Dead, White, and Blue

by Carolyn Hart

  Emma dragged stubby fingers through her spiky purple hair, which made her look like a hedgehog after an unfortunate encounter with violet ink. “That’s the trouble with real life. Loose threads. Hanging ends. But I have an idea…” Her blue eyes gleamed with that familiar shine of author-with-plot-burgeoning. She abruptly stood. “Good dinner. Thanks. Got to get home.”

  At the doorway she paused. “Marigold’s Pleasure leaves at eight A.M. sharp, ladies.”

  In her preoccupation with Shell Hurst, Annie had forgotten that the Intrepid Trio, as Henny had dubbed them, were off to Nova Scotia on Emma’s yacht tomorrow.

  Emma glanced at Laurel and Henny. “Bring your e-book readers. I’ll be working on my laptop. I think the title will be The Case of the Disappearing Dame.” She waited for a moment, her blue eyes vivid, thoughts obviously tumbling in her authorial mind. “I have the opening sentence.”

  Annie knew nothing short of a trumpet tattoo imported from Edinburgh would serve as an adequate opening act for an announcement of this magnitude. But she would do her best. “Emma, you’ve started the book!”

  Laurel placed her hands, the pink nail polish quite perfect, above her heart. “Oh, to share with us. We aren’t worthy.”

  Annie worried for a moment. Even Emma would surely find Laurel’s praise suspect.

  Emma nodded in agreement.

  Max’s blue eyes gleamed, but he spoke in a serious tone. “This is definitely a moment to remember.”

  Annie slid her eyes toward Henny.

  Henny smoothed back a lock of silvered dark hair. “I am sure that we shall be struck dumb.”

  Emma looked at her.

  “In admiration.” If there was the slightest edge to Henny’s voice, Emma chose to ignore it.

  Emma was majestic. She stood in the center of the doorway, head up, spiky hair quivering, and intoned, “Where—is—the—body?”

  • • •

  Max?” Annie watched shifting shadows on the bedroom wall, the wind stirring magnolia branches in the moonlight.

  “Mmmm.” A sleepy murmur.

  “Where is the body?” She knew her voice sounded like that of a waif on a street corner.

  Max shifted. He propped up on one elbow and peered at her. “Annie, she was starting a book.”

  Annie wiggled her toes against the light cotton sheet. “Emma’s like a sponge. She soaks in atmosphere, and something in that aberrational mind of hers picks up possibilities like vibrations from a tuning fork. She hones in on the essential point. So”—she propped up on her elbow and their faces were only inches apart—“where’s the body?”

  “There isn’t a body. That was Emma starting a book.”

  “Emma said.” Sure, Emma was a self-centered mess, but even Henny admitted she could outthink anybody in the room.

  “Yeah.”

  She knew then that Emma’s pronouncement had caught his attention, too.

  “What are we going to do?”

  He reached up, touched her cheek. “Sleep. Tomorrow we’ll hunt until we find Richard Ely. He may hold the key to the whole evening. If no one followed Shell, she left the overflow lot and drove… somewhere. Once we know, we’ll talk to Billy.”

  In the silence of night, Annie tried to push away images of a car driving down a road, taillights disappearing in the darkness. But the car left and that meant Shell left the lot and drove somewhere. Talk about bodies was just that, talk.

  A gentle hand turned her face and Max was near. He brushed back a tendril of hair from her face.

  She moved into his arms.

  In a moment, there were no more thoughts.

  • • •

  Max turned the Maserati into the empty drive at 903 Black Skimmer Lane, coasted to a stop. This morning the weathered gray frame house appeared as it had yesterday, neat, tidy. Lifeless. He turned to Annie. “Why don’t you stay in the car?” His only answer was the click of the opening passenger door.

  He punched off the motor and scrambled to catch up with Annie. He admired her as she hurried up the walk, the tawny gleam of her sandy hair, the determined set of her shoulders, the swing of her hips beneath a summery white skirt. He grinned. If she saw his expression, she would shake her head and inquire, but also with a smile, “Don’t you ever think about anything else?”

