but the board knows. There was one of our kids, I tried hard to reach
him, get him to go into treatment, but I didn’t have any luck. The police set up a sting. He’s gone now. Nobody’s on drugs here. Whatever gave you that idea about Click?”

“He was found dead—maybe an accident, maybe not—in an isolated place where nobody goes on a hot July afternoon, except maybe a stray tourist. It was a tourist who found the body and called 911.” Max looked somber. “The police asked me to come and see if I could ID the body because he was wearing a Haven friendship bracelet. The police may not have released this information. Click’s pockets were pulled out. No ID, no billfold, no cell phone. Somebody took that stuff. So, my first thought is what could bring a kid to an isolated spot and get him killed. There’s one easy answer: drugs.”

“Not Click.” Jean spoke with finality. “As for his pockets, somebody came by, somebody who didn’t mind robbing a dead boy. Not that he would have had much. Anyway, Click wasn’t into drugs. You may think I don’t know what’s going on. Why don’t you talk to Click’s friends. They can tell you what’s what. Click hung out with Darren Dubois and Freddy Baker. You are welcome to talk to any of the kids. Eden Conway likes everybody. She pretty much knows everything that’s happening.”

O
UTSIDE IN THE
sunshine, Max looked thoughtful. “Sometimes three’s a crowd. Why don’t you wander around, talk to some of the girls. I’ll take care of Darren and Freddy.”

Annie grinned. “I get it. Guys talk to guys. That’s okay with me. It might even be a couple of degrees cooler inside.” She walked back up the steps and reentered the building.

Max strolled around the grounds. He heard a boy’s raucous shout. “Hey, Darren, bet you can’t make it over the hump.”

Max turned and headed for a stand of willows.

A new thirty-foot climbing wall, also a gift from Booth Wagner, was near the site of the new gym. Simulated concrete bulged like a granite overhang on a mountain peak. A half-dozen kids watched as Darren, almost six feet of lean and muscular strength, moved crabwise toward the steepest part of the overhang. Stringy blond hair waved in a brisk breeze. He was shirtless. Muscles rippled across his tanned back. He clung to one projection, then another.

Max opened his mouth to yell, closed it. This was no time to startle him.

Darren’s right hand edged higher, seeking a hold. Maybe he was sweating. Maybe he misjudged. His hand gripped, then slipped. For an instant, he flailed with that hand, wavered against the rocklike surface, then his fingers closed on a prong.

The boys below were silent, staring upward. One of them clutched the nearest boy’s arm in a tight grasp.

Darren’s breathing was labored.

Max moved forward. Maybe he could get up there, help him…

In a rapid ascent, as if propelling himself with determination, Darren went fast, hand over hand. He surmounted the bulge, and, in a moment, stood shakily on top. He was breathing fast, his face red. He called out in ragged bursts, “I did it, dudes. You got to pay up. Five bucks each. I made it up without the—” He saw Max, broke off.

Now Max yelled. “You signed the contract like everybody else.” Max’s voice was hard. “No climbing without the safety harness. What do you think you’re doing, Dubois?”

“I guess I forgot.” Darren’s tone was insolent. He moved a few steps, grabbed a thick line, and dropped safely to the ground.

Max strode toward him, ready to lay down the law. Then he saw Darren’s red-rimmed eyes. Beneath the bravado was misery. What do you do when your best friend is dead? Maybe you fling yourself up a wall, make it tough, make it hard, make it where you can’t think.

“You heard about Click?”

Anguish burned in those red-rimmed blue eyes. “Yeah.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.” Darren started to turn away.

“Darren, has everything been okay with Click lately?”

Darren stopped, frowning. “Okay? Yeah. Same old Click. All he did was work. He was always telling me I needed to shape up, follow the rules. What good did following the rules do him? He’s dead.” Darren’s voice was angry.

Max knew he couldn’t hold him, mustn’t hold him. He shot out one last quick question. “Why did he go to the nature preserve?”

Darren shook his head. “Man, I don’t get it. It’s the last place he’d go.” His face crumpled. “It’s the last place he went.” Tears glimmered in his eyes. He turned and ran.

