Yankee Doodle Dead

by Carolyn Hart

  A Speak Your Mind begged to be said: You aren’t conversant with mysteries? (Mild shock evinced at such cultural deficiency.) Then, of course, you are unaware that mysteries are the modern equivalent to the medieval morality play. (The last in a gently patronizing tone.)

  However, Annie resisted, replying simply, “The jams and jellies are up that way. Right next to the Coke-bottle sculptures.”

  The woman moved away, her face puzzled.

  Max grinned.

  Annie said virtuously, “I didn’t say she was an idiot, now did I?” She retrieved the Moon Pies, generously offered one to Max. “So now you see what it’s like to be a bookseller.”

  Her handsome husband looked skeptical. “Well, of course, it is a holiday—”

  Annie picked up the message immediately. “Max, since you’ve enjoyed this afternoon so much, I’m sure you’d like to work in the store on Saturdays in the summer.”

  Max was too busy eating his Goo Goo Cluster to say another word.

  Annie finished her delicious concoction of peanuts, fudge and marshmallows. Of course, she’d been counting on two. Max never ate that kind of candy. She shook the iced-tea jug. “Empty! I’ll go get some root beer.”

  Max opted for more tea. Annie hurried to the food trailers. She was stricken to find a “Sold Out” sign on the Goo Goo Cluster box.

  “Annie.” The voice combined steely determination with relief.

  She turned.

  Henny’s cheeks flamed a fiery red. Not from the sun. She took off her straw, fanned herself. “I need Max. Look over there.” She pointed toward the semicircle of stages.

  The crowds had thinned in the late afternoon. Bud Hatch waited until his view was unobstructed, then quickly photographed the volunteers, beginning with the Yemassee Indian War.

  “Oh, I guess he’s going to take pictures of the—”

  Henny’s hat flapped. “Watch.”

  Hatch, finished at the first stage, moved past the tribute to Colonial women symbolized by Judith Manigault, adjusted his lens at the third display, the Revolutionary War.

  Annie started to speak, then stopped. She got it. Hatch was taking photographs all right. He was making a record of the historical moments. But not the historical moments that focused on South Carolina women. Only the Points of Patriotism.

  Annie forgot about Goo Goo Clusters. “What a jerk. Of course, I guess it’s vintage Hatch. But I heard your speech at noon. You thanked everybody for participating, the Points of Patriotism, all that. You included everybody.”

  “Yes.” Henny’s dark hair was touched with silver and dust. She wore too much makeup for a hot July afternoon, makeup that attempted to hide the dark smudges beneath her eyes, smooth out the tight lines by her mouth. “I don’t know what’s going to happen.” She drew in a sharp, hard breath.

  For the first time in the years Annie had known Henny, there was a tone of defeat in the sharp voice.

  “But”—the dark eyes glittered—“I won’t have women demeaned by Hatch. Not now. Not ever. The volunteers have worked so hard. It’s been the greatest celebration of women’s lives in the history of Broward’s Rock. Please, Annie, ask Max if he’ll photograph the women’s presentations. There’s no one else I can ask.” She thrust a camera case at Annie.

  Ned Fisher walked past, going fast, his face shiny with perspiration, his long hair limp. He carried his Uncle Sam hat, now smudged and crumpled.

  Henny saw the glance. She quickly shook her head. “Not Ned. I can’t do anything else to jeopardize his job. Hatch has no power over Max.”

  Jonathan Wentworth was coming up behind Henny. He stopped to catch an errant beach ball, hold it out to a little boy. Annie didn’t mention Jonathan. She doubted that she would ever mention Jonathan Wentworth to Henny.

  “Sure, Henny.” She grabbed the camera. She looked back once. Henny was pointing again toward the small stages, talking fast. Jonathan Wentworth stood beside her, his head bent as he listened.

  Back at the booth, Max agreed almost too willingly. Maybe he wasn’t cut out to be a bookseller. “We few, we happy few…” She broke off the quotation in her mind. No. Absolutely not. She was not influenced by Laurel, not one whit.

