Murder Walks the Plank (4 page)

R
ACHEL STOOD IN THE SHADOW
of the lifeboat as the
Island Packet
moved slowly out of the harbor. It was sickening to see Pudge grovel in front of that woman. Rachel deliberately avoided looking at Sylvia, not wanting to recognize the distress that made the attractive woman look old beyond her years. She concentrated on Pudge. Last week when they'd talked about the mystery cruise, he'd promised to meet her at the stage to watch Annie's play, saying he'd bet six chocolate sundaes against a root beer float that he'd turn in a verdict card before she did. She'd grinned, knowing he would let her turn her card in first and take her to the soda fountain six times to pay off the bet. Despite the thick heat of the August night, she felt cold. He wouldn't meet her now. She knew it without any doubt. He'd forgotten all about his promise.

Sylvia turned, took a step toward the bow, calling out, “Cole, we're over here.”

Rachel edged farther back into the shadow. The hard ridge of the lifeboat poked into her back. She glared at the figure moving in a reluctant shamble toward Pudge and Sylvia.

Cole Crandall wasn't much taller than Rachel. He
looked unfinished, all elbows and knees, in a floppy pink shirt, baggy black shorts, and high-top black sneakers. He might have been nice-looking if he didn't have such a morose expression. The thought was grudging, because she loathed him and his mother, and his face was just like his mom's, heart-shaped with dark eyebrows like streaks of coal, mournful dark eyes, and a pointed chin.

Sylvia looked hopefully at her son. “We're so glad you decided to come after all.”

Rachel twined a strand of hair on one finger, pulled it to her lips. So Sylvia and Pudge had asked Cole to come with them. Resentment burned deep inside. Pudge hadn't asked her. Cole obviously had blown them off, yet here he was on the cruise.

“Yeah.” His answer was clipped.

Sylvia managed a lopsided, uncertain smile. Her gaze was pleading. “Cole, Pudge thought it would be fun if we all went together to watch the mystery play—”

Rachel felt as if her heart were twisting inside her. They were asking Cole to go with them.

Cole didn't look toward Pudge. It was as though Pudge didn't exist and there was simply space next to his mother, not a stocky middle-aged man with anxious eyes.

“I'm with some guys. I only came because Stuart's dad had some extra tickets and wanted a bunch of us to use them. Anyway, they're waiting for me.” He turned away, his gaze once again avoiding Pudge, and hurried toward the bow.

The invisible man looked after him.

Rachel wanted to shout to Pudge that he shouldn't care so much. Cole wasn't worth caring about. He was a jerk. A nobody. Pudge took a step toward the bow, then
Sylvia caught at his sleeve. Pudge would go after Cole, but he wouldn't remember his promise to her.

Rachel wormed to the other side of the lifeboat, fled toward the stairs.

 

Annie took a step back. She wasn't facing the Three Furies, but she had a definite sense of unfinished business about to be dumped in her lap.

“Annie!” Emma Clyde, the imposing island mystery author, gestured imperiously. “We need you on the bow.” The ocean breeze billowed her black-and-silver caftan. Tonight Emma's springy curls were as silver as mercury. Her nails were silver also. Magenta lip gloss was the only touch of color. And, of course, the glacier blue of eyes that could quell any talk show host.

“Annie.” Mrs. Ben clamped reddened hands to her white apron. “You got to come down to the galley. Five of those treasure hunters are poking around by my stove and I can't heat up beans with the galley full of squatters.”

“Annie”—Mavis Cameron, wife of the island's acting police chief, was apologetic—“there may be a problem at the bow. Billy sent me.” Mavis looked young and pretty in a candy-striped dress.

Annie prioritized. Billy Cameron was not an alarmist. She held up a hand to Emma and Mrs. Ben, turned to Mavis. “What's wrong?”

Mavis pointed forward. “There's a rowdy bunch of guys right at the front railing. High school boys. A lot of pushing and shoving. Billy thought he smelled beer. Anyway, he said if it's all right with you, he'll ask the boys to help him patrol the boat, tell them there's been word of a pickpocket and he'd like for them to take up posts around the boat and keep their eyes peeled.”

Annie had provided free tickets for Billy and Mavis. The salary of an acting police chief didn't run to seventy-five-dollar tickets. Bless Billy for taking a busman's holiday. And for the wit and guile to channel rambunctious teenagers. “That's a great idea, Mavis. Please tell Billy I appreciate it.”

