by Carolyn Hart
He slid bacon onto two plates, added a heap of eggs, carried the plates to the table. “Breakfast is served, madam.”
She slipped into her place, picked up a chilled glass of orange juice in a toast. “To the chef.” Not only was Max Joe Hardy handsome and sexy, he loved to cook. She wondered idly if Joe Hardy had grown up to cook breakfast for his wife. If his adventures were being spun today, he might rival the kitchen skills of Robert B. Parker’s Spenser.
Max bowed and joined her.
Annie drank freshly squeezed juice from Florida oranges, felt a jolt of pleasure. “Last night I woke up and I knew there was something funny about what Mrs. Chase told you.”
Max took a bite of a scone topped with whipped cream. He raised a blond brow. “I would say the redoubtable Mrs. Chase was singularly lacking in humor.”
Annie picked up a slice of bacon. “Not funny that way. Odd. Strange. Tell me again what she said about Edward Irwin.”
Max was casual. “She said he looked scared to death when he was dancing with Shell and then she looked surprised.”
Annie put down her fork. “Why?”
Max took another bite of bacon, mumbled, “Why what?”
“Why did Mrs. Chase look surprised?”
Max grinned. “Most men don’t find their dance partners scary. Shell may be many things, but I don’t think she scares men.”
Annie accurately read his expression. “Push your libido back into the primal swamp and concentrate on Mrs. Chase. There’s a difference between scared and uncomfortable. Maybe she would have noticed if Edward looked stiff and even embarrassed. But scared? She did say scared, didn’t she? Is that what she meant?”
Max paused as he added a dash of unsalted butter to a scone. “Mrs. Chase,” he spoke thoughtfully, “is precise. I think if she said scared, she meant scared. She said Edward looked ‘scared to pieces’ and obviously his response surprised her. That is odd, isn’t it?”
“Very odd. What does she know about Shell and Edward that she was surprised that he seemed scared. You can talk to her again and I’ll go over to Eileen and Edward’s house.”
Max grinned. “I hate to mention unpalatable truths, but I can’t see this encounter proceeding smoothly. Let’s see, are you going to open with, ‘Edward, why are you scared of Shell?’ or perhaps, ‘Eileen, your husband’s a wuss and what’s his panic over Shell?’”
Annie looked at him with dignity. “I have the perfect excuse. Eileen’s obsessed with finding her shawl. I’ll explain I’m updating information about Lady Luck members for a new directory and if she’d like I can ask everyone about the shawl. You go back over to the inn and see Mrs. Chase.”
• • •
Annie popped her umbrella as she hurried up the bricked sidewalk to the rambling ranch-style house. Last night’s storm had morphed into a steady rain. The dim day muted the color of the impatiens in the front flower beds. Midway up the walk, Lady Banks’ rosebushes formed a backdrop to a small pool with a stone nymph. The sodden breeze carried the sweet scent of pittosporum that screened the garages from view. Annie was grateful to reach the covered porch. Big-petaled pink tea roses flourished in a blue terra-cotta urn. Annie pressed the doorbell.
The door opened. Light white bamboo flooring stretched down the hallway, a cheerful contrast to the outdoor gloom. A small chandelier bathed Eileen in soft white brightness, emphasizing her fairness. Annie didn’t miss the flash of surprise in Eileen’s cool gaze. Eileen, much taller than Annie, looked trim and youthful in a navy turtleneck and white slacks.
Annie hurried to explain. “I was out this way and thought I’d take a chance on catching you. I could have called but it’s so much easier to talk to someone in person.”
Eileen might be surprised, but she had good manners. “Won’t you come in?”
“Thank you.” Annie furled the umbrella, propped it to one side of the door.
The central hallway gleamed beneath the lights of the small chandelier. A dining room opened to the left. Eileen led the way down the hall to turn through an archway into a formal living room with several sofas, an easy chair, a Windsor rocker. A large mirror in a Danish modern frame hung over the bricked mantel. A low glass coffee table was bare of magazines, emphasizing the austerity of the furnishings. At their house, Dorothy L would be ensconced atop a tennis racket Annie had dropped on the coffee table over the weekend. Their table also held a stack of books she was eager to read, including new titles by Robert Crais, Katherine Hall Page, Jeffery Deaver, Meg Gardiner, and Carolyn Haines.
