Murder Walks the Plank (15 page)

“Oh no. You mustn't. That would never do. He would be even angrier….” She bent forward, buried her face in her hands.

“Maybe…” Pudge turned to Annie. “Look, Rachel
knows Cole. Maybe she can help us.” He hiked his chair closer to the table, leaned on his elbows, and talked twice as fast as he usually did. “Sometimes one kid can talk to another. And with all Rachel's been through—”

Oh, Pudge, Annie thought, you don't understand. Rachel doesn't want to share you with Sylvia, and her resentment is as hot and wild as bubbling lava.

“—with losing her mom. Maybe she can talk to Cole. His dad's still alive, and he loves Cole and Cole gets to visit him. I won't try to take his dad's place. I wouldn't do that.” Pudge's tone was forlorn.

Sylvia's hands dropped. She sniffed and opened her purse for tissues. She scrubbed at her cheeks, took a deep breath, wadded the tissues into a tight ball. “I'm sorry, Pudge.” The face she turned toward him was a map of misery, deep lines bracketing her eyes and lips, the muscles sagging. “I shouldn't have met you for lunch. There's nothing any of you can do.” She stared at Annie, her gaze empty of expression. “You don't like me—”

Annie lifted both hands in protest. “That's not true.” Suddenly she knew that it wasn't true. How could she resent this haggard, hurt woman? “No. It's just”—she didn't look toward Pudge—“it's hard to share.” She dredged out the painfully honest words.

“Share…” Sylvia's lips quivered. “That's what's wrong with Cole. That—and the divorce. He adores his dad. Oh—” She pushed back her chair so quickly it tumbled to the floor behind her, but she didn't appear to hear the noise, even though there was that peculiar instant of silence when something untoward occurs in a noisy crowded room. She thrust out a hand toward Pudge. “I'm sorry. Stay here. I've got to get back to work.
Maybe Cole will call.” Her eyes were sad but determined. “Maybe he'll come back….” She turned and walked swiftly away, her shoes clattering on the wooden floor.

Max rose, quickly lifted the fallen chair, pushed it up to the table. He returned to his seat, almost spoke, shook his head.

Lips in a tight line, Pudge watched until Sylvia was through the door.

Ben was a few feet away, two bowls of steaming chowder on his expertly held tray. He ducked his head, placed a bowl before Pudge, retreated with the second serving.

Pudge slumped in his chair. He looked old. Defeated.

Annie was suddenly angry. Maybe she didn't like Sylvia after all. “That's rude.” She glared toward the front door, but Sylvia was gone.

Pudge's defense was immediate. He sat up straight. “She's got to try and get Cole to come home. He walked out last night. He yelled at her that she didn't care about him, all she cared about was me.” For an instant there was a glow in his eyes, then memory quenched the light. “It's a mess. Sylvia and Sam just got divorced a year ago and she hated to take Cole so far away from his dad—they lived in Chicago—but she wants to make it on her own. She gets child support but nothing more. That's the way she wants it.” His voice was admiring.

“Anyway, Cole hates her seeing me and he hates school. This summer he hung out at the park with his skateboard. That's how he met Stuart Reed. He's Wayne Reed's son. Cole's at the Reed house now. He went over there last night and he says he's not coming
back as long as Sylvia has anything to do with me. I talked to Wayne this morning. He advises Sylvia to play it cool. He thinks Cole will get homesick and the best thing is just to let him hang out over there for a while.” Pudge made no effort to pick up his spoon.

“Trouble is”—Pudge looked around, lowered his voice despite the roar of conversation that ricocheted from the wooden rafters to the floor and back again—

“Sylvia doesn't like Stuart. She thinks he's a bad influence. Cocky and insolent. Spoiled. Stuart's the only reason Cole was on the boat Sunday night. Wayne had a bunch of tickets—he's big on island civic stuff—and he told Stuart to round up some friends. Cole sure wouldn't have come with us. Oh hell.” Pudge pushed the bowl of chowder out of the way. “I don't know what to do. I know you and Max”—his glance at Annie was confiding—“eat here a lot. I thought if Sylvia and I kind of ran into you, maybe we'd get together and you'd help us. Anyway, I decided to bring her here and see if we'd find you. Annie, if you'd talk to Rachel, maybe she could explain to Cole that I'm not such a bad guy.” He looked at her eagerly.

Not such a bad guy…Annie felt the sting of tears. She blinked, managed a bright smile. “Testimonials by the dozen.” But she had a vivid picture of Rachel scowling, lips drawn back like a hissing cat. “Uh, you know, it's a nice idea about Rachel, but I don't know if they know each other”—she saw the hope drain out of Pudge's face—“and kids can be really shy. You know, a girl and a guy.” She knew she was babbling. She had to do something to encourage Pudge. She could never tell him how Rachel felt. But maybe there was a solution. “I'll talk to Cole. I've been planning on seeing him anyway.”

Pudge looked at her in surprise. Max fished in his bowl for whiting, his expression skeptical.

