by Carolyn Hart
Gossip. Who—
Oh, of course! The Volvo jolted out of the cemetery.
Chapter 8
Muscles bulged in Samuel Kinnon’s bare, sweaty back as he heaved clippings onto the bed of the pickup. He turned, grass catcher in hand. His eyes widened, his face a mixture of hope and fear. “Have you found out anything?”
Max swiped his face with a sodden handkerchief, wished he could as easily wipe away the terror that flickered in Samuel’s dark eyes. He spoke robustly, “It’s coming along. I’m talking to people. Could you spare a minute?”
Samuel’s big shoulders slumped. His hand tightened on the grass catcher. “Mr. Jenkins”—he swallowed tightly—“Mr. Jenkins says the circuit solicitor’s going to arrest me.”
“Don’t borrow trouble, Samuel.” Max had an uncanny echo in his mind of his mother’s lilting voice through the years, “Don’t borrow trouble, Max, ‘nor invite an evil fate by apprehending it.’ ” But how difficult it was to do. Which Thoreau well knew. As for Laurel—Max focused his mind upon the moment, as it would take a lifetime to focus on his mother. “It’s a long way yet until Monday.” But that wasn’t true and Samuel’s uneasy face made that clear. What did they have? Less than forty-eight hours.
The whine of a leaf blower echoed the uneasiness in his mind, but he kept his voice calm and reassuring. “Let’s go back a little bit, Samuel. Back to Wednesday. You said you didn’t push the vase off the library roof. Now’s the time to tell me anything you know about that.” He saw a flicker in Samuel’s eyes. “That was an attempt on Hatch’s life. It was serious then. Now the man’s dead. If you saw anything, anyone…”
Samuel held tight to the grass catcher. He didn’t look at Max. “I didn’t want to say anything. ‘Cause I don’t really know anything…”
Max waited patiently.
Samuel sighed. “Mr. Maguire. He went in the library a few minutes before it happened. Then he came out a side door and went off on his motorcycle.”
Toby Maguire. Big, strong, and no fan of the general’s.
“I’ll ask him if he saw anything. Okay, Samuel, tell me what you did last night.” Max looked around. “Let’s get out of the sun.”
Samuel pointed to a bench near the lagoon. Pine needles were slick underfoot as they ducked among a clump of tall evergreens. Even though the bench was well shaded beneath the spreading limbs of a magnolia, the wood was hot to the touch. Samuel flung himself down without noticing. He clenched his big hands. “I’m scared.”
“Don’t borrow trouble,” Max said again and perhaps something of Laurel’s insouciance and confidence and tranquillity infused his voice because slowly, slowly, Samuel’s big hands relaxed.
The young man took a deep breath and even managed a sheepish smile. “Yeah. I guess I got spooked. It’s going to be okay, isn’t it?” His dark, scared eyes clung to Max.
“Sure.” A promise, Max knew, that somehow he had to keep. Had to. “Last night you found the gun. How did that happen?”
Samuel’s face creased in concentration. “I kicked it with my foot. Scared the hell out of me when I looked down and saw it. I’d been looking for Mr. Maguire—”
Max looked sharply at Samuel.
“—and I kept hearing a piccolo making a funny noise. My big sister plays the piccolo. I know Mr. Maguire plays the piccolo. He gave a program once at the Haven. Then he talked to us about painting. It was cool. He’s such a big guy and he looks so tough. The kids were really impressed. Anyway, I figured it had to be him with the piccolo because Mrs. Cummings—that’s Ken’s mom—asked me to look for Mr. Maguire, said Mr. Fisher wanted to know if he was anywhere around. So I nosed around on some of the paths in the preserve. I didn’t go in very far because it was dark and I didn’t have a flashlight. But that’s where I thought the piccolo was coming from.”
Max pulled his soppy, now grass-flecked slacks away from his legs. The piccolo. Always the piccolo. “Did you see Mr. Maguire?”
“No. But I heard something rustling in the willow trees.” Samuel’s eyes were huge, knowing now what that rustle portended. “I was about twenty, twenty-five feet away. The light was spotty, just those little lanterns in the trees. I saw something—somebody. But I don’t know who. If I’d been a little closer—”
Not even the hot-tub heat dispelled the chill that edged through Max. If Samuel had been closer, he might have come face-to-face with a killer. “Samuel, think hard. Did you see anything, smell anything? Hear anything besides the rustle in the trees?”
