by Carolyn Hart
Sea Side Inn. Weathered gray wood, chintz curtains at the windows, masses of camellias. A “No Vacancy” placard hung beneath the sign. An arrow at the front of the drive pointed toward the back: “Parking.”
In the sleepy Sunday morning quiet, Max made a U-turn. He drove up the gravel road. Almost every spot behind the inn was taken, but there were a few empty spaces. Those same places were likely to have been empty last night also unless a guest was out early to attend church or go for a damp walk on the beach.
Nothing could be more anonymous than a car parked in the lot of a fully occupied hotel. Max felt a glow of excitement and satisfaction. No, the assailant hadn’t used the lot at Saint Mary’s church. That had always seemed risky. Although no one was likely to come to a secluded church parking lot late on a Saturday night, it could happen—a courting couple, a drug deal. But the inn parking lot was perfect. No one would pay any attention to cars going in and out, even quite late. Moreover, the island bike-rental shop was no more than two blocks away.
Okay, okay. Max mapped it out in his mind. Drive to the inn. Leave the car. Walk to the bike shop. Steal the bike. Ride to the Kinnon house. Reconnoiter. Shoot. Run like hell to the bike. Pedal fast. And then? Ride straight to the harbor, shove the bike off the end of the ferry dock, walk to the inn. Done. Safe. Home free.
Maybe, maybe not.
Max checked out the three empty spots and chose the most secluded, an angled slot on the back row of cars at the deep end of the lot next to the garbage dumpster.
Who could see this spot? Anybody?
The two-story inn was L-shaped, the base of the L fronting on the street. Pittosporum shrubs hid the angled slot from view on the ground floor. Max climbed the steps, walked along the balcony. A row of pines down the center of the lot screened the empty spot from view until he reached the top of the L.
Rooms 36 and 38 had a clear view.
Max slipped off his shoes and socks, tucked them around the corner of the building. Then, rumpling his hair and donning an expression compounded of sleepiness, sheepishness, and good humor, he knocked on the door of Room 36.
Water glistened on the plastic-sheathed Sunday-morning paper on the front porch. The white wooden house was modest, a single-story ranch-style with a gray shingle roof and jaunty red shutters. Bright floral curtains were drawn in the front windows. Annie’s car was the only one in the drive. There was no garage, simply a carport on the east side. Wood was stacked neatly near a garden shed. Rosebushes flourished in a front flower bed, yellow and pink and darkest red blossoms, lush and full. Their sweet scent mingled with the smell of damp earth and salt marsh.
Annie knocked sharply on the door.
No answer.
She tried again. And again. She circled the house, knocked at the back door, peered inside, tried the kitchen window.
There was no light, no movement. Sharon Gibson was not at home. She could, of course, be at church. But the unopened Sunday paper argued against a quiet, usual Sunday morning. No, Sharon was likely at her parents’ house. Annie had every intention of going to the Wentworth house.
But not yet. First she had to have information. She knew where to go to get it. But these answers wouldn’t come easy.
If they came at all.
Chapter 12
As Annie came around the last curve, sunlight spilled down from the thinning clouds in great shafts, touching the bright green cordgrass with gold. A great blue heron stood on a hummock. The tide was in and water covered the mudflats, but there was, as always, the rich, dank smell of the salt marsh, an island elixir to those who loved it, repulsive to those who didn’t.
Annie parked the Volvo next to Henny’s old Dodge. The bicycle was in its wooden stand, just as it had been yesterday. Annie moved fast, gray dirt scuffing beneath her shoes. She ran up the steps, knocked sharply on the door. Henny was her friend, no matter what. But would Henny ever forgive her for what she was about to do?
There was no answer. Annie cocked her head. Was that a voice? She knocked again, harshly. Footsteps sounded. The door opened a scant few inches. “Annie.” Dark eyes looked out warily. “Whatever it is, I’m pressed for time. I’m leaving for church in a minute and I have some things to attend to.” Henny’s silver-streaked hair was swept back in a smooth chignon. Her makeup was carefully applied but the hint of blush did little to dispel the grayish whiteness of her face. Her eyes lacked their usual gleam. Her aquamarine silk dress was lovely for summer but the garnet necklace was a hasty, unconsidered choice. “As I’ve told you, I don’t have any interest in the investigation—”
Annie’s hands clenched. This was hard. So hard. “You lied to me.” There was wonder and dismay in her voice, though it was just another indication of how much Jonathan Wentworth mattered to Henny. “Oh, yes, you wouldn’t want Emily Wentworth to know that you and Jonathan care for each other. But that couldn’t account for your terror. I should have known that. No, you were frightened because you knew Jonathan had every reason to kill Bud Hatch. The strongest reason a man can have. Bud Hatch caused the death of Jonathan’s son.”
