by Carolyn Hart
“No kidding?” Max poked the putter in his golf bag, which he often brought to the office. Just in case. He might be called upon to solve the Mystery of the Disappearing Golf Balls, though everybody on the island knew better than to fish around in the lagoons for errant shots. Water hazards lived up to their name on the South Carolina barrier islands, which harbored many alligators as well as buckets of balls.
“I’d settle for a case.” He strolled toward his desk. There might be a copy of the most recent Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. When Annie asked how his day had gone, as she would, he could truthfully report that he was keeping up with news in the field. And maybe there would be a new Robert Barnard story.
“Something will turn up.” Barb gave him a sunny smile.
Barb’s cheerful demeanor was one reason Max liked having her as his secretary. Besides, she was always able to occupy herself, even when there wasn’t really any work to be done. Recently, she’d created a snazzy web page for the office: a huge magnifying glass, a jaunty deerstalker hat, and “Confidential Commissions” in art deco typeface. It included the ad that appeared daily in the personals column of the Island Gazette: “Troubled, puzzled, curious? Whatever your problem, contact Confidential Commissions.”
In addition to the phone number, the web page offered an E-mail address. Whenever a prospective client called, Max was always quick to point out that although he was a lawyer, he was not practicing law since he’d never been admitted to the bar of South Carolina, and he wasn’t, as he stressed to local law-enforcement officials, a private detective. He was simply in the business of helping people with unusual problems. A counselor, so to speak.
Barb pushed her glasses higher on her nose, which gave her a scholarly appearance. She would have been the first to admit that appearances definitely can be deceiving. “My horoscope said, ‘Be alert. A surprise call requires extra effort.’ So don’t worry. My horoscope’s never wrong.”
She gave him another cheerful grin as she closed the door.
Max settled behind his Italian Renaissance desk. Yes, there was the magazine, resting next to an absolutely untouched legal pad. He picked up the magazine, leaned back in his well-padded chair. But instead of reading, he studied the photograph in the silver frame that sat on his desk.
Short blond hair with streaks of gold framed a face always lovely to him. Serious gray eyes looked at him steadily. Wonderful, fun, happy Annie, despite her incredible propensity for work. Dear Annie. Always striving. He was no expert on genealogy but he was sure Annie’s forebears must have been Puritans. In fact, this very morning Annie had suggested, not too gently, that perhaps Max might like to close down Confidential Commissions since his last client had been several months ago. Max didn’t see why she was concerned. As Barb said, something always turned up. Actually, he wasn’t averse to periods of quiet. Perhaps Annie had never truly recognized his capacity for reflection. Max grinned at the photograph. That was the ticket. This evening, he’d tell Annie he was simply in a reflective phase—
His door opened. Barb poked her head in. “A client.” It was practically a warble. A muscular middle-aged man hurried in.
Max came around the Italian Renaissance desk, hand outstretched. “Hi, Luther. How are you?”
The stocky black man’s big-cheeked face was deeply creased with laugh lines. He attempted a smile. It hung for a moment like forgotten laundry on a wash line, then he looked somberly at Max. “Poorly, Max. Poorly. I’ve come to see if you can help me.”
Luther Kinnon had his own business, Island Landscapes. He’d kept Max and Annie’s garden and lawn in excellent shape for several years. Luther’s wife, May, worked at a day-care center. They had four children, the oldest a partner with Luther, the second a local chef, the third a teacher in Savannah. The fourth, Samuel, had graduated from high school in May.
They shook hands, and Max gestured to the chair that faced his desk, a chair not too often in use. Max was sorry if Luther had problems but eager to prove the viability of his enterprise. That morning, when Annie had proposed that he close Confidential Commissions, Max had replied that he could not in good conscience do that. Why? she’d inquired. Because, he replied, there was no other office on the island or in all of the state that provided its customers with his original and particular talents. He was, he announced grandly, a facilitator. What, Annie had inquired darkly, was a facilitator? One, Max replied firmly, who facilitates. He had then observed in the spirit of a man making a purely philosophical comment that Annie’s expression, though of course well-meant, reminded him irresistibly of Agatha when she contemplated a fanged attack. On that note, he’d kissed his wife cheerily and strode down the boardwalk to Confidential Commissions, leaving Annie at the door to Death on Demand.