Mavis's smile was warm. “He's glad to help. He was afraid things might get out of hand and somebody could get pushed overboard. Besides, he's not in a hurry to arrest Stuart Reed. Though,” she added quickly, “he certainly will if he has to.”

“That Reed boy”—Mrs. Ben was diverted—“needs a comeuppance. He and a bunch of his friends were throwing food and stuff on a Friday night a couple of weeks ago—and that's our biggest night of the week—and it made a big mess, and a can of pop broke the window of the jukebox. When Ben called his papa about it, Mr. Reed said he'd pay for any damage, and Ben said that wasn't the point, that Mr. Reed needed to settle that boy down, and Mr. Reed said boys would be boys and Ben said maybe so but he didn't want any of those boys to show a face inside Parotti's ever again. Mr. Reed got mad and hung up. If Stuart Reed's on board he better watch himself, or Ben will put him off on a sandbar and let his papa figure out how to get him back.”

“In the meantime”—Emma was brusque—“Jolene”—she nodded her silver curls at Mrs. Ben—“has a galley to tend and Henny's short an actress for the play. She got a call on her cell from the gal who's supposed to be Periwinkle. She's at the emergency room with her husband, who was doing wheelies on his motorcycle and broke his wrist.”

Annie caught Mavis as she was turning away.
“After you talk to Billy, could you give Henny some help? It's easy. Everything's in the script.”

Mavis agreed, Emma departed to rejoin the costume committee, and Annie followed Jolene Parotti down the steps to the galley.

The recalcitrant five, fortune hunters all, were crammed in front of the stove. Annie greeted the mayor, the high school principal, a vacationer wearing an Ohio University T-shirt, a member of the Altar Guild, and a potter.

“Annie!” Five voices called out with loud complaints. “…says right here, five steps north, six steps south…supposed to be a little chest with cards”—the mayor waggled two cards—“…not fair to keep us out. The others will be getting ahead….”

Annie reached for the mayor's Treasure Map. There was a tug-of-war. “I'll give it back,” she said gently.

His plump fingers reluctantly released the sheet, his pouter pigeon face puffed with impatience.

Annie held up the map, pointed to the first instruction. “Remember, the searches all begin at the Treasure Chest painted on the deck by the pilothouse.” Annie was perhaps inordinately proud of the Treasure Map. The directions for each hidden chest contained the number of steps from the pilothouse and an enigmatic clue.

The mutiny in the galley pertained to chest number four. Annie read, “Five steps down—”

The potter clawed at his black beard. “Yeah, yeah. If you follow the steps, you end up in the corridor, and here's the galley, and if it has something to do with food—”

The vacationing buckeye rattled his sheet. “Let's cut to the chase. Right here”—a stubby forefinger tapped instruction number four—“it says: Hint—A carnival delight to some, but this one makes no crumbs.”

Five sets of eyes glared at Annie.

If they cared that much…She said airily, “One of my favorite foods at the carnival is funnel cake, but on a boat…” She drew back against the bulkhead as the five stormed past her, thudding into the corridor and heading for the bow and the funnel.

Mrs. Ben shook her head. “I declare. What some folks will do to win a prize that probably don't amount to a hill of beans. If you don't mind my saying so. Now”—she moved toward the stove—“to
my
beans.”

“They smell wonderful.” Annie sniffed brown sugar and molasses and realized she was starving. She turned and hurried toward the stairs. She needed to check on the buffet, and find Rachel, and say hello to everybody.

Annie poked her head into the main saloon. Ben Parotti, natty in a Jack Nicklaus green blazer, lifted a hand in greeting. Ben had reminded Annie of a scruffy gnome until he met and married Miss Jolene and exchanged his long underwear tops and baggy coveralls for the latest in menswear from Belk's. His café had always been the island's premier eating spot, and as far as Annie was concerned Ben's fried oyster sandwich couldn't be bested. Tonight he was a genial host as well as boat owner and caterer.

“Eaten yet, Annie?” His gravelly voice exuded cheer. “The hush puppies are barking.”

She grinned. “Pretty soon, Ben. Just making sure everything's going all right.” The buffet line was moving quickly. She wrinkled her nose. Hmm. Hot fried fish, what a great smell. But work came first….

On the lower deck, she stopped near the bookstall. Duane Webb, Ingrid's husband, was swamped. She hurried upstairs to find Ingrid equally busy on the
upper deck. Annie was nearing the finish of her circuit when she saw a thin figure all alone at a side rail.