Annie focused her attention on Pudge. Max could continue in his stubborn male fashion to think Pamela's fall was an accident. She knew better. “You see”—her voice was earnest, and this was true so it sounded well—“Cole was on the upper deck where Pamela went overboard.” Her enthusiasm grew. She would do her best at some point in the conversation to urge Cole to give Pudge a chance, but what a heaven-sent opportunity to talk to the person who had been nearest Pamela when she went overboard. “I want to find out as much as I can about the circumstances. I feel I owe it to Pamela's family. I'll get in touch with Cole later today.”

Pudge's rounded face re-formed from sadness to gratitude, his gray eyes glowing, his lips curving in a smile.

Annie tried not to look as stricken as she felt. It was terribly unlikely that she could make a difference in Pudge's effort to forge a relationship with Cole. Always prone to impulsive actions, she clapped her hands together. “And we'll invite Sylvia and Cole over to dinner Friday night. Max can grill hamburgers.”

“Oh, that's great, Annie.” Pudge looked upbeat, excited. “I'll tell Sylvia and Cole to bring their swimsuits.” Some of the eagerness seeped from his face.

“Yeah. If he comes home. But you'll make it happen, I know you will. Annie, you're the best.” He was up and out of his chair, flinging his napkin on the table. He pulled out his wallet, dropped two twenties on the table. “That'll take care of lunch. And have some pineapple upside-down cake for dessert.” Pudge knew
what Annie loved. “I've got to let Sylvia know.” Pudge grabbed Annie's hands for a quick squeeze. “She'll be so happy.” He bent, kissed the top of Annie's head, whispered, “Thank you, honey.” He strode away from the table, almost breaking into a run, ducking around waiting customers and out the door.

Annie avoided looking at Max. She picked up her sandwich, took a bite. It was as delicious as usual, but she needed more than succulent flounder to revive her spirits. There was a lengthy pause. Max spooned. She bit and chewed.

Max poured the last of his beer. “I suppose”—his tone was conversational—“that you have a plan. Some way to change Cole's attitude, bring him home, convince him that Pudge is a great guy?”

Annie determinedly ate.

“No? Problem is, I don't think the earth is going to open up and swallow either one of us.” He sighed. “So between now and Friday night, we've got to come up with a miracle.”

 

Sweat trickled down Annie's face. Her blouse stuck to her. All the car windows were down and the sea breeze swept over her, but that wasn't much comfort on an August afternoon. Usually she got out and leaned against the railing as the ferry chugged steadily across the Sound toward the mainland, watching the laughing gulls, welcoming the ever-fresh scent of the sea, clapping when dolphins made a graceful arc above the water. Today she wanted to learn as much as she could as fast as possible, all the while ignoring the potential for disaster when Sylvia, Pudge, and possibly Cole arrived at the Darling house Friday night. What was she going to say to Rachel?
Maybe her subconscious would figure out a good approach. But for now…

She finished Max's dossier on Meg. The sentences were brief, but they evoked the picture of a flamboyant, independent—some might say self-centered—woman who went her own way. Meg most likely saw her decisions as honest. Annie wondered about Meg's mother, her children, the men she had loved and left or lost. What price had others paid for Meg to enjoy her freedom? Had she paid the ultimate price? And always, sorrowful as the distant cry of a mourning dove, there was the image of Pamela, serious, earnest, kind, and now dead because she tried to do good.

Annie's face was stern. No matter how long it took, whatever she had to do, Pamela's death wasn't going to be ignored. And Annie was afraid that Billy would separate her death from Meg's unless a direct link could be proven. Maybe there was some hint, some clue in Max's summary of these lives. She began to read:

There was a picture from a June 22, 1971,
Atlanta Constitution
sports page. The computer print had obviously been scanned from an old clipping, but even so there was vibrancy and energy in the replica of the yellowed newsprint. Brown cradled a silver trophy in one arm. His other curved around Meg's shoulders. Their faces were inches apart, caught in a moment of exuberant joy. He was sunburned, his dark hair damp from heat and exertion, a generous mouth stretched in a triumphant smile. Meg's spectacular beauty—the narrow, intelligent face, deep-set eyes, hollow cheeks—was evident despite windswept hair and too much sun. Two happy people captured forever in a sunlit moment before the shadows came.

Annie wondered what the memory of that day had meant to each of them. She turned to the next sheet:

There were no photographs with this sparse report. Possibly Meg had pictures in old scrapbooks of this husband to whom she had been so briefly married. Or possibly not. Was Meg the kind of woman to have keepsakes? Perhaps her daughter would know.

In the margin, Max had scrawled: First things first.

Annie laughed, then continued reading. Not much she didn't know. Neither Jenna nor Jason had to work. They were TFBs, thanks to the generosity of their stepfather. Her eyes lingered on the abbreviation. Trust Fund Baby. It was a way of life for the Brown children. And for her own husband. Max knew her Puritan ethic had always equated work with worth, but now she was wise enough—she hoped—to understand that there was more to any person than a job. Still, what was life without work? All right, all right. What was her life without work? She knew the answer to that one. Let others find their own answers. And Max was working hard for her—and for Pamela—right this minute.