Samuel’s big round face squeezed tight in concentration. “There were shadows everywhere and so much noise from the fireworks and people whistling and clapping. A rocket had just gone off. But I thought somebody whispered, a deep kind of whisper. And then”—his voice was uncertain—“I think somebody laughed. Just a choked-off, short, ugly laugh.” He rubbed his face. “Maybe that was somebody out in the crowd. I don’t know. The more I think about it, the weirder it seems.”
Max looked at the anxious, uncertain young face. “It’s all right, Samuel. Try to relax. Don’t think about it. Maybe something more will come to you.”
Samuel’s eyes lighted. “Those noises, whatever they were, I heard them when I was coming along the path, just before I kicked the gun.”
Once again, Max felt cold. So near to death, so terribly near.
“My foot kind of tingled. I looked down and saw something dark. I picked it up. I couldn’t believe it when I saw it was a gun.” He still sounded surprised. “I knew I had to take it to somebody. I didn’t know how anybody could lose a gun, and besides, you aren’t supposed to bring guns to the library. I stood there a minute. I didn’t know what to do. But I couldn’t leave it on the path. There were so many kids running around. What if a kid found it? So I picked it up and started toward the field. That’s when Chief Saulter came around the trees. He pointed his gun at me. He meant it.” Samuel swallowed hard. “I’ve never been so scared.”
Max gave him a hearty poke on the shoulder. “It’s going to be okay.” But, as he turned to leave, he said soberly, “Samuel, stick close to your folks. Okay?”
He knew Samuel was watching him as he walked to his car. Max slid into the driver’s seat, gave a farewell wave. But the smooth rumble of his car didn’t drown out the memory of Samuel’s words:…a short, ugly laugh.
Who laughs after shooting a man?
As Annie pulled into a parking slot at the Laughing Gull Condos, she wasn’t altogether persuaded cell phones were a great advance for the happiness of mankind. If it weren’t for cell phones, she wouldn’t have caught Pamela Potts just as she was walking out the door of her condo, en route to yet more good works. If it were the good old pre-cellular-phone days, Annie would simply have driven to Pamela’s and found her gone. No such luck.
Annie was sure Pamela probably knew more gossip than anyone on the island, barring Henny. Of course, to obtain information Annie would have to discuss the objects of her interest without even a hint of malicious intent. Pamela would never stoop to gossip. But an elevated discussion of mutual acquaintances just might be possible.
But no matter how bright the prospect of zeroing in on the board members, Annie really, really, really didn’t want to accompany Pamela. But she had to. Even if it weren’t her responsibility as an aspirant to full-fledged South Carolina womanhood, it was the kind of invitation that could be rejected only by a superclod or a Speak Your Mind devotee at a level far beyond Annie’s toddling attempts.
It would demand a world-class Speak Your Mind: I’d rather eat worms. Or, Pamela, why don’t you find a nice desert and wear skins? You’ll love it!
Instead, Annie crunched morosely up the oyster-shell walk, too dispirited to combat the no-see-ums.
Pamela bustled down the steps, her white piqué dress and pristinely white sandals immaculate. Annie blinked in disbelief. Pamela was wearing hose! Why not a hair shirt? It couldn’t possibly be any more uncomfortable.
Annie knew her once equally pristine apri
cot cotton top now clung to her like road tar to a sandal and her cotton twill skirt hung limp and wrinkled. She knew it was hopeless, but she gave it a try. “Pamela, I’m not really dressed—”
“Oh, Annie”—a sweet remonstrance—”it isn’t how we’re dressed that ever matters. It’s what is in our hearts.”
Since Annie’s heart was curdling with sheer hatred, there was very little to say. And the Speak Your Mind had to be ignored: Then why the hell are you decked out all in white like a ministering angel?
“Annie, I’m so glad of your help. You are so good-hearted.” A hail-sister-well-met smile exposed perfect small white teeth. “It’s been such a pleasure to work with you on the festival publicity. Though, of course, it’s simply tragic what happened. And so heartbreaking for the Kinnon family. To think that fine young man would commit such a violent act. Everyone is shocked.”
