by Carolyn Hart
Annie looked, too. She immediately spotted Toby Maguire, Ned’s significant other. Toby’s lumpy face and oddly sleek red beard made him readily visible, even in the back row. Toby glowered, his powerful arms crossed across his burly chest. Toby was a reclusive but increasingly acclaimed artist, becoming well known for his Low Country landscapes. Annie occasionally saw Ned and Toby on the beach or out at dinner, but Toby wasn’t active in island circles, not even the artistic ones.
Librarian Edith Cummings sat in a chair just to the side of the table, holding a notepad. She served as the secretary of the board, but not as a voting member. Her face was composed, attentive, noncommittal, but her dark eyes regarded Hatch with the cool detachment of a biologist studying slime.
The president of the Community Council concluded her enthusiastic presentation, “…happy to announce that nine women’s groups, from the Ladies of the Leaf Book Club to the Saint Xavier Altar Society, have contributed volunteers to staff the various historical displays. We have enough participants to truly share with all islanders the achievements of South Carolina women through our long and glorious history.”
Applause boomed like storm surf.
Bud Hatch surged to his feet. He held up his hand.
Henny nodded pleasantly. In a jonquil-yellow linen dress, Henny looked cool, elegant, and completely unflappable. She spoke quickly enough to precede Hatch, but in a measured, confident voice. “General Hatch wishes to contribute.”
Hatch gazed at Henny for a long moment, then smiled.
That look revealed his anger. For an instant, his sharp features were wolflike and predatory.
“Uh-oh,” Annie murmured. Henny definitely better watch her flank.
“Thank you, ma’am.” The general graced Henny with another glittering smile, then faced the audience. “I know I speak for my fellow board members when I say we are fortunate indeed—”
“A point of order.” The call came in a rasping voice that carried like a crow’s caw. Thump. Thump. Thump.
Hatch looked down at the petite old lady moving up the central aisle, her cane loud on the wooden floor. “Ah, Miss Dora.”
No flies on the general. He knew the local aristocracy even though Miss Dora lived on the mainland.
“Young man.” She stood directly in front of Hatch, one hand clasping her cane. In her other hand, she waggled a portfolio. “I have long been a supporter of this library as well as the library in Chastain. My cousin often prevailed upon me to make contributions.”
“Your cousin?” Hatch shook his head, like a man surrounded by buzzing gnats.
A murmur rose from the audience. “Lucy. Kinkaid. Lucy. Kinkaid.” The syllables hummed like a drumbeat.
Miss Dora didn’t deign to explain. She fixed Hatch with a malevolent gaze. “It is not to be expected that a latecomer to the island should be cognizant of how intertwined has been the history of this island and my town. Therefore, when I learned that the director of your library board proposed a Fourth of July Celebration in honor of the Gallant Women of South Carolina, I felt, of course, that it was my duty to offer what aid and assistance I could.”
She poked her cane toward Ned Fisher. “Young man, if you will be kind enough to provide an easel—”
“Madam,” the general began.
“Why, of course we wish to hear you out, Miss Dora,” Henny said quickly.
The general folded his arms across his chest, his face tinged with copper.
Ned popped to his feet. “Yes, ma’am. Of course.” In a moment, he was pulling an easel from a nearby cupboard. He brought it around the table and set it up in the central aisle.
“Thank you, young man.” Miss Dora’s smile was almost coquettish. “I know everyone here today is excited about our grand program which will honor the women of our state. It is my pleasure to share with you my drawings of outstanding South Carolina women.”
Annie was too far away to see the drawings distinctly, but she—and everyone in the room—heard the roll call of famous names with brief snippets of history:
Sarah Moore Grimké and Angelina Emily Grimké, courageous fighters against slavery and for women’s rights…
Mary Boykin Chesnut, who kept a diary that became the greatest record of a Southern woman’s war years…
Matilda Arabella Evans, the first native South Carolina black woman doctor in the state, opening her practice in Columbia in 1897…
“And these are simply a few of our gallant women.” Miss Dora paused. Every eye was on her as she looked regally about the room. “Will you salute them?” Miss Dora held her cane high.