  She knocked crisply on the door, then pushed a doorbell for good measure. There was the faint sound of a bell inside.

  The early morning was already heavy with heat. A crow cawed in the magnolia. A faint breeze swayed Spanish moss in the live oak. Billowy white clouds sailed across a softly blue sky.

  “His car’s not in the drive, honey.” He tried to sound reasonable, but sometimes women did seem to overlook the obvious.

  “Let’s check the garage.”

  The old-fashioned nonelectronic garage door screeched as Max lifted it. Like many islanders, Ely didn’t bother to lock his garage. The bay was empty. The garage was as neat as the well-kept yard, a worktable along one wall, tools carefully hung. Shelving contained labeled boxes.

  Max half turned, watching the house, both the front and back doors. He wanted to be ready if Richard Ely came barreling out, holding a shotgun. No doors opened. Nothing moved in the hot heavy air but swirls of no-see-ums. Max pulled down the door. After the sound died away, the silence was broken only by the rustling of the pines and the cry of mourning doves.

  They turned to walk slowly toward the car.

  Annie’s hand gripped his arm. “Maybe he’s sick.” Her voice was thin.

  He understood her thought, knew the eerie lifelessness of the house worried her. “Yeah. Maybe we should look. Let’s try the back door.”

  Max wasn’t surprised when the knob turned easily in his hand and the door opened to a dim kitchen. Many islanders never bothered to lock their doors when home and sometimes left them open when away. But Max didn’t like the easy access. His sense of foreboding grew. “Stay here, honey.”

  This time she didn’t object.

  Max stepped into a small old-fashioned kitchen, noted dishes in a drying rack next to the small single sink. A dish towel hung askew from the handle of the stove. A red wooden table with four chairs sat next to a window. The surface of the table was bare. “Hey, Richard?” His call hung in the silence. There was no answer.

  His footsteps seemed loud as he crossed the oak brown linoleum floor. He pushed a swinging door and stepped into a short hallway. If Richard had central air or window units, it was turned off. The house held the heat of several days. To his left were two closed doors, to his right a living room with a sofa, two easy chairs, a TV on a stand, a coffee table. A half-eaten bowl of popcorn was on the table and an opened can of beer. There was a musty scent, closed windows and flat beer sitting in a hot house.

  “Richard?”

  No answer.

  He stepped into the living room but it took only a swift glance to be certain no one was there. Living or dead.

  Dead? Maybe Emma’s talk about a body had unnerved him more than he realized.

  He turned back to the hallway, tried the first door. The empty bathroom was clean. A washcloth draped over the edge of an old claw-foot bathtub had dried into stiffness. The second door opened to a man’s bedroom, maple bed frame, oak dresser, a worn easy chair. The closet held sheets, household supplies, clothes.

  The swinging door to the kitchen sighed behind him. “Max?”

  He turned, shook his head. “He isn’t here.” In a swift movement, he yanked his cell from his pocket, swiped a number. “Hey, Jerry, I’m still looking for Richard Ely… Yeah. If he shows up, ask him to get in touch with me.”

  • • •

  On a pier in a T-shirt and jeans, holding a fishing rod, Broward’s Rock police chief Billy Cameron was a good ol’ Southern boy, sun-bleached hair with flecks of silver, an easy smile, a booming laugh. Behind a yellow varnished desk, tie a little askew, short-sleeve white shirt a little tight over a broad chest, he looked solid, dependable, and, at the moment, skeptical
. “Two people missing from the island?”

  Annie held up two fingers. “No one has seen Shell Hurst since the July fourth dance. She walked toward the overflow lot at the country club wearing this gorgeous evening dress. If she intended to leave the island, she’d change clothes.”

  Billy wasn’t impressed. “Maybe she went someplace else and changed. Maybe she was playing 1930s Zelda Fitzgerald and wanted to leave a cool memory.”

  “The stepdaughter told me she doesn’t think any clothes are missing.”