“I
LIKE YOUR
drawing.” Annie smiled at Eden Conway, a sandy-haired teenager with big glasses, freckles, and a friendly expression.

Eden pushed back a stray curl from a mop of sun-bleached hair. She glanced at the sketch pad, added another dark circle to the raccoon’s tail, and smudged the dark mask around the eyes. “Thank you. I wish I could do better. See, I don’t have the paws right. They should look like they have little fingers.”

“Your raccoon’s face is perfect.”

Eden looked pleased. “I’ve worked on the mask all week.”

“Do you come to the Haven a lot?” Annie glanced around the art room. Kids of all ages drew, painted, modeled clay, and made posters. She expected some of the posters would be in evidence tonight at the talent show.

“Every day. I work in the kitchen at lunch and I make a little money. My brothers and sisters are here and I keep an eye on them.”

“Ms. Hughes said you know everything going on at the Haven.”

“Most things.” Eden was matter-of-fact. “I talk to everybody.”

“You knew Click Silvester.”

“Oh.” Eden’s voice was sad. “That’s awful. Click was kind of clumsy, but who’d think he’d fall off a platform?”

Clearly no one at the Haven suspected Click’s death to be anything other than accidental. Annie didn’t want to start a brush fire of gossip. “Eden, I’d like to ask you something on a confidential basis. Will you please not tell anyone?”

Eden looked wary. “How about my mom?”

“That would be fine. And the idea may be crazy. But Max and I are worried. Could Click have been mixed up in drugs?”

“Nope.” Eden was firm but understated, dealing politely with a grown-up’s foolishness. “Click’s dad died of a drug overdose and his uncle’s a drunk. Click was always warning the other kids about drinking and drugs.”

M
OST OF THE
intent faces in the video room belonged to boys. Max spotted Freddy Baker sitting cross-legged on the floor beneath a whirring ceiling fan.

“Hey, Freddy.”

Freddy looked up. He clicked off a DS and came to his feet. He was scruffy, scrawny, and usually hyper. His normally cheerful face was solemn. “Hi, Max. I talked another couple of guys into coming to the sailing class. Can I show them how to rig the sail?”

“That would be great.” Max knew Freddy, who was small for his age, was thrilled to find a sport where his agility paid off. A tenth-grader, Freddy was a head shorter than most of the guys his age. “Hey, Freddy, I hear you were one of Click’s buddies.”

“Yeah. I
was
.” He spoke as if the past-tense verb was strange.

“Had you talked to him lately?”

Freddy’s face was abruptly stricken. “Like yesterday. He was pumped. He was so excited about tonight I thought he’d bust.”

Max packed away his last worry about drugs. Kids into drugs didn’t get excited about talent shows.

Freddy’s lips quivered. “He told me he was going to have a special part that nobody knew about. He said it was a big secret. Now he’s not going to be here.” Brown eyes stared at Max, seeking help. “He’s not anywhere.”

M
AX SHADED HIS
eyes as he walked outside, seeking Annie. The mid-morning July heat washed over him. He glanced at his watch. If it was this hot a little after ten, the air would be baking by afternoon. He waved at several kids he knew. Encouraged by his talk with Freddy, he felt more confident the Haven remained a good and safe place for young people.

Max surveyed the grounds. Kids played soccer. A half-dozen fished from the pier. Max was suddenly alert. Larry Gilbert, who looked summer-comfortable in a blue polo, white slacks, and dark
sandals, stood near the tennis court, taking a photo with a digital camera. The net slacked in the middle and had a hole at one end.

According to Henny’s report to Annie, Larry’s vote might be ripe for the picking. Larry sold insurance and dabbled in various businesses. A first-rate tennis player, he was active on the social scene as a divorced bachelor. Several single moms had made a real effort to snag him, but he avoided commitments. He once told Max, as they cooled off with a Tom Collins after a tournament, women with kids were damned expensive and he’d rather spend money on stamps. He proudly described his collection, which included a three-cent Hawaiian missionary stamp and a 1918 Inverted Jenny. When Max failed to indicate the proper awe, Larry turned to Dale Swenson, who regularly took first in the club championship, and they plunged into a discussion of rare stamps and auctions.