Henny’s eyes flared.” Her sharp-featured face froze.
“I’m sorry, Henny.” Annie gently pushed on the door. “But I know.” That was a lie. She had no proof, but she did at long last have a link between Hatch and the Wentworths. There was one point of correlation between the dossiers of Jonathan Wentworth and Bud Hatch. They were 12 years apart in age. They never served at the same post. But Jimmy Wentworth died in Vietnam when Bud Hatch was stationed there. A link.
Annie saw it as a deadly link. Henny’s response proved her right.
Henny spun away. She fled, her shoes striking sharply against the parquet flooring.
Annie called out, “Henny!”
Henny didn’t stop, didn’t respond.
Annie plunged into the house.
The floppy white pajamas sported cerise polka dots. Huge bushy white eyebrows angled up in a belligerent V. “Do you know what time—”
“Sir” Max spread his hands in appeal. “I’m so sorry to bother you.” An engaging smile. “I’m on my honeymoon. Just got married last night. And somebody’s played a joke on us—”
“Roger, who is it?” A shrill voice angled high. “Roger, is everything all right with Wes and Katie? Roger—”
“Shush, Velma. Young fellow here. Nothing to do with the kids.” The eyebrows had relaxed. A pudgy hand reached out to poke Max. “Hell of a thing, weddings. Got our oldest boy married off last night. Danced till three o clock in the morning. Remember that song?” In a reedy baritone, the father of the groom launched into the first verse. Another comradely poke. “Course you don’t. You’re too young. So what’s the problem?”
“Our car!” Max’s voice was plaintive. “We parked right down there.” Turning, he pointed toward the empty slot by the dumpster. “Somebody told me it was gone at eleven. But I guess if you didn’t get in until late, you wouldn’t have noticed.”
“Eleven?” The man in the doorway turned. “Velma, didn’t you bring Sissy back about eleven?”
“Yes, I did.” The tone was just this side of grim. Velma flounced to the doorway, holding her seersucker robe at the neck. She’d made an effort to brush her tangled blond hair. Without makeup, her face was as white and puckered as a new golf ball. “Since you’d drunk enough champagne to set you off on a search for a bridesmaid’s garter—and I told Wes he should tell Katie not to include that Morrison girl in the wedding party—”
Shaggy eyebrows beetled.
“—I had to bring Sissy back. Your sister. Of course, she was having palpitations! No one paying any attention to her. So I had to bring her. All by myself. In that terrible storm.” Velma’s tone put the journey on a level with backpacking up Mount Everest. She edged out onto the balcony. “Was it a dark car? A BMW?”
Max tried hard to keep a slightly vacant, sheepish look on his face. “Yes, ma’am. I know they didn’t mean any harm. But I’m trying to figure out who took it so
I can track it down. My wife has her heart set on a drive into Savannah.”
“Oh, well, I saw the car leave. We’d just driven in. And there was the biggest crack of lightning and it lit up the whole parking lot, light as day.” Velma had a good eye. She described the driver in minute detail. “Do you know who that was?”
“Yes, ma’am.” With an effort, he kept his tone light. “Yes, I do. I know where to find him. Thanks for helping me.”
Max hurried down the wooden steps, broke into a run as soon as he reached the parking lot.
Henny’s living room ran the length of the house. A wide window at the back overlooked the marsh. The Sunday paper, still in a tight roll, lay atop a rattan table. Henny walked all the way to her desk, gripped the curved back of the swivel chair, stared out into the marsh. On the desktop beyond Henny, the computer screen glowed. Annie glimpsed papers, folders, a speaker phone, a small CD player.
