by Carolyn Hart
Annie nodded. “I guess you also know there was some bad feeling that night.”
That launched Buddy. Annie made occasional encouraging comments, but there was nothing she hadn’t heard before. Until…
“… but Maggie Peterson got the last laugh on Dave. I don’t know how he got home. It’s a long walk from the club to their house.”
“Walk?” Annie stared at him.
Buddy’s laughter boomed. “Maggie left him high and dry.”
“Maggie took Dave’s car?”
“You better believe. She about creamed me in the main lot after the fireworks. She was driving like a bat out of hell, screeching that Mazda Miata out of the drive like she was heading for the stripe at the Southern 500. She was all by herself. When we drove out of the lot, Dave was raising hell with the valet boys. But how could they tell a woman she couldn’t take her husband’s car?”
• • •
In the lobby of the Sea Side Inn, red wooden rockers with cane seats and comfortable sofas with a shell pattern upholstery looked summery and Southern. Potted palms afforded crannies of privacy. Sunburned tourists sprawled in comfort, enjoying tall mint juleps beneath the lazy swirl of overhead fans.
Emma stood next to a planter filled with ferns. She waited until the last of several guests checked in. When Lou Porter was free, Emma strolled to the desk, totted up a quick appraisal. Lou was tall, willowy, and might have had a certain charm if it weren’t for the sour turn of too-red lips.
Lou looked toward Emma. A saccharine smile stretched the red lips. “Need to get away from it all, find solitude in the anonymity of a hotel room, escape the demands of that big old house?”
Emma recognized jealousy. She lived in a Mediterranean mansion, thanks to Marigold, while Lou and Buddy lived in an antebellum home that needed repair and likely was hard to heat and cool. She murmured, “Nice and cool here in the lobby. Perhaps my house is almost too cold. But I make do.” She smiled, leaned on the counter, said almost idly, “I imagine you know that Shell Hurst has disappeared.”
Lou’s gooseberry eyes glistened. “I’d heard that people were looking for her. Well, she hasn’t been here for at least a week or so.”
Emma was instantly alert. She had a good memory. She recalled what Annie had told her of Max’s interview with Rhonda Chase at the inn. Emma was intrigued by Rhonda’s comment that people from the club never recognized her but she knew them. Where did she know them from other than at the club? Maybe she knew them from the inn. Had she seen someone from the dance club at the inn? If so, what did she know about them and why did she say “they all deserve each other”?
Emma was casual. “It’s hard to keep things like that a secret.”
“I’ll say.” Lou’s lips curled in amusement.
At the dance, Shell had appeared at odds with her husband, with Edward Irwin, and with Dave Peterson. But it was Edward who had caught Rhonda’s attention. Edward and Shell? Emma knew that six impossible things before breakfast were never out of the question. She said smoothly, “You probably noticed Edward and Shell here?”
“I’ll say,” she repeated. “Eileen’s so high and mighty. She’s a Marsh and she never lets anyone forget that her people have been here since the seventeen hundreds, like that makes them special. Everybody knows those old families have plenty of skeletons in their closets, but that’s not the way Eileen sees it. She’s a Marsh and they’re all so fine and rich, planters and bankers and a colonel in the war.” Lou was from a longtime South Carolina family as well, but her forebears were hand-to-mouth tenant farmers. “Well, she won’t be so high and mighty if people find out about Edward. One of the maids told me. She didn’t know what to do. I said we’d better keep out of it.”
Emma longed to give Lou a shake. “Sometimes it’s better not to get involved.”
Lou shrugged. “It’s not like he was causing a public problem, taking pictures.” Her mouth spread in a malicious grin. “But it would have been fun to take a picture of him, sneaking around like a seedy PI. Wouldn’t that make Mrs. Eileen Marsh Irwin sit up and take notice. Can’t you just see it, Edward hiding behind a housekeeping cart with his iPhone trained on Room Two-oh-four. Course”—she nodded sagely—“I figured it out. He took a picture of whichever one arrived first going into the room, then lurked until the other one came and got another picture and then he’d have the pictures with dates and times and I suppose he probably waited until they came out and got their pictures again. That didn’t prove what they were doing in the room”—salacious emphasis and raised eyebrows—“but you can take it to the bank they weren’t playing bingo.” Her laughter was boisterous, then abruptly her vacuous face was touched by genuine compassion. “But it’s not funny.” A deep breath. “My sister had to have a lot of chemo and Maggie’s one of the gals who have helped her. The last time I saw Maggie, she looked like hell. I guess she really loves the sorry jerk.”