  Deep shadows quickly spread across the food stands. Annie wished the Death on Demand booth were closer to the forest preserve. Absently, she picked up one of Laurel’s fans and swooshed hot air over her face. Max was quickly making the circuit of stages, snapping pictures. Annie sold Death of a Dunwoody Matron by Patricia Houck Sprinkle to a charter-boat captain, The Hotel Detective by Alan Russell to a museum curator, Murder on the Iditarod Trail by Sue Henry to a tennis pro, Dead in the Cellar by Connie Fedderson to a million-dollar-club real estate agent, and Fat-Free and Fatal by Jacqueline Girdner to a barber. Annie stashed the money in the metal box and delighted not only in the variety of mysteries but the variety of her clientele. Oh, what a wonderful way to—

  “Hi, Annie.” The conventional greeting, but David Oldham pushed the words through his teeth like Sergeant Buck greeting Grace Latham. His face wasn’t wooden, though. He looked like a kid who’d lost his dog, his eyes red-rimmed, his lips pressed together hard to keep from trembling. He lifted a shaking hand to push back a lock of sandy hair.

  “Hi, David. How—” She couldn’t ask how he was. He wasn’t good. Anybody could see that. Almost never at a loss for words, she simply sat there and stared upward.

  “You got any Eric Ambler books?” But he wasn’t looking at the books ranged behind her. Instead, he looked toward the stages. To be precise, David Oldham looked at one particular stage, empty now except for the props: the grainy cement wall of Malinta Tunnel; the pallet for a wounded soldier; stained pieces of gauze and a dented steel helmet, the white cross painted on it so long ago barely visible.

  Annie carefully did not look toward the place where Gail Oldham should be. “I think so.” She busied herself checking the top of the makeshift shelving. “Yes, here we go.” She faced him, held out The Light of Day, one of her all-time favorites, and A Coffin for Dimitrios.

  David rubbed the side of his narrow face. Now his lips did quiver. Tortured eyes sought Annie. “This morning—when you called Gail—” He stopped, his breath coming rapidly.

  Annie’s eyes widened. “But David,” she blurted out without thinking, “I didn’t call Gail this—”

  His head jerked up. His eyes flared. He whirled away, broke into a stumbling trot.

  Annie still held out the Ambler novels. A shirtless, sunburned, boisterous group of teenage boys swaggered across the ground, blocking out her view of the empty stage. When they’d moved on, she couldn’t spot David Oldham.

  Annie’s heart thudded. Oh God. When would she learn to think before she spoke? But how could she have known? Obviously, someone called Gail this morning and when David asked who the caller was, Gail said it was Annie. But it wasn’t. Gail had lied. She lied to her husband.

  Annie shoved the Ambler books back in place. Where was Max? She craned her neck. The stages were empty now, even the props cleared away. The presentations were done. Festivalgoers were appropriating the spaces, spreading blankets to enjoy picnics at a remove from the ants. She had to find Max, have him take over in the booth. But it was almost five. What did a few more minutes matter? Annie picked up the “Closed” sign, put it on the counter. She slid out of the booth, clutching the money box. She lowered the overhead awning and all the while she scanned the crowd.

  She had to find Gail. Warn her that her husband knew she’d lied. It wasn’t a task she relished.

  Annie checked again for Max. She could give him the change box. No Max. And there was Hatch, his camera sheathed in its leather carrier. He glanced at his watch and walked briskly toward the food trailers. So even Hatch could succumb to hot dogs.

  But the general didn’t join any of the lines. Instead he slipped between the gyro and popcorn stands.

  Annie frowned. The late-afternoon heat pulsed like layers of hot-water bottles, sticky, clammy, swea
ty. Behind the food stands lay the tangled woods of the forest preserve. It wouldn’t be any cooler in there, simply a quieter, heavier, danker heat. But maybe the general wasn’t seeking a cool spot. If people wished to meet unobserved, the gazebo in the preserve was an obvious choice. Annie doubted the general was on a nature tour.

  Whom was he meeting? And was it any of her damn business?

  Across the festival ground, David Oldham, head rigid, back stiff, walked methodically from one group to another, paused, looked, walked on.

  Her mind felt like leftover fried mush. Maybe she was jumping to conclusions. The general could be going into the preserve to meet anybody. Surely not Gail. But if it was, maybe Annie could intercept Gail, tell her that David, a very upset David, was looking for Gail to find out who had called her that morning.

  Annie shaded her eyes, scanned the festival. She didn’t spot Gail’s bright red hair anywhere. All right. The only thing to do was go in the preserve. Maybe the general was in there communing with his cold-blooded brothers, the black swamp kings. Maybe he just wanted to get away from the crowds for a while.