Henny’s shoulders bowed. “So you’ve found out about Jimmy Wentworth.” Her voice was harsh, overly loud in the quiet room. She pulled herself to her full height and turned to face Annie.
Annie had always thought of Henny as vivacious, in a hurry, full of fun. Yes, she’d seen her in more serious moments, her face grave, her eyes full of wisdom and understanding. But she’d never seen her as she did that morning, her dark eyes calculating, her sharp-featured face combative. “Who did you talk to?”
“Max got on the net,” Annie said carefully. This was the tricky part. This required skillful lies, carefully presented, just so much and no more, enough to garner the response she needed.
“So you got the whole ugly story.” Henny’s eyes glinted with disgust. “What a bastard Hatch was. But slick. Nobody could prove it was deliberate. All it took was asking a friend at battalion level to issue new orders.”
“Everyone said it didn’t do to make an enemy of Hatch.” Annie hadn’t realized how much that meant.
“He was ambitious. And he wasn’t going to be thwarted by a lowly second lieutenant. Hatch intended to create the body counts his commanding officer wanted and everybody had to cooperate.” Henny folded her arms across her chest. “He even told Jimmy about it, said see if you like being a forward observer better than being in an office in Saigon. Jimmy’d been out in the field a week when he was killed. But”—Henny took a deep breath—“it’s okay that you know. The truth of it is, that was a long time ago. Life goes on. Sometimes”—she looked toward a small silver frame on her mantel—“whether we want it to or not, you survive. The Wentworths survived.”
Henny’s husband was lost in a bombing raid over Germany. More than a half century had passed, years of a beloved voice stilled, a smile not seen, love unshared.
“The Wentworths hated Bud Hatch.” Annie knew this was true. She didn’t have to have proof.
“It was a long time ago.” Henny’s tone was reasonable. “They’ve known what Hatch did since shortly after Jimmy died. If Jonathan wanted revenge, he would have shot Hatch long ago.”
“Except Hatch only moved to the island a few months ago.” Came marching into town to die.
“So Jonathan brooded and decided to kill him? After all these years? Don’t be absurd.” Henny’s hands clenched. “When Bud moved here, Jonathan put their house up for sale. They’re going to move to Scottsdale. That’s the right way to respond. Get away from it. Surely you aren’t going to Frank with this absurd tale.”
“Murder, Henny. Murder!” Annie’s tone was explosive. Her eyes burned with disappointment.
Henny’s gaze was defiant. “Frank won’t believe you. Yes, you have a motive for Jonathan. But that’s all you have. A motive for him and motives for all the others. This is a crime that won’t be solved, Annie, ever. There’s no proof. There never will be.” It was a plea. She reached out, a thin hand that trembled. “Annie, leave it alone. Jonathan’s a good man, a kind man, a decent man. Leave it alone.”
“I know he’s a good man.” Annie’s voice shook. She hated this. Hated it. “A good man who was a top marksman. He was clay-shot champion at Schofield. Wasn’t he?” Annie knew Miss Dora’s list by heart. “Frank said Hatch was drilled. You and Jonathan and Emily Wentworth and Toby Maguire and Samuel Kinnon are excellent shots.”
Henny’s eyes watched her intently.
Annie ticked them off on her hand. “You didn’t do it. Toby Maguire is a great shot, but he was drunk at the festival so he couldn’t have killed Hatch. As for Samuel, he didn’t climb up in a tree and shoot himself. That leaves Jonathan and Emily, doesn’t it? And I don’t think it was Emily.”
Henny’s eyes were dark pools of misery.
Annie met that gaze without flinching though she could feel tears behind her eyes. “Do you know why I’m sure it was Jonathan and no one else?”
Henny clutched at the string of garnet beads, held tight to them.
“Because he is a good man.”
Henny sighed and turned away.
Annie spoke quietly, sadly. “I knew there was something wrong with the shooting of Samuel. But I didn’t put it all together. Until now. An excellent marksman killed Hatch. So why was Samuel only wounded? Very slightly wounded. A great deal of blood and dramatic effect, but no danger at all.”
Henny moved around her desk, leaned her head against the glass.
“I figured it out. A good shot one night doesn’t miss the next night. Oh, sure, the weather was bad. But the marksman after Samuel took his time, waited until his quarry was settled, a perfect target. So what went wrong?”