7
Max’s Maserati slid to a stop on the unpaved street. He’d passed some ramshackle dwellings but most of the small frame houses were well kept. Richard Ely’s weathered gray wood house at 903 Black Skimmer Lane sat deep in a lot among tall pines. A glossy-leaved magnolia with huge white blossoms cast shade on the front porch. Twin ruts marked the empty drive. The overhead door to a one-bay garage was closed.
Max felt a sharp disappointment. He wanted to talk to Richard. Of course, he may have driven his car into the garage and be at home. Richard hadn’t answered Max’s calls to his cell phone. He might have chosen not to answer. Max shrugged. Since he was here, he might as well go up to the house and knock. He punched and the motor died.
The heat kicked Max like a mule as he slid out of the driver’s seat. Steamy air pushed against him like a baked wet towel. Max hurried toward the shaded front yard. He was grateful for a respite from the sunlight when he stepped beneath the spreading branches of an old live oak with a huge trunk. As he neared the porch, he saw a fenced yard that extended from the north end of the house. Similar to many Lowcountry yards, there was more sand than dirt. Creeping lantana with lavender blooms covered much of the ground along with patches of uneven Bermuda grass near the walk.
It was very quiet.
Max stopped at the foot of the short flight of wooden steps. He’d never given any thought to Richard Ely beyond the fact that he was an excellent waiter, courteous but always impersonal. A lean man of medium height, black hair cut short, an impassive expression neither friendly nor hostile, slanted black brows above deep-socketed dark eyes, a narrow nose, long mouth, pointed chin.
There was something intensely personal about viewing a man’s home.
The house was well kept, the shutters recently painted, a square of lighter-colored shingles marking an area of repair on the roof, the porch freshly swept. A garden hose was neatly coiled by an outdoor water spigot. Closed blinds in two front windows afforded no glimpse of the interior. A cane chair with a red cushion sat next to a low wooden table with a large ashtray. The unlit stub of a half-smoked cigar was carefully perched on the ashtray, awaiting Richard’s return.
A faint whine sounded.
Max lifted his head, listened.
The sound came again.
Max looked to his right. He started to smile, then stopped.
Behind the links of a wire fence, a blond cocker moved unsteadily, stopping to whine, starting again, his footing uncertain. He wore a brown collar. His tags jingled.
Max moved swiftly to the fence.
The dog wavered. His head moved from side to side, much as a dazed person would look around, confused and uncertain. He plodded toward a stainless steel water bowl by the back steps.
“Hey, fella, what’s wrong? Hey, guy.” Max had grown up with cockers, eager, fun, boisterous, loving.
The dog paused, lifted his head, again moved it from side to side. Sluggishly, he moved to the fence.
Max knelt, looked into huge dark eyes clouded with misery. The dog’s golden fur appeared rumpled and stiff. His tongu
e hung from a gaping mouth. Another low whine.
Max was on his feet and running. He pounded on the front door, waited a moment, pounded again. No answer. The house lay silent, unresponsive. Max thudded down the porch steps. He never hesitated at the gate. When it was open, he moved quietly to the dog, held down a hand. “Hey, buddy. It’s going to be all right. Come on, buddy.” He checked the tags, though there was only one veterinary hospital on the island. He saw the familiar name and picked up the dog. The cocker was heavy in his arms and his head rested against Max’s chest.
• • •
Jessica Forbes, DVM, worked swiftly. “His blood sugar’s over the roof. He must have missed his shot. He’s dehydrated. Once I get the blood sugar down and start some fluids, he’ll be fine.” She fixed a hypodermic, lifted up a flap of loose skin, made the injection. “I’ll take him and get an IV started.” She expertly lifted the dog. Max opened the door to the interior hallway and in rushed the smell of antiseptics and the high yip of a frightened dog.