  But Annie had looked for Gail and David Oldham was looking for Gail. Where was she?

  Annie started toward the forest preserve, heard the jangle of change in the metal box. She glanced up the line of booths, put on a burst of speed. Already sweating—even the slightest exertion threatened meltdown—she skidded to a stop in front of Sharon Gibson’s booth.

  She’d last seen Sharon in a grocery aisle, glaring at the general. “Hey, I’m glad to see you. I thought you weren’t going to set up at the festival.” Oh, damn! What a thing to say. Maybe it was time for a personally directed Speak Your Mind: Shut up, stupid!

  Sharon managed a weary smile. “My dad thought I should. I’d already paid for the booth. And it’s been swell.” She brushed back a strand of pale blond hair. The smile slipped away, leaving her finely chiseled face tense and remote.

  “Sharon, could you do me—”

  The loudspeaker thrummed. Edith Cummings’s voice cut sharply over the festival hubbub. “Ned Fisher. Ned Fisher. Report to the bandstand.” It was a quick, harsh, somehow urgent summons.

  Annie wondered what catastrophe threatened. She knew Edith’s voice well enough to be sure something of import was up. But, for once, it couldn’t involve the general.

  Sharon toyed with the top fan in a stack. “Awfully nice of your mother-in-law. She gave me a bunch for free. They’ve been very popular.” She motioned over her shoulder with the fan. “And we’ve sold all of her wooden cutouts. You know, the Statue of Liberty.” A faint grin. “Statues of Liberty with quotes from Shakespeare. Guaranteed unique.”

  “Laurel is unique.” Annie was proud of her tone, pleasant, nonjudgmental, if a trifle dry. So why the sudden dimple in Sharon’s cheek? “Anyway,” Annie said hurriedly, “I’m glad you’ve had a good day. I need—” She couldn’t very well announce she did not want to be burdened with a jingling change box because she intended to plunge into the recesses of the forest preserve in pursuit of a man Sharon loathed. “Could you keep my change box for me for a few minutes?”

  Sharon glanced at her watch. “I’ve got to go pick up my mother pretty soon.” A fine line creased her forehead. The hand holding the fan tightened until the knuckles were white. “She shouldn’t come. She shouldn’t!”

  Annie looked at Sharon in surprise. “Why not? Is she sick?” Emily Wentworth was always a bundle of energy and a popular worker for several island charities. Annie had also heard she was just this side of vicious at the bridge table.

  “Sick?” Sharon didn’t meet Annie’s gaze. She stared down at the fan. Slowly she let the fan drop on the counter. “No. Oh, no. She’s fine. But she’s not much for Fourth of July celebrations.” A quick, meaningless smile. “Anyway, as per usual when she decides to do something, one of her retainers must be on hand. And dad’s busy, so I’m the lucky one. I have to pick her up in about half an hour. You won’t be long?”

  “Not long at all.” Annie plunked down the change box and sped away. She was moving fast, but no faster than Edith Cummings and Ned Fisher as they cut through the booth area. Edith was gesturing emphatically to Ned. As they swerved toward the parking lot, too absorbed to see Annie, Ned said, “Oh, Christ, what else can happen today!” He no longer wore his Uncle Sam hat and his coat hung open over trousers rolled to mid-calf.

  Annie knew her own clothes were not objects of designer envy at this stage of the festival—spatters of red sauce on her pink blouse (fried clams without sauce would be an absurdity) and a splotch of chocolate on her skirt. In fact, she felt unutterably grubby and more than a little disgruntled. She reached the entrance of the forest preserve.

  No-see-ums. Alligators. Snakes. Of course, snakes. They lived in there—sluggish, fat brown cottonmouths, sleek copperheads, testy rattlesnakes (Step on me and I’ll fang you quick.) That didn’t even count all the dangerous spiders dangling in their webs. Dammit, if Gail was stupid enough to plan a rendezvous with the biggest bully on the island…Annie’s irritation melted like a Moon Pie left on a July picnic table.

  Bully.

  Gail’s misery-laden face rose in Annie’s mind. And another picture too: David Oldham inexorably searching, searching.

  “Why did I have to be Little Miss Tell-Everything-You-Know?” Annie said aloud.

  No-see-ums swirled around her.