Now he settled behind his desk and looked at a weary and worried man. “What’s wrong, Luther?”
Luther’s strong hands gripped the chair arms. “Max, I want you to find Samuel. He didn’t come home last night.” The older man’s eyes were milky with fatigue and fear. “And”—his voice was low, almost inaudible—“the police are looking for him.”
“For Samuel?” Max remembered Samuel Kinnon clearly. He’d been in his early teens when Max first hired Luther to keep the lawn and gardens. Max had watched Samuel grow from a slim kid to a big young man topping six feet, a young man with a ready grin and a cheerful disposition, who worked hard for his dad and older brother and who’d made a name for himself on the local sports page as a promising young golfer in the program run by the Haven. But even good kids could get in a lot of trouble. Max hoped Samuel wasn’t in big trouble. “What’s the problem, Luther?”
Luther hunched forward. “Somebody pushed a big vase off the library roof yesterday and it almost hit General Hatch. The general says Samuel did it. The general and Samuel—they had words outside the library just before the vase came down.” He pulled a handkerchief from a back pocket, wiped it over his face. “It’s a damn lie. But the police are looking for Samuel. I’m afraid they’ll arrest him.”
“Did you talk to Samuel?” Max picked up a pen and pulled a clean legal pad closer.
Luther’s eyes fell. “He didn’t come home last night.” His voice was anguished. “But I know Samuel didn’t do it. I want you to find him, tell him to come home. Tell him we’ll fight it. We’ll get a lawyer.”
Max tapped the pen on his desk. “I know the general’s managed to irritate a lot of people. Why was Samuel mad at him?”
Luther leaned back in the chair, stared blankly at a life-size bronze sculpture of a golfer teeing off, his three-wood at the top of its back swing. Visitors to Max’s office had been known to stop short and exclaim, “Won’t the ball break the window?” before they realized they were addressing a statue. Annie had given the sculpture to Max for their third wedding anniversary. Max smiled every time he looked at it.
Luther balled the handkerchief tight in one hand and stared down at it. “Last week, the general got the director of the Haven to fire Samuel. Samuel was teaching wood-working to the middle-school kids.”
Max balanced the pen between his forefingers and waited.
The older man’s gaze slid back to Max. “The general’s got himself on the board and he has lots of ideas of how to improve the Haven. He came into Samuel’s class one day and the kids were having a paper airplane fight and they were running and giggling and one of them ran right into the general. He told Samuel he needed to make his kids shape up, learn to stand at attention when an adult came in the room, speak respectfully. Anyway, Samuel told him this was a place for kids to have fun and they didn’t have to sit still and be quiet.” Luther rubbed his face with the wadded-up handkerchief. “Next thing Samuel knew, the director—Mrs. Kerry—told him she was sorry but the general was threatening to get some of the funding cut off and she was going to have to let Samuel go. She paid him up-to-date. Samuel asked for a reference and she was embarrassed, she wouldn’t look him in the eye, but she said she couldn’t do that. Samuel said he
needed the reference from his summer job to be able to get a student job at the college next fall. She told him she’d had her instructions from the board. Samuel has to work to be able to go to school. He’s real worried about it.”
“So Samuel was pretty mad?” On the legal pad, Max sketched the front of the library, minus one vase.
Luther’s voice deepened. “He had a right to be mad. The general had no call to treat Samuel like that. The general wants black people to say ‘Yes, sir, no, sir’ to him and to clean up his yard. But he doesn’t want us to have a job a white boy could have.”
Max rubbed the side of his nose with the cap of his pen. “Luther, what makes you—”
“I don’t think. I know. A white boy got Samuel’s job, the son of a friend of the general’s. And he’s a no-account kid who’s never been able to keep a job.” Luther folded his arms across his chest, looked grimly at Max. “I got a friend who does the maintenance there. He told me all about it.”
Racism still reared its ugly head, racism and sexism and all the other-isms. Max knew that. He didn’t doubt Luther’s word. That might infuriate a kid who’d played the game straight and done his best and now might see his chance to go to college shot down for no good reason.