While Max waited in the examining room, he tried Richard Ely’s cell number again. No answer. He had a clear picture of the weathered gray wood house drowsing in late-afternoon sunlight and silence.
When the door opened, he looked up.
Jessica’s white jacket was creased and there were several spots of blood on one sleeve. She peered at Max over Ben Franklin glasses. Tawny brows drew down into a sharp frown beneath a Lauren Bacall swoop of hair. Her slender face was puzzled. “This is Richard Ely’s dog. What’s the situation?”
Max described his arrival at the house and the dog’s whine and unsteady gait.
Jessica folded her arms. “Not much about Richard Ely would surprise me,” she spoke with distaste, “but he’s always taken excellent care of Sammy.”
“You’re surprised he’d miss a shot?”
“Very surprised.”
Max looked at her steadily. “You don’t think much of Richard.”
She pressed her lips together, shrugged.
“I need to know about Richard. Anything you can tell me may be a help.”
She shook her head. “What I know—he’s a bigot and a loudmouth—won’t find him for you. Let’s leave it at that.” But there was a ripple of raw hurt in her eyes. “It happened a while ago. He’d probably had too much to drink.”
Max knew—it was a small island—that Jessica and her partner Tiffany Smith, who was a nurse at the local hospital, were a devoted couple. Abruptly, he understood. “Did he hassle you and Tiffany?”
“Nasty,” she said briefly. “We used to like to drop into the One-Legged Pirate for a drink on Friday nights. Not anymore.”
“But you take care of Sammy?”
“I’m the only vet on the island. Sammy’s a good dog.” Almost a smile, then she shook her head. “I can’t imagine how this happened. Richard’s a nasty piece of work, but he’s really careful with Sammy.”
• • •
Max sat in the Maserati, the air-conditioning on high. His cell rang. He recognized the first bars of “Deep in the Heart of Texas.” “Hey, Annie.”
“We’re having three guests for dinner.” There was a note of stress in her voice.
Max didn’t have to ask. Annie had a special tone in her voice when she referred to Laurel, Emma, and Henny. He glanced at his watch. Already five thirty. If he went straight home, he could have a great dinner ready by six thirty. He had fresh flounder ready to grill. It would take only twenty minutes to oven roast sliced sweet potatoes tossed in olive oil. His Caesar salad was superb, if he said so himself, which he often did. He opted for mayo enhanced by lemon juice, fresh garlic, and minced anchovies.
“Max?”
“I’m still trying to find Richard Ely.” But where should he look? Richard wasn’t at the club. He wasn’t home. Maybe an emergency had called him away. Yet, that didn’t compute. No one knew better than Richard the importance of regular insulin shots for his dog.
“Let it go until tomorrow. You won’t believe how much the ladies and I have found out. There is more than meets the eye…”
He laughed. “When the four of you are unleashed, that’s no surprise.” He made a quick decision. He’d try Richard’s cell one more time. If there was no answer, he’d head home and whip up a meal to remember.
• • •
Annie finished inputting into her laptop. “I’ll print out a copy for each of us.”
Laurel blew her a kiss. “So efficient.” She took a dainty sip of her cream sherry.
It might have been any after-dinner gathering in their den except the conversation was limited to one topic, and the flow of information was amazing. Annie refused to feel like harried Jane Fonda in Nine to Five. After all, someone had to collate and organize the facts they’d gathered. She felt a trifle resentful as she hurried to their home office while everyone else reposed in comfort, sipping their drinks. Laurel, of course, had positioned herself in the golden glow of a wall sconce that emphasized the nautical jauntiness of her summer sailor blouse. Would it be churlish to murmur something about her amazingly youthful appearance? Well, yes. Besides, she did have an amazingly youthful appearance, blond hair shimmering like sunlight, patrician features smooth and unblemished, figure quite simply perfect, and all without artificial assistance. And she had to be on the shady side of sixty. Laurel was cheerfully vague about her birth year. On the plaid sofa, Emma sat square and sturdy as a figurehead on a Viking ship, exuding a similar attitude of power and confidence. For dinner, she’d changed into a daffodil yellow caftan that rivaled a supercharged LED in brightness. She raised her rum and Coke in a toast to Annie. “Excellent work.” Henny appeared sunk in thought, a faint frown on her face as she absently drank a margarita. Max put his bottle of Heineken on a coaster and looked ready to pop up. “Can I help?”