  Annie swatted at them futilely and plunged into the preserve. She walked softly, as much in fear of disturbing a poisonous creature as attempting to be stealthy. She tiptoed past the spot where she’d seen the alligator yesterday. A log moved in the dark brown water. But logs don’t move. Annie held her breath, slid around the curve. It was dim in the late-afternoon forest, the sun too low to pierce the forest canopy. Spanish moss hung still and straight. A sudden flutter and patches of white marked the swoop of a mockingbird to snag a garter snake. Annie cringed, then moved ahead. Despite the windless quiet, leaves rustled on a live-oak branch. Annie looked up at a pink-nosed, dark-eyed, weasel-faced creature with an oddly misshapen furry body. Squinting, Annie distinguished tiny claws and tails, baby possums clinging to their mother’s silvery back. The mother possum hissed, then moved slowly along the branch to the trunk and crawled out of sight. Annie passed the tree with a nervous glance, although Mom Possum was probably equally reluctant to further their acquaintance. A few more feet and Annie reached the clearing where the gazebo stood. She stopped behind a saw palmetto. Cautiously, she pulled down a sharp-edged frond.

  Gail Oldham stood at the base of the gazebo steps, looking up, her face almost unrecognizable, her eyes bulging, her skin suffused with red, her mouth rigid.

  Bud Hatch leaned against the pillar by the railing to the stairs, his arms crossed. “Don’t make it worse for yourself, Gail.” His voice was cool, mocking. His strong-boned face looked dispassionate. But a vein throbbed in his temple.

  “I won’t do it.” Gail’s voice was thick.

  “Oh, you will. You will unless—”

  A branch cracked behind Annie.

  The man and woman in the clearing didn’t hear it. Pulsing anger thrummed blood in their ears.

  Annie jerked around.

  David Oldham stood only a few feet from her. The pallor of his face was shocking. His eyes glowed with a vivid brilliance. He stumbled toward her, gripped her arm with fingers that bruised.

  “—you want me to mention that birthmark to your husband. The little pink one that looks like a heart and in such a—”

  David drew his breath in as if he’d been slammed in the chest. His hand fell away from Annie as if his fingers were suddenly nerveless. He wavered on his feet. He turned and moved heavily away.

  Annie released the saw-palmetto frond. She didn’t listen to the harsh voices in the clearing. She listened to the swish of footsteps on dried pine needles, listened until that alien rustle was gone and there were only the sounds of the evening forest, the crackle of twigs, the varied birdsongs, the faint ra
t-a-tat of a woodpecker.

  To lie on a blanket under the summer stars with Max and listen to Sousa marches was among Annie’s favorite pursuits, even though this was a blanket in a very public place which precluded their very favorite pursuit.

  Max reached for her hand just as she reached for his. Nice timing. Nice life. Nice evening except not even a stirring Sousa march could banish the underlying melancholy. Annie wished she could revel in the night and the stars, the music and the celebration. It was all Hatch’s fault. Or, if not his fault, certainly the ugly events flowed from him, his rude summons to Ned Fisher and that dreadful encounter between Hatch and Gail Oldham in the forest preserve.

  “Penny for your thoughts.” There was the faintest hint of concern in Max’s almost casual question.

  If ever Annie counted the reasons why she loved Max, empathy might be at the very top. She’d been very quiet all evening. And, as Max and the world knew, quiet was not her natural state.

  But she didn’t want to tell Max about the forest preserve. He liked David and Gail Oldham. They’d played doubles together and sailed. She sighed and squeezed Max’s hand. “Oh. This and that. Hatch is such a jerk.”

  “Out of the mouths of babes,” a weary voice observed. Edith Cummings pointed at a silver thermos poking out of their picnic basket. “I don’t suppose you’ve got martinis in there?”

  “It’s against the rules.” Annie pointed to the back of the festival program. Red type boxed with large asterisks announced, “PROHIBITED: Smoking, Firearms, Alcohol, Dogs, Boom Boxes, Unsupervised Fireworks.” The latter was apparently included more in hope than in expectation, as Lady Fingers exploded from every direction in an almost constant sputter along with occasional larger bangs.

  Edith flapped her hands in dismissal. “Void. Null and void.”

  “Why so?” Max inquired, his voice amused.

  “A regulation which overlooks an entire category of pests would obviously be ruled deficient. Prima facie,” the librarian pronounced didactically. “What causes trouble? Not dogs. Not boom boxes. Not even guns, though I hate to parrot the National Rifle Association, an organization that I do not admire.”