“Samuel didn’t do it.” Annie spoke with authority. “He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. He found the gun. Someone threw it on the path.”
“Really!” Pamela’s eyes glistened with eagerness. “Tell me all about it.”
“Max is going to talk to Samuel and see if he can’t remember something, anything to help the police. A sound or noise or smell.” Perhaps Annie got a little carried away. “We’re sure Samuel can help solve the crime. The police wouldn’t let him talk to anybody last night, but if he knows anything, Max is going to get it out of him. After all, he was pretty close to those willow trees.”
“Oh, that is so exciting.” Pamela clapped her hands together.
Annie felt confident the phone lines would buzz all afternoon. By the time Pamela was finished, there would probably be rumors across the island of a masked band of predators secreted in the willows. At the very least, it would divert attention from Samuel. Annie felt a quiver of satisfaction at work well done. Who said gossip was always a bad thing?
“My goodness.” Pamela got a grip on herself. “Who knows what will happen next? But, of course, our duties remain. I’ve collected all the publicity materials.” She thrust an accordion folder into Annie’s hands. “The program and the list of advertisers and, of course, the pre-festival publicity in the Island Gazette. It’s simply serendipitous that you called when you did. It’s saved me having to make a special trip to your house—”
God be praised for small favors.
“—and given us the opportunity to come together upon a mission of support for the bereaved family.”
Annie felt lower than bubble gum on a shoe. She steeled herself. Miss Dora expected subtle scraps, subtle scraps she would be served, no matter the cost to Annie’s self-esteem.
“I’ll meet you at the church.” Pamela handed her a note card. “Here’s the address of the house.”
Annie slammed into her car and threw the folder on the passenger seat. It promptly flopped wide open in good accordion fashion. Out spurted sheets of newspaper clippings neatly mounted, with time, date and publication noted in black letters. Annie stretched to retrieve the sheets, slapped them back into the folder in no particular order, several with photos of Henny in her finest club woman’s apparel, three of Ned Fisher, and one of the entire board standing on the festival lot, squinting against the sun, the half-finished bandstand behind them, plus four round-up stories detailing the great pleasures awaiting the Broward’s Rock public, including the tributes to the Gallant Women of South Carolina, with special reference to the contributions of Miss Dora Brevard of Chastain and reference librarian Edith Cummings. Trust Pamela Potts never to neglect her duty. Annie was sure that if a hurricane had devastated the island, Pamela would be rescued clinging to a treetop clutching her annotated, completed publicity folder.
Annie followed Pamela’s car at an excruciatingly sedate pace to the church. If Annie’d felt frazzled when the trip began, she was now quivering with frustration. She didn’t want to do this, but surely, if it had to be done, it could be done faster.
Pamela popped out of her car with a cheery smile. “The casseroles are in the kitchen. I was on the phone half the morning.”
The gray wood church was in a grove of pines, peaceful, serene, and lovely. As they crunched up the oyster-shell walk, Annie scolded herself. Pamela meant well. Whenever there was a need she came forward to help if she could. Annie slid a quick sideways glance. Maybe it was the setting, maybe it was heightened awareness because of the raw emotion swirling around the death of the general, but Annie really looked at Pamela and saw the sad loneliness in glazed blue eyes, the fine lines at the corners of determinedly upturned lips, felt the enduring hunger for connection.
Annie reached out, squeezed Pamela’s thin arm. “You’re very good to do this.”
As the old oak doors soughed shut behind them, Pamela’s face lightened. She glowed, murmuring, “Oh, it isn’t anything really. You’re wonderful to come and help because after all you have things to do on the weekends.” As in, a husband.
Annie felt a pang of sheer shame which made her even more voluble than usual as they transferred casseroles from the refrigerator to a serving cart. “I’ve never met Mrs. Hatch. I don’t want to intrude. I’ll just help take the food in, then slip away.” Miss Dora could gouge out her own subtle scraps. There were limits and Annie had just reached one.