Annie shook her head. “Back in a flash.”
It was almost that quick. She passed out the sheets of paper.
Emma cleared her throat.
Annie’s mouth opened, but Max gave a slight head shake. She looked at him and her eyes made the point that it was she, Annie, who had done all the work.
He repeated the motion and his eyes said that, hey, we know you put it all together, but Emma is Emma.
Annie shrugged, plopped into her favorite easy chair, picked up her Tom Collins, and prepared to listen.
Another throat clearing. “We must give credit to Annie. She certainly plucked the pertinent information from our oral reports.”
Annie would have been more pleased if Emma’s crusty voice had not held a definite note of surprise.
“And the headings are quite cogent. To wit…”
Annie looked down at the sheet as Emma read aloud:
Timetable Wednesday Evening
Wesley Hurst alone at the bar after dinner, apparently drinking too much.
Dave and Maggie Peterson danced, Dave watched the door, Maggie obviously miserable.
Shell Hurst arrived as band took early, short break. Approx. 8:45 P.M.
Shell approached Wesley at the bar, short conversation. Wesley angry. Approx. 8:50 P.M.
Shell interrupted Edward and Eileen Irwin on the dance floor, asked Edward to dance. Approx. 9:05 P.M. Edward appeared “scared to pieces.” Eileen grim.
Dave Peterson danced with Shell, abruptly left her in the middle of the dance floor. He appeared furious as he walked away. Time uncertain.
Shell crossed the floor toward Maggie Peterson. Time uncertain.
Shell observed in conversation with Vera Hurst in the hallway near the door to the terrace. Shortly after dance ended at 9:45 P.M.
Fireworks started at 10 P.M.
Hayley Hurst and her brother Jed were at the club for fireworks but did not remain in each other’s company.
Richard Ely observed Shell Hurst on the path to the overflow lot. About ten minutes after 10 P.M.
Ely’s sighting marked the last time Shell apparently has been seen.
Observed by Witnesses
&nbs
p; Don Thornwall—Dave Peterson left Shell on the dance floor, exhibited anger in his erratic progress across the room. Wesley Hurst made a drunken scene demanding his car be brought by the valet. Jerry O’Reilly showed up in golf cart, offered Wesley a ride home. However, as the cart departed, Wesley looked back and appeared to be sober.
Roscoe Crawford—Wesley Hurst and his ex-wife Vera were in heated conversation in the shadow of a live oak tree. Vera said, “You have to deal with her tonight.” Time uncertain, but apparently between the end of the dance at 9:45 and the beginning of the fireworks at 10.
Claire Crawford—The afternoon of the dance, Maggie Peterson was in the ladies lounge, talking on her cell phone. “I know about the money. I know what you’re planning. But there’s a gun in Dave’s desk—” Conversation ended when another woman entered the lounge.
Rhonda Chase—Refused to reveal what, if anything, she knows about Edward Irwin and Shell Hurst at the Sea Side Inn.
Richard Ely—Efforts to contact him unsuccessful.
Jed Hurst—Exhibited extreme tension when queried about Shell’s car and denied talking to her after the dance.
Buddy Porter—After the fireworks, Maggie Peterson raced out of the parking lot in Dave’s Mazda Miata. Dave was not in the car.
Lou Porter—Edward Irwin surreptitiously used an iPhone to take pictures of Shell Hurst and Dave Peterson entering and, after an interval, leaving Room 204 at the Sea Side Inn. Why?
A musing silence followed Emma’s recitation.
Henny licked a remnant of salt from the lip of her empty glass. “An interesting exercise.” She spoke with a note of finality.
Laurel nodded. “It’s too bad we can’t discover where Shell went, but none of those involved are likely to respond well to questions.” Her smile at Annie was one of regret. “After all, how does one, for example, ask Wesley Hurst if he was playing drunk and, if so, why? I rather think he might reasonably refuse to say a word.”