Luther planted two big hands on his knees. “Yeah, it’s a rotten deal. But even so, I know my son. He wouldn’t sneak around and shove something off a roof at a man, no matter how bad a man he might be. Samuel wouldn’t do it. But the general’s blaming him. We’ve got to find Samuel. I know he’s scared. I’m afraid something bad may happen to him.”
A black teenager with the police after him—yes, something bad could happen. Max nodded. “Okay. I’ll do my best. First, who are Samuel’s friends? Let’s start there. Somebody has to know where Samuel is.”
It was bumper-to-bumper on the dusty library road. The traffic moved at a crawl, so Annie had plenty of time to check out the front of the library. Three vases. Not that she would have expected a replacement the very next day, but the empty pedestal was incredibly noticeable. The drive in front of the library was clear, however. The broken pieces of pottery and the clumps of dirt and the masses of flowers were gone.
Annie finally found a place to park in a spillover lot past the regular parking area. Women streamed toward the rear of the library. Women’s voices, rising and falling like the chirp of Carolina wrens, made a light counterpoint to the bang of hammers and call of men setting up a series of low stages in a semicircle. A temporary band shell was also under construction across a grassy expanse. The lagoon behind the band shell shimmered in the summer sun. Friday night, the fireworks would be set off from a boat in the middle of the lagoon. Admission to the festival grounds cost five dollars for adults, one dollar for children.
Annie got out of her Volvo, waving hello to several friends. The entire scene was summery and cheerful. She felt a thrill of anticipation. This Fourth was going to go down in Broward’s Rock history as the best ever despite Bud Hatch. Feeling magnanimous, she thought it would be fine to have Hatch’s Points of Patriotism along with the celebration of South Carolina women. After all, there were great South Carolinians of both sexes. Annie understood Henny’s wish to concentrate on the contributions of women since they rarely received the focus of attention. On a beautiful day like this, however, who needed controversy?
Annie wondered if Hatch was already in the meeting room. If he’d parked in front he might not be aware of the turnout for the board meeting.
The second-floor hallway was crowded.
“Hi, Annie.” “Hello, Annie.” “Is Mary Higgins Clark’s latest novel in?” “How’s Max?” “Do you have an autographed copy of Sparkle Hayter’s new book?”
Annie smiled, nodded, and replied as she moved slowly with the crowd of women in summery frocks. Inside the meeting room, all the chairs were taken. Women were standing at the back. Henny sat behind a table at the front, looking over the capacity audience. She was much too savvy to look openly satisfied, but Annie was certain Henny was glowing inside.
So there, Bud Hatch.
Annie’s sense of triumph was short-lived.
Hatch strolled up the center aisle, shaking hands, smiling, as self-possessed as if all the chattering women were there for his benefit.
Annie slowly worked her way toward the front. Everybody who was anybody was in attendance. She spotted blunt-faced Emma Clyde, the island’s claim to literary fame, creator of Marigold Rembrandt, America’s most famous fictional sleuth. Emma nodded genially.
“Annie!” The hoarse tone was urgent.
Annie looked down.
Miss Dora thrust a charcoal drawing into Annie’s hands. “You can hang it from the board table. Everyone will see it.”
Including the general? Annie wondered.
The old lady didn’t wait for an answer, thumping past with an armload of drawings.
When Annie reached the table, she unrolled the drawing and saw a portrait of a striking black woman with a broad, strong face, a brush of white hair and a joyous smile. In Miss Dora’s spidery script, Annie read at the bottom of the sheet: “Mary McLeod Bethune, who rose from sharecropper’s daughter to walk the halls of the mighty always in search of support for the education of black youth. Patterned after the portrait which hangs in the South Carolina State House.” She grabbed a couple of empty water glasses and used them to anchor the drawing in front of the end seat.
“I’m so glad it’s warm in here,” Laurel confided, her husky voice brimming with cheer. She handed Annie an old-fashioned paper fan, bright red with scalloped edges.