Henny said nothing, just leaned against the glass. Beyond her, out on the marsh, the cordgrass wavered in the breeze. An egret spread glistening white wings and soared on the warm air. The water surged and eddied. The blue sky arched clear and clean, the clouds gone, yesterday’s storm only a memory.
“Nothing went wrong.” Annie’s voice was gentle. “That’s how I knew. The man who killed Hatch wouldn’t have missed. If he missed, then he intended to miss. And why, for pity’s sake, would he do that?”
Henny’s silence was painful.
Annie repeated the words soberly. “For pity’s sake.” She wanted to step forward, slip an arm around those thin, rigid shoulders. “Because Jonathan Wentworth is a good man. And he knew Samuel was going to be charged with murder. You know why I’m sure it was Jonathan, not his wife? She’d never go to the trouble for someone like Samuel. She’s a spoiled, self-centered woman. But Jonathan’s not like that. Jonathan couldn’t permit Samuel to be arrested, his life ruined, perhaps his life put in jeopardy. Jonathan saw only one way to keep that from happening. He waited until it was dark, then he drove to the village. He stole a bike, rode to the Kinnon house. Jonathan’s a very careful man, isn’t he? He reconnoitered. He didn’t hurry. He was very, very careful. Samuel was wounded. What are the police to think? Exactly what they did, what we all thought. Samuel had heard something, seen something that endangered the murderer. But it wasn’t that way at all. Samuel didn’t know any more than he had already told. But Samuel was at risk and Jonathan Wentworth wasn’t the kind of man to let someone else suffer for his crime.”
Annie didn’t mention David Oldham. She would never speak of him to Henny. She hoped no one else ever did. Since Henny hadn’t been involved in the investigation, she didn’t know that David Oldham had taken a motorboat and disappeared and that Frank Saulter had already decided Oldham was the murderer. Samuel Kinnon was no longer at risk when Jonathan Wentworth rode through the stormy night with a .45-revolver in his pocket and a careful plan in his mind.
If Jonathan Wentworth hadn’t been a good and decent man—but Annie didn’t want to think about that.
Henny swung around. The bones in her face jutted against skin drawn tight with pain. “There’s no proof. No proof!”
“They can always find proof when they know. Someone will have seen Jonathan last night. Or at the festival; the police can talk to everyone who sat near the Wentworths. Someone will have noticed that he was gone from the blanket. Someone will know t
hat he and Emily weren’t together when Hatch was shot.” Annie heard the sadness in her voice. But that was wrong. Bud Hatch was dead and whether he was a good man or bad, it wasn’t Jonathan Wentworth’s right to determine the span of Bud’s life.
“Sometimes when you roll the dice, they come up snake eyes.” Jonathan Wentworth’s deep voice filled the room.
Annie jerked around, looked behind her. She’d not heard a door. She swung toward Henny’s bedroom. That door was closed.
Jonathan spoke pleasantly, but there was a quality of finality. “You’re right, Annie. So here it is officially. You and Henny can testify to it. I, Jonathan Wentworth, do hereby confess to the murder of Bud Hatch and to the shooting of Samuel Kinnon. That’s—”
Henny whirled from the window. She leaned against her desk. “Jonathan!” The cry was wrung from Henny’s heart. “No, don’t. They don’t have any proof.” Henny was bending toward her speakerphone. The tiny red light glowed on the upper-right-hand side. All this time, the phone had been on and Jonathan had heard them talk. That’s why Henny had led Annie close to the desk. That’s why Henny had spoken up so sharply, so loudly at the first.
“It’s all right, my dear. This is the way it must be. The only possible way.” A pause. “Henny”—for the first time his voice wavered—“someday, someday—in the wild blue yonder.”
Click.
The sound was loud and clear. Jonathan Wentworth had hung up. The conversation was over.
With a cry, Henny ran across the room, gathering up her purse and keys. She flung open the door, clattered down the front steps.
Annie raced after her.
Max slammed out of his car, swatted at no-see-ums. “Frank, Frank!”
Frank Saulter stood midway between the live oak tree and the still-shattered window of the Kinnon house. His khaki trousers were spattered from the wet vines and ferns, and mud clung to his shoes.