Annie skirted the oh-so-bare glass coffee table and decided her untidy, we’re-busy-and-having-fun living room was much more cheerful. She dropped onto a green-and-yellow plaid sofa that faced the fireplace. Eileen settled opposite Annie in an easy chair with blue linen upholstery.
The chair and pale blue walls and straight cream drapes were a perfect background for Eileen. Today her white blond hair was in coronet braids, accentuating the sharp planes of her face. One blond brow was slightly raised in inquiry.
Annie hurried to explain. “I promised to put together a new directory for the dance club, so I’ll be contacting everyone. I understand you lost your shawl and I’d be glad to ask everyone if they saw it.”
“The shawl was not lost. I would not lose a hundred-and-fifty-dollar beaded silk shawl.” Eileen’s tone was icy. “The shawl was stolen. I have spoken to Jerry O’Reilly several times and I am not satisfied with his response.”
“I saw you dancing and noticed the shawl, but I didn’t get a good look.” Annie leaned forward, tried for a just-us-girls-chatting bonhomie. “I’m afraid I was too taken up with Shell lassoing Edward. That was a surprise. I didn’t know she and Edward were friends. Does he usually dance with her? Maybe I hadn’t noticed.”
There was no answering smile on Eileen’s thin face. “I wouldn’t presume to know what was in Shell’s mind. I suppose poor Edward was the nearest man at hand. I think she was trying to irritate Wesley, make it public that they weren’t dancing. Later I saw her dancing with Dave.”
“I wonder if she said anything to Edward about her plans that evening.” Annie lowered her voice. “This is just between us, but it seems that Shell’s run away and no one knows where she’s gone.”
“Very few”—Eileen’s tone was cold—“likely care. I’d think her departure would be a huge relief to Wesley, considering the way things are.”
Annie saw a prurient gleam in her hostess’s eyes. “How are things?”
Eileen raised an eyebrow. “Certainly I don’t want to spread gossip—”
Annie glanced past Eileen at the mirror over the mantel, which reflected the back of Eileen’s chair, the glass coffee table, Annie on the plaid sofa, the herringbone-patterned carpet that stretched all the way to the archway, and the light white bamboo flooring. It took her only an instant to decipher the dark splotches on the floor that were reflected in the mirror. Someone stood out of sight beyond the archway, casting a misshapen shadow. The back of the sofa where Annie sat was high enough to block Eileen’s view of the hall floor. The shadows were visible to Annie because of the higher vantage point of the mirror.
“—but everyone knows what’s going on.” There was an edge of disdain in Eileen’s cultivated voice. “You’d think Vera would know better. Once burned, twice shy. Instead…” An expressive shrug. “I suppose Wesley doesn’t think it’s adultery this time since he and Vera used to be married.”
Annie tried to concentrate on two separate thoughts: Wesley was cheating on his current wife Shell with his former wife Vera, and a hidden figure listened to their conversation. “I suppose that might explain Shell leaving.” Annie gave another swift glance at the mirror. The elongated shadow in the hall shifted.
“I would think it might.” Eileen looked curious. “When did she leave?”
“The night of the dance. A friend asked Max and me to find her. Did you see her when you and Edward left that evening?”
Eileen made a dismissive ges
ture with one long, elegant hand. “We weren’t together but I’m sure he doesn’t know anything about Shell’s activities. I’m afraid the music gave him a headache and the fireworks made them worse. He went on home. We’d walked over on the golf path. Our house backs up to the seventeenth hole. I stayed for a few minutes more, then went back to the dance floor to look for my shawl. I couldn’t believe it when it was gone. I asked several of the waitstaff.” Her lips thinned. “I must say no one was very helpful.”
“Do you suppose”—Annie made the question light, almost as if inconsequential—“I could talk to Edward? Perhaps”—Annie managed to speak the rest of her sentence without changing her tone though she was abruptly aware of incredible tension—“Shell said something that might give a hint of her plans.”