Now that Laurel mentioned it, Annie realized the library’s always inadequate cooling system was overborne by the throng of visitors. She had that old familiar Jell-O feeling, as if she were submerging in moist, warm air. She looked around and realized there was another sound in addition to women’s voices, the swish-swish of paper fans vigorously waved.
Laurel waggled a fan at Annie and moved on, leaving behind a faint scent of lilac. Laurel should have looked absurd in a red-white-and-blue cotton blouse and skirt but instead was probably going to set a new style on the island as women turned their heads in envy and admiration. How, Annie wondered, did Laurel do it? Of course, it helped to be captivatingly lovely, slim with golden hair and exuding a mystique compounded of great wealth, utter confidence, and dazzling charm.
Annie glanced down. She wondered what Shakespeare would think could he see his words blazoned on fans: “They do not love that do not show their love.” Certainly the verse was easily read, white against red. Annie’s eyes crinkled in concern. But, simply because Laurel quoted from a poet, surely it did not mean she was taking the poem personally. Did it? It was certainly the route to madness to try and divine order and meaning in Laurel’s enthusiasms.
Annie slipped around the table and took the end chair at the left. She waved the fan, welcoming the tiny breeze, and scanned the room for Laurel’s golden head and slim form. Why had Laurel hidden in the library ladies’ room yesterday? There had to be a reason. Annie spotted her mother-in-law near the windows, smiling and offering fans. Shakespeare, the library…Annie nodded firmly. All right, if it took the dogged persistence of Georges Simenon’s Jules Maigret combined with the unsquashable good humor of Jill Churchill’s Jane Jeffry, Annie would fathom this puzzle. Without, of course, smoking a pipe or managing a car pool.
At the stroke of ten, Henny rose from behind the conference table.
“Good morning.” Her well-modulated voice carried to the far reaches of the room over the central microphone. “I’m delighted we have such an enthusiastic turnout for the final meeting before the festival begins. Many of you are here representing other organizations. With the leave of the board”—Henny looked up and down the table—“I will begin our meeting today with the visitors’ reports.”
Annie looked at her fellow board members, and her pleasure at the superb turnout began to fade. Everyone looked grim and strained, with the notable exception of Henny and Bud Hatch. Ha
tch was at Henny’s right, his rough-hewn face genial and interested. He was natty in a crisp navy blazer. He sat squarely in his chair, every inch a warrior. There was just a hint of well-done-Little-Lady in his demeanor.
Jonathan Wentworth was at the far right end of the table, his face remote and still. He was probably in his mid-seventies, with short white hair and a sun-burned face. His crisp tan summer suit was vaguely reminiscent of a uniform. He sometimes came to the store to buy mysteries for his wife. Her favorite authors were Elizabeth Peters and Anne Perry. Annie often saw Emily Wentworth at church, a swift-moving, beautifully dressed woman with metallic eyes and a bright smile. Jonathan was kindly and courtly, another retired military man. But what a contrast to Bud Hatch! Annie wouldn’t even have known that Wentworth had been a Navy captain, except for the biographical information about board members included in the annual library report. And of course the Gazette had done extensive coverage about the upcoming festival and several stories had described the board members. Hatch always managed to mention his Army service in every conversation.
Annie glanced swiftly around the room. She didn’t see Sharon Gibson, the Wentworths’ daughter and the owner of the Gifts for Everyone shop three doors down from Death on Demand. It was Sharon Gibson who’d looked angrily down the aisle toward the general in the grocery store yesterday afternoon. The general had professed not to know Sharon. He certainly knew Jonathan Wentworth. Sharon had decided not to take part in the festival, yet her father was on the library board. Wasn’t that odd?
Gail Oldham, a high school English teacher, slumped next to Annie. Annie had met Gail several years ago in a tennis league. Gail was a perky redhead with a spatter of freckles on a gamine face. There was no saucy smile this morning. In fact, she looked ill, her face pale, dark circles beneath her eyes. She was making an effort to appear pleasant and engaged, but she sat stiffly, her hands tightly clasped on the table.
Ned Fisher sat between Gail and Henny. The library director’s angular face sported a determinedly pleasant expression, but one thin hand nervously fingered his drooping mustache. He kept glancing uneasily toward the back of the room.