Annie stopped beside Rachel. “Hey, come with me and let's see how the play's doing.”

Her young stepsister hunched her shoulders. In the moonlight her thin face was hard and still as alabaster. She yanked at the neck of her oversize striped T-shirt, shook her head violently.

Annie slipped an arm around rigid shoulders. She didn't know what to say. Was it better to say nothing or—

“Annie”—Rachel's voice was choked—“look!” A wavering finger pointed down to the deck below.

It took a moment for Annie's eyes to distinguish the couple embracing near the stern. Sylvia Crandall stood with her head pressed against Pudge's shoulder. Annie knew this was not passion. This was pain. Her father awkwardly patted Sylvia's back, a gesture of consolation.

Rachel shoved her hands into the pockets of her baggy shorts. “I'd push Cole right into the water if I could.” She jerked to face Annie. “You should have seen the way he treated Pudge. He wouldn't speak to him. He wouldn't even look at him. He turned his back on Pudge to talk to his mom and then he slouched away.”

Annie was puzzled. “Cole?”

“Cole Crandall.” Her tone dripped disgust. “He's in my class. Thinks he's so special. Just like his mom.”

Annie made a guess. “Is he a friend of Stuart Reed?”

Rachel's eyes widened.

Annie tweaked a dark curl. “No black magic. I'm fresh out of chicken entrails, but some guys were being
rowdy downstairs, and Billy's enlisted their help to be on the lookout for a pickpocket.”

“Those guys get to help Billy?” Rachel's voice was shrill. “Honestly, that's not fair. They already think they're special. Stuart Reed's rich and good-looking and he never lets anybody forget it. He has all these guys who follow him around and do whatever he says. I can't believe Billy would pick them to help him! And Pudge is all soppy about Sylvia and wants to be a buddy to Cole. Well, if Pudge wants to hang out with Cole he can forget me. But then”—her voice wavered—“I guess he already has. Oh, I hate everybody.” She pulled away from Annie and rushed toward the steps.

Annie stared after her. Lordy.

 

Max Darling balanced two paper plates above his head as he worked his way around the customers massed at the book booth on the upper deck. Ingrid briskly made change and handed a purchase to a customer, then shouted, “Twenty-three.” Maybe Annie should teach marketing at the community college on the mainland. Max had nodded politely when she told him she'd ordered dispensers with numbered slips for the book booths, which would be manned by Ingrid on the upper deck and her husband, Duane, on the lower. Annie had explained earnestly, “The boat isn't big enough for long lines. This way everyone pulls off a number, and Ingrid or Duane call each number in turn. Mystery readers like for everything to be orderly. And fair. They are very big on fair.” Darned if she wasn't right. The crowd was good-humored, festive, and buying books at a rate that astonished him. Father Patton, the associate rector, was encumbered with two stuffed book bags, his face
wreathed in a triumphant smile. He was a special fan of James Lee Burke.

Max found Annie on the platform near the pilothouse. She was silhouetted in the moonlight, graceful as a bronze of Diana. He stopped to admire her, a frequent and favorite pursuit. The wind ruffled her blond hair, tugged at her blouse. Enthusiastic, happy, serious, hardworking, levelheaded Annie, who lighted up his life. And later tonight…His grin was big enough to encompass Alaska.

She lifted her arms, held her hands high above her head to clap vigorously. “Huzzah!”

Max joined her, looked over the railing at the audience crowding near the raised platform near the bow. Henny Brawley swept off her hat, took a bow. Always fond of emulating favorite detectives, tonight she sported a brown fedora and rumpled, stained tan trench coat. Max suspected Lieutenant Columbo had served as her inspiration. She was beaming though flushed, which was understandable as the coat was a bit much for an August night though perfect for her role as Inspector Maguffin.

Annie pointed down to the forward deck, whispered, “She just described the setting, the old plantation house with wraparound porches surrounded by live oaks, a lagoon with an eight-foot alligator, a terraced garden with azaleas in full bloom, a raccoon who comes every evening to listen to Mozart, Wanda's room with the evening sun shining on the heart pine floor and the emerald necklace on the dresser.” Annie heaved a happy sigh. She knew the play by heart. “Now she's going to introduce the characters at the time of the theft, according to their later testimony.” Annie took a plate filled with crisp fried fish, Ben's homemade sweet
potato chips, tangy coleslaw, baked beans, and those barking hush puppies. “Huzzah to you, too. I'm starving.” They balanced their plates on the wooden railing, just wide enough to serve as a table.