Huzzahs and frenzied applause rocked the room.
The president of the Community Council bounded to her feet. “Miss Dora, this is a wonderful contribution to our efforts. I suggest the library mount these superb drawings and exhibit them at the perimeter of the Fourth of July Celebration, then provide space in the library for the rest of the month.” She looked at Ned Fisher.
Fisher glanced at the general.
The audience was on its feet, cheering, clapping.
Henny bent close to the microphone. Her voice sounded even above the tumult. “Our community has spoken. Ned, we have a mandate.” Henny nodded to Bud Hatch. “General, I know you are delighted to see this enthusiastic welcome for the work of a longtime supporter of the Lucy Banister Kinkaid Library.”
Hatch was nobody’s fool. “I’m sure Miss Dora’s drawings will be a wonderful addition to our celebration.”
The look of relief on Ned Fisher’s face was almost embarrassing.
Hatch glanced from the director to the other board members. “It is, of course, wonderful to see these great tributes to the women of South Carolina. I know all of you will be equally pleased that our veterans’ groups will provide superb tributes to the men who have fought and died for this great state.”
More cheers.
Henny’s smile was fixed, but she, too, understood reality. “That’s quite wonderful, General. We will have the greatest possible celebration of South Carolina history at our Fourth of July festival.” Henny looked out toward the audience. “Thank you for coming today. Working together, we’re going to have a great celebration tomorrow. Thank you.” She smiled graciously, picked up her papers.
As she stepped toward the aisle, Hatch blocked her way. He spoke clearly, his voice resonating over the still live microphone, “I suggest we meet next week to tally up the proceeds from the Fourth celebration.”
“I’ve already called a meeting,” Henny replied briskly.
“Good. I’ll take the opportunity to address some personnel matters.” His face was still red.
People were moving unhurriedly up the aisles, women’s voices once again light and cheerful. Hatch’s voice was almost submerged, but not quite.
“I don’t have that on the agenda.” Henny tried to step past him.
Hatch moved at the same time, and they were face-to-face only inches apart. “It’s new business,” Hatch said smoothly. “The board members have been properly notified. They’ll find the addition to the agenda in their boxes. The discussion will focus on medical coverage for library employees and how dependents can be defined.” The general flicked a glance toward the director, who stood stock-still, his young face suddenly looking old. “There is also the matter of library employees who flaunt health and safety standards. And the further question of whether a board member can be dismissed for trifling in another member’s private papers.”
Annie looked toward the members of the board, still standing behind the table.
Jonathan Wentworth gazed somberly at Hatch. Wentworth’s face was still remote, but his eyes were icy with disdain.
Ned Fisher jammed his hands in the pockets of his slacks. He stared at the wooden floor, his cheekbones gaunt.
Gail Oldham shivered and turned away. She hurried up the aisle, her heels clicking loudly on the floor. As an English teacher, she usually had much to offer at board meetings. Today she’d been silent and subdued
.
Edith Cummings pushed back her chair, stuffed her notebook into her purse.
Henny’s face hardened. She lifted her chin. Before she could speak, Jonathan Wentworth was at her elbow. “Henny”—and he firmly turned her away from Hatch—“I need to speak…” His voice fell away, out of range of the microphone.
Hatch watched them go. In a moment, he was alone by the table, the board members moving quickly away. Hatch didn’t seem to mind. He smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile.
Max ducked out of the way of the two-by-four.
“Mister”—the young black man’s voice was polite but determined—“the boss doesn’t pay us to talk to people.”
Max followed Harry Wileman. “Do you get a break?”
“In a while. They blow a whistle.” He didn’t slacken his pace as he talked.
“I’ll wait.” Max threaded his way past wheelbarrows and laborers. He reached the shade of a huge magnolia and leaned against the gnarled trunk, welcoming the respite from the July sun and the sweet scent of the blooms. The construction scene was organized chaos, but it had a steady, pulsing rhythm. Max felt profoundly grateful he didn’t have to work that hard, although there had to be a gut-deep sense of satisfaction in seeing a structure evolve from the effort of muscle and bone.