Eileen looked amused. “I doubt Shell confided in Edward. That dance was one of the few times he’d ever spoken with her. She was simply making a show to aggravate Wesley. In any event, he’s not home now. I’ll check with him and let you know if he can be helpful. And”—clearly she was ready for her guest to leave—“I’ll appreciate your asking everyone about my shawl. It’s pure silk, twenty by sixty inches, a golden dragon spouting flame, hand beaded in gold and red beads.”
Annie rose. “I’ll be glad to ask everyone. If you hear anything about Shell, give me a ring.”
The shadow disappeared from the mirror.
Eileen walked with her to the door. “I certainly hope someone finds my shawl.”
Annie looked past Eileen down the hall, but it lay empty. As the front door closed behind her, she carried with her a memory of the tension she’d sensed after she saw the shadow in the mirror and Eileen’s revelation about Wesley and Vera.
• • •
Jerry O’Reilly looked uncomfortable but determined, his rounded face uncommonly serious. “I don’t want to be uncooperative, but I’d like to know what’s going on. The club has a right to protect itself.”
Max tried for a reassuring tone. “I’m not going to make trouble for the club.”
Jerry’s reddish face folded in a tight frown. “I told those women at the spa that we don’t talk about our members. The last time anyone saw Mrs. Hurst, she was fine, just fine.”
Max raised an eyebrow. “I gather word’s out that Shell Hurst hasn’t been seen since the night of the dance.”
“That’s what I mean.” Jerry was explosive. “That’s like an accusation. Then people get to whispering and they say, ‘I wonder what happened to her at the club.’ That’s bad.”
“The best thing to do is to find her, right?” Max made his smile easy and friendly. “We can squash those rumors if we trace her movements that night. We know she was here. We know she was driving a Porsche. She arrived late so she probably parked in the overflow lot. The Porsche isn’t in the lot. So we can reasonably conclude that Shell drove the Porsche out of the lot and that puts the club in the clear.” Max leaned forward. “Just to be thorough, I’d like to have some names of the boys doing valet parking that night. If she used valet parking, that would prove when she left the club. In any case, my point in talking to club employees isn’t to cause anyone a problem. There’s no reason to think any club employee had any kind of personal contact with Shell Hurst. I just want them to tell me what they saw. Hopefully, I’ll find out who talked to Shell. Perhaps she gave someone an idea where she was going. That’s all I’m looking for, Jerry.” Max turned his hands palms up. “So here’s what I need, the names and addresses of the valet parkers plus the home address of Rhonda Chase. I spoke to her yesterday at the inn. I dropped by a while ago because I have a couple more questions but this is her day off. And Annie told me Richard Ely might have some information today. While I’m here at the club, I’d like to talk to Richard.”
Jerry abruptly looked irritated. “So would I. He hasn’t shown up this morning and he didn’t call in. You can tell him he’d better get on the horn to me ASAP.” He opened his desk drawer, lifted out a directory. “About the others…”
• • •
Annie eased through a clot of damp people near the front cash desk. Death on Demand was jammed. Many would soon stream outside since the rain had ended. But the crush from the morning rain was a definite boost to sales. There was a lovely smell of books, coffee, and sodden vacationers. Pamela Potts was stacking a pile of books, enunciating in a clear voice, “… and Affairs of Steak by Julie Hyzy. That makes a total of…” Ingrid Webb flashed a thumbs-up from the other cash register. As Ingrid often noted in a wry tone, “They come in the rainy season and then they’re morose because it rains. But the more it rains, the more we sell.”
Annie’s objective was the storeroom. With the door closed, she intended to make a list of couples who had attended the dance. She reached a snag in the center aisle near the romantic suspense section. A woman with flushed cheeks clutched Deanna Raybourn’s The Dark Enquiry. “I saw it first.” A middle-aged woman with a baleful stare stood with arms akimbo. “It was on top of the bookcase. I put it there while I was looking for more books. It’s mine.”
Annie edged between them. “Ladies, let me help. I have more copies in the storeroom. And we have other wonderful romantic suspense writers, Mary Stewart, Nora Roberts, Maya Banks.”
They were right behind her all the way to the storeroom. It took Annie only a moment to find a new shipment. She sent both of them off with two Raybourn titles each. They headed up the aisle toward the cash desk, ostentatiously ignoring each other.