Pamela placed a casserole precisely on the cart, a second one exactly two inches away and centered. “The family will appreciate your coming, Annie. I’ve done this so often, I’m sure of that.” As they moved back and forth from the counter to the cart, Pamela’s brows drew down. “I’m worried about poor Mrs. Hatch. I saw her at the festival and I was so pleased and surprised because she rarely came to any functions. Then to have it end so dreadfully.” Pamela paused and looked at Annie, her eyes huge with wonder. “I was actually speaking with her when the general was hurt. Oh, it was awful! Poor woman. She’ll be so lonely. The general was such an exuberant man. He was everywhere. There wasn’t anything on the island that he didn’t attend even though they’ve only lived here a few months. Now that’s the way to become a part of a community.”
Annie stacked several loaves of french bread atop the casseroles.
Without missing a beat, Pamela rearranged them in a precise row.
Annie simply handed her the package of paper plates. “So she didn’t get out much?”
Pamela studied the cart, tucked the plates between two casseroles. “Hardly at all. And she was almost unfriendly if you called her the first thing in the morning.”
Annie didn’t see that as a social offense. She held the kitchen door open and Pamela pushed the cart.
“We’ll put half the casseroles in your car and half in mine.” Pamela wheeled the cart with the precision of an admiral maneuvering a battleship. “That way we can place them flat in the trunk and nothing will tip over.”
Annie wasn’t about to challenge Pamela’s casserole delivery expertise, though she reluctantly bid farewell to her final hope of escaping further participation. “You saw Mrs. Hatch at the festival?”
“Annie, I was standing in line behind her at the cola stand just before the general was shot. We were walking down toward the bandstand together and saw him fall. I stayed with her then, of course.” Pamela tightened the foil wrap on one casserole. “There. I think you’re ready to go. I’ll be a few minutes later. I’m going by the grocery to pick up a sheet cake.”
Annie climbed into her Volvo. A few minutes later—the island was so small—she pulled up in front of a one-story pink stucco house at the end of a cul-de-sac. The turnaround was lined with cars. Maybe she could get in and out quickly.
Miss Dora’s spirit accompanied her up the well-kept walk. Subtle scraps. All right. As long as she was here, she’d make an effort.
A gardener lived at this house. Purple and gold petunias, pink and white impatiens, orange marigolds and yellow roses glowed with color and vigor.
The door stood open. Annie balanced a casserole on her hip and rang the bell.
“Come in, please.”
The deep voice was subdued, but it had an innate quality of vigor. “Let me hold the door.” A narrow-faced man with shiny brown eyes and short brown hair welcomed Annie. “I can take that to the kitchen.”
“I have more casseroles in the car.” Annie looked in the bright, cheerful game room to her left. The room seemed to be full. An older woman sat on a sunny yellow sofa with the rector from church. Father Cooley’s head was bent as he listened intently. Several clusters of people dotted the long room. A teenage boy aimed a dart at the familiar red-and-white-ringed target. A teenage girl carried a tray with glasses of iced tea.
“I’ll help you bring them in,” her greeter said. He put the casserole on a side table. “I’m Chuck Hatch. I live in Savannah.”
“Annie Darling. From the church.” They shook hands. Chuck’s only resemblance to his father was his trim muscular build. He followed her briskly to the car and took three casseroles. Annie picked up a fourth and balanced the bread on top. As they walked back to the house, Annie asked, “Is that why your folks came here to Broward’s Rock? To be close to you?”
“Well, me and the Confederate Air Force. There’s a very active chapter on the island. Mom and Dad roamed around after he retired. They went to San Diego in ’93. My sister Lacey and her family were there, but Lacey and Craig moved to New York, so my folks decided to come here. There are lots of retired military here.” They crowded the foods onto the kitchen table, which was covered with dishes.
If she had felt an intruder en route, she now felt like a disgusting ghoul. Out. She wanted out. Miss Dora could produce her own subtle scraps. Annie backed toward the hallway, talking fast. “The names of the cooks are on the cards taped to the casseroles. Also the kind of food, along with the contents,” she chattered. “In case anyone has allergies, that sort of thing. We’ve all learned so much from the labeling laws. Why, it’s amazing how many people have food allergies. I’ll run on now—”