  Billy looked at Max. “The fact that the kid came to you adds a little weight to what you’re saying. But deciding a server at the club’s missing because he blows off work for a couple of days—”

  “He wouldn’t blow off his dog.” Max scooted his chair closer to Billy’s desk. “Unless the Bermuda Triangle’s shifted north a couple of hundred miles, it doesn’t make sense that two people—people with at least a tenuous connection—have disappeared from sight within the space of a week.”

  Billy picked up a stubby pencil, a soft lead number two. Hand poised above a legal pad, he said briskly, “You filing a missing person report? Two of them?”

  Max looked surprised. “Doesn’t a member of the family have to file a missing person report?

  Billy shook his head. “Anybody can. Give me the particulars.”

  It didn’t take long. Max was rueful. “I guess we don’t know a lot to be helpful. Physical descriptions, yeah. What Shell was wearing when last seen. But”—he nodded toward Annie—“we’ve got a lot of information about what Shell did at the dance.”

  Annie opened her purse, pulled out two sheets of paper and handed them to Billy.

  He read the timetable aloud, followed by the summary of information gained from witnesses. His tone put witnesses in quote marks. When he finished, his expression was bemused. “If,” he spoke carefully, “Shell Hurst was a murder victim, this kind of insight would be invaluable. However, there is no evidence—none—that a crime has occurred.” He put the sheets down. “As part of a missing person search, I can ask the people you mention”—he glanced down—“her husband, his ex-wife, Edward Irwin, Dave and Maggie Peterson, and Jed Hurst, when they last saw her and if they have any information about her plans, but I can’t confront them on the issues you’ve raised.”

  Max leaned back in the straight chair. “So there’s nothing you can do.”

  Billy was mild. “I can hunt for them. That’s first on the agenda.” He looked out of his office window at the harbor. The deep-throated horn of the Miss Jolene announced the ferry departure. Motorboats curved in an arc on green water. White sails glistened in the sun. “From what you’ve said about the lady, she may have danced right onto some Brazilian millionaire’s yacht, and clothes were the last thing on her mind. I think we can be pretty sure she’s off island.”

  Annie frowned. “Hyla—Officer Harrison—was on duty with the traffic that night. She didn’t see the Porsche go on the ferry.”

  “Maybe she didn’t leave until the next day. Maybe she left in somebody else’s car. Let me see what I turn up.” He swung to his computer. “Here’s the vehicle registration. Two thousand eleven green Porsche Carrera, personalized plate SHELLVH. No citations or outstanding tickets.” Another click. “Driver’s license number 18358162; 416 Sea Crest Drive, Broward’s Rock, SC, DOB: 09-23-89.” He paused, raised an eyebrow. “Lots younger than her husband. But second wives usually are.” His tone was dry. “License issued 10-12-11; expires 11-31-22; Class: D; Sex: female; Weight: one twenty-four; Height: five-eight. Green eyes. Brown hair. No restrictions. Now for Richard Ely”—his fingers moved fast—“2007 brown Camry, 962 SXK.” His face changed. “Ticketed Wednesday morning. Overnight parking is prohibited in Fish Haul Pier parking. Car still there this morning, impounded.” Billy was a cop with things to do. “I’ll see what I can find out. About both of them. I’ll be in touch.”

  8

  Annie looked out at the marina. Marigold’s Pleasure wasn’t at her dock. The Intrepid Trio was at sea, heading north to cooler days. She had no doubt there would be e-mails. What were she and Max doing? What had they discovered? Where was the body? She wished Emma would drop the latter query. There was no evidence at all that Shell was dead.

  Gulls cried, wheeling in the sky. Water slapped against wooden pilings. Shouts and calls behind her marked the boisterous passage of a covey of vacationing teenagers. All normal, all happy, summer at its best, but for her the day held a chill at odds with the lazy ease of a beach resort in July.

  Annie turned and walked toward Death on Demand. But she couldn’t fend off the question: Where was the body? Had Emma sensed evil beneath the veneer of a summer dance or was she simply taking an odd occurrence as a springboard for a new book? In any event, she and Max had done everything they could in a search for Shell Hurst. Now Billy Cameron was investigating. It was time to let a professional find the truth.