Annie turned to go back into the storeroom and stopped. Emma Clyde stood in front of the fireplace, glowering at the watercolors. The island author’s spiky hair was an unusual shade of mauve today. Her caftan was a dark, dull purple.
“Damn unfair.” Emma never took her eyes off the first painting, but Annie knew the comment was aimed at her.
Annie was almost certain Emma had been in the store every day this month standing in front of the watercolors. Was Emma thinner? Was there a haunted glaze in her primrose blue eyes? Enough was enough. Annie joined her. “Emma, let me get you a mug of Colombian.”
Emma didn’t budge. “Why didn’t you let me pick the titles for the month?”
Annie felt like a goldfish gulping for air. It wouldn’t do to point out that Henny had won last month so it seemed that the honors should be hers. “You can choose the titles next month. As for these”—she waved at the watercolors—“I know you’ll figure them out.”
Emma gazed morosely at the first watercolor. “I have every one but that one.” She spoke in a tone of deep loathing. “Nineteen thirty-seven. Likely a Brit. Not Tey certainly. It doesn’t look like Christie. Michael Innes sometimes had that kind of man, with an almost military bearing but cultivated—”
Annie interrupted. “Emma, you are dear to spend so much time on the contest, but you mustn’t neglect your work. How’s the new book coming?”
Emma turned a glum face toward her. “Between books.” She gave a huge sigh.
At once Annie understood. Emma was obsessing about the contest because she didn’t have an idea for a new book. “It will come.”
Emma sighed again, heavily. “Marigold’s turned her back on me.”
Annie knew authors had a peculiar faculty for treating their imaginative creatures as real. Honestly, didn’t writers know the difference between actuality and make-believe? She looked at Emma’s droopy appearance, spiky hair scarcely brushed, craggy face wan and pensive, somber caftan. The answer came swiftly. In a word, no.
Annie loathed Emma’s detective. Red-haired Marigold Rembrandt was didactic, controlling, and supercilious. It pained Annie to speak of Marigold as if she were in the next room, but poor Emma needed a boost. “Marigold’s probably turning a corner right now and bumping into something really mysterious.”
Emma shook her head slowly, with finality. “She’s gone.” The whisper was almost a croak. “Sometimes she returns on Marigold’s Pleasure. We sail tomorrow but I have little hope.”
Marigold’s Pleasure wa
s Emma’s palatial yacht. “Sea air will help.”
A doleful head shake.
“You’ve done the Rubik’s cube?” Emma often bragged about sparking creativity by focusing her thoughts on anything other than a plot.
“Four hundred and sixty-nine times.”
“New York Times crosswords?”
A weary wave of Emma’s hand was her only answer.
“Anagrams?”
Emma stared dully at the floor.
“Emma, you are brilliant.” Praise was life’s blood to Emma. She soaked up encomiums like a parched desert welcomes downpours. The more, the better. “Insightful, clever—”
Blue eyes slowly lifted to gaze at Annie.
“—able to discern what matters—” Annie broke off. Annie didn’t know what mattered in the search for Shell. Was it her estrangement from Wesley, Wesley’s liaison with his former wife, Edward’s panic at the dance, Dave leaving Shell in the middle of a dance, the woman Shell spoke to in the hallway? Annie gripped Emma’s elbow, tugged. “Come to the storeroom with me. I need your help.”
There was a spark of outrage in now chilly and very sharp blue eyes. “I do not unpack books.”
Annie resisted pointing out that if somebody didn’t unpack Emma’s books, they wouldn’t be sold. “Not books, Emma. A real mystery.”
• • •
Yeah. I’m Ross Martin. I was working the night of the Fourth.” The chubby dark-haired teenager stared at Max out of anxious brown eyes. He had the air of a kid who tried to please and who was always afraid he wouldn’t get it quite right. “We were swamped, me and Mike and Luis. See, we hang the keys on the board.” He pointed at a rectangular wooden board, three feet by four, studded with hooks. “There’s no reason we’d have noticed the colonel’s keys were gone. If we looked, we’d just think he’d grabbed the keys while we were out getting cars. The idea that one of us took his MG and trenched the course and smashed the bridge is crazy. And besides, I was thinking about it.” He pulled a crumpled sheet of paper from a back pocket of his Bermudas.