He was placing his hope of finding Samuel Kinnon squarely on the shoulders of the wiry young man diligently moving two-by-fours. This was Max’s last stop. He’d talked to Samuel’s girlfriend, Krissa, who was miffed. “That Samuel better not stand me up or I’ll give him what-for! He hasn’t called me in two days. I don’t have to sit around and wait for him, I’ll tell you that!” And to a co-worker at the Haven, Raoul: “Man, Samuel was pissed!” And to Samuel’s brother, Jack: “I don’t have any idea where he is. Dumb to run away. But Samuel has his own ideas about things.”
Max waited. Occasionally, Harry Wileman glanced toward the magnolia, then bent back to work.
A whistle shrilled. The constant swarm of choreographed activity suddenly ceased. Men ambled toward the water bucket, shook cigarettes free from sweaty shirt pockets.
Carrying a bottle of sport drink, Max’s quarry ducked under a low branch. Sweat stained Harry’s shirt, patched his jeans. He used the tail of a kerchief to wipe his gleaming face. He was sinewy and lean, muscles moving smoothly in his arm. He had the angular, swift grace of a young panther.
“You want to see me about Samuel? Why?” He watched Max coolly, reserving judgment.
“Samuel’s dad asked me to find him.” Quickly Max explained.
Harry squatted on his heels, tipped the bottle and drank thirstily. He finished, took a deep breath. His face creased in thought. “Samuel didn’t like the general.”
“I know.” Max fished out his handkerchief, wiped the sweat from his face.
Harry studied Max, his dark eyes taking in every detail, from Max’s short thick blond hair clinging damply to his head to his pale-blue polo shirt, once crisp, now limp, to his white slacks, smudged from leaning against the tree trunk, to his Italian loafers, coated with gray dust.
“I’m on Samuel’s side,” Max said quietly.
Slowly Harry stood. He tucked the empty plastic bottle under one arm, wiped his face and neck again. “Samuel said the general’s a bastard.”
“I know. He got Samuel fired—”
Harry shook his head impatiently. “Yeah, that made Samuel mad. But Samuel’s not the kind of guy to knock a vase off a roof. What if somebody else walked out? Samuel’s not stupid. But Samuel was really upset because of a kid named Ken Cummings.”
The whistle shrilled. Harry looked around.
“What about Ken?” Max knew he was out of time and he still didn’t know where Samuel was.
“The general wanted to make everybody at the Haven march, big time. Samuel said Ken’s mom was really hacked. She said the general ought to be shot.” Harry tossed the bottle into the trash.
The whistle sounded again. Harry turned.
Max called after him. “Harry, if you know where Samuel is—”
Harry looked back, his dark face unreadable. “No way for me to know.” And he was hurrying across the dusty ground.
Men worked. Dust rose. Max walked slowly toward his car.
Annie was midway down the stairs from the second floor of the library when a hand gripped her arm. A weary voice announced, “Annie, I’m here to deliver the ads to Edith. Mission accomplished.”
Annie looked into bleary, but sincere eyes. “That’s wonderful, Pamela,” she said heartily.
“Would you like to see the mock-up?” Pamela wavered on her feet. “I’ve been up all night.” A wrinkled pink-striped blouse was messily tucked into a skirt with red and blue patches. Worn backward.
Annie knew she was seeing selfless dedication gallantly (and blatantly) evinced. But to refuse would have been like dashing a child’s Easter-egg basket to the ground.
“Of course.” Annie pointed down the steps. “Let’s find an empty room.”
Pamela led the way. Annie noticed, not too charitably, that she moved with alacrity. Feeling somewhat akin to the spoils of war, Annie followed. She glanced down the hall, catching a glimpse of Henny and Jonathan stepping into the board members’ room.
Annie caught up with Pamela, urged her into the first empty room.
Pamela spread open the program mock-up and went page by numbing page. Annie danced impatiently from one foot to the other.
Pamela paused. “Uh, Annie, do you—”
“No,” Annie said sharply, “I’m fine.” She reached out, attempted to flip the pages closed.
Pamela was extraordinarily strong.
Annie retreated. “Pamela, this is truly marvelous. This program is a brilliant coup.”
Pamela leaned forward, like a flower to raindrops.
“Truly extraordinary.” Annie gripped the edge of the table.
Pamela glowed.
Annie was from Texas. She took a deep breath. “Bastante,” she hissed.
Pamela’s eyes widened. “I beg your pardon?”
Annie coughed. “But tantalizing.”
Pamela looked puzzled.
Annie spoke rapidly. “Simply tantalizingly lyrical in its evocation of the great men and women of South Carolina.” Annie came around the table, clasped Pamela by the shoulders. “Now you must, like a good soldier”—she felt Pamela’s muscles stiffen, her posture straighten—“prepare yourself for tomorrow. Go home, seek your rest and be assured that what you have achieved for the library shall be celebrated”—Annie forbore saying, “…in song and verse…” though mightily tempted—“throughout the annals of recorded time.”
Even Pamela found this laudatory commendation sufficient.
Annie smiled, almost saluted, then whirled and was through the door and down the hall. She pushed open the door to the boardroom.
It was empty.
Damn. Annie dreaded talking to Henny. But she must. Bud Hatch clearly intended to wreak revenge by attacking Ned Fisher and Edith Cummings and an unnamed board member Hatch thought guilty of trifling with his private papers. Private papers! The rifled cabinet was here in the library boardroom!
A warm breath tickled Annie’s ear. She jerked around and looked into familiar serious eyes.
“I heard about that!” Pamela pointed at the wooden panel hanging ajar. “Do you know,” she said, her voice deep and portentous, “someone must think the general has secret papers!”
Annie wondered if Pamela’s most recent adventure reading had featured the Happy Hollisters. “I don’t think,” Annie said gently, “that we have an E. Phillips Oppenheim situation here.”
Pamela looked at her blankly.
Annie tried again. “Secret papers are passé.” A pause. “Pamela, no one would break into the general’s cubicle here expecting to find secret formulas or anything like that.”
“Then why did they break in?” Pamela asked reasonably.
Annie opened her mouth, shut it. Why, indeed? She turned, looked a
t the broken panel.
“…and someone used a wire cutter to snip off the lock.”
Annie realized she’d missed something. “What lock, Pamela?”
“The general’s locker at Whalebranch,” Pamela explained. Her voice dropped, she nodded sagely. “Now why would anyone break into the general’s locker at a golf club unless there was something valuable hidden there?”
Not hidden, Annie thought, simply stashed at the club for safekeeping. Something, obviously, he couldn’t keep at home. The general was retired. He had no office. Perhaps the only places he could safely keep something he didn’t want anyone (his wife?) to see would be at his golf club or at the library.
“It’s quite odd,” Pamela said darkly. “There is a clue. The general missed it, but I have it safe for him.”
Annie blinked.
“My brother plays at Whalebranch,” Pamela explained smugly, “and he was there yesterday afternoon right after the general discovered his locker had been broken into. The general’s,” Pamela explained carefully, “not my brother’s. My brother’s locker—”
Annie balled her hands into fists to keep from throttling Pamela. “Pamela, I get it. What happened to the general’s locker?”
“It was broken into.”
Annie took a deep breath, a very deep breath.
“Annie, are you hyperventilating?” Pamela asked with concern. “I’ve got some—”
“The general’s locker!” Annie bellowed.
“But I’ve been telling you.” Pamela’s tone was aggrieved. “It was broken into—”
“When?” Annie was trying to juggle times in her mind. Laurel had hidden in the ladies’ room at the library about seven-thirty.
Pamela’s voice was patient. “Well, obviously nobody knows when it happened. I mean, then they’d know who did it. And they don’t—”
Annie managed not to shout. “Pamela, tell me! When did they discover the locker was broken into?”
“Oh.” Pamela tilted her head. “Well, I talked to Archibald—that’s my brother—last night and he finished playing golf about four and that’s when he was at his locker and the general came in from his round and he immediately wanted to know who’d broken into his locker. Archibald said the general was furious. He asked who’d been in the locker room and all that sort of thing. No one saw anyone besides the usual players, but”—she scrabbled in her carry-all—“look what my brother found later, kicked under a bench. You know, those low benches—”