  She hurried up the steps to the boardwalk that fronted the shops. Ingrid and Pamela no doubt were ready for an extra pair of hands. Annie could go back to doing what she loved. She felt buoyed as she stepped inside, taking an instant to savor the smell of books and the scent of coffee.

  Ingrid waved frantically over the head of a book buyer.

  Annie came around the cash desk, automatically noted the titles as Ingrid rang them up: Night Vision by Randy Wayne White, Hanging Hill by Mo Hayder, The Thief by Fuminori Nakamura, The Royal Wulff Murders by Keith McCafferty, and The Winter Ghosts by Kate Mosse.

  Ingrid gave her a quick glance, her eyes wide with concern. “Maggie Peterson’s waiting for you in the storeroom.” Ingrid glanced toward the customer, pushed the credit card slip across the desk for a signature, and dropped her voice, “She looks awful.”

  • • •

  Max clicked rapidly on the travel site. Could he persuade Annie to leave the store in the capable hands of Ingrid and Pamela so they could slip away to Ireland for a week? It might be too hot for him to hit the links in South Carolina but the Island Golf Club was only fifteen minutes from the Dublin airport. Golf holes laying in green valleys between sand dunes and cool breezes off the estuary…

  He looked at Annie’s picture on his desk. Yes, she was pretty—to his mind the prettiest in all the land—but there was character in that face, the picture of a woman with sensitivity and compassion. He sighed. She’d agreed that they should step away from the mystery of Shell Hurst’s last evening, but that was as likely as Annie turning away from a stray animal. That reminded him… He picked up the phone. In a moment, he was connected with Jessica.

  “Max Darling. How’s Sammy?” He picked up a pen, sketched a cocker with droopy ears on his legal pad.

  Jessica’s voice was pleased. “Ready to go home. Will Richard pick him up?”

  Max thought of an impounded Camry in the lot next to the police station. “I’m not sure. Let’s board him for a few days. I’ll take care of the bill. Or hey, could one of your techs run him over to Playland for Pooches, tell them I’ll pick up the tab?” The doggy day care center was new to the island. “If they have someone who can give him his daily shots?”

  “That’ll work. He’ll be fine there.” A pause. “Are you sure you want me to bill you? Richard won’t mind paying for Sammy.”

  “I’ll take care of it.” He’d picked Sammy up, saved his life. For now, that life was his responsibility. He replaced the phone in its cradle. He clicked off the vacation site. The sooner Billy—maybe with some help from him and Annie—figured out what had happened to Shell and Richard, the sooner he might feel the caress of Irish breezes and possibly the caresses…

  The phone rang.

  Billy Cameron didn’t waste time. “A shrimp trawler’s coming into dock. Got more than brown shrimp. Man’s body. Fits the general description of Richard Ely’s height and weight. Or would if a hammerhead hadn’t taken out some chunks. Got some queasy fishermen on the way. Got more info on the Hurst woman. Don’t have time to talk right now. I’ll get ba
ck to you.” The connection ended.

  • • •

  Annie opened the door to the storeroom. The only light came from a torchiere floor lamp in one corner. Annie flicked the switch for the overhead florescent panels, which threw into stark relief the sorting table, desk, computer, rows of metal shelves filled with books, unpacked boxes, and the woman huddled in a shabby wingback chair next to the desk.

  Maggie Peterson turned.

  Annie’s breath caught for an instant. Maggie had always been lovely and vibrant, glossy dark hair, deep-set brown eyes, a rounded kind face with a trace of dimples, and a faint indentation in her chin. She dressed with flair, the newest cut of blouse, the season’s fashionable colors. Now she was haggard, hair dull, face sunken, eyes filled with dread, wearing a too-large top that hung on too-thin shoulders.

  “Maggie, what’s wrong?”

  Maggie made an effort. She forced her face into a semblance of a smile. “I just wanted to see you, catch up on things.”

  The social response was in such evident contrast to her demeanor that she seemed to shrink against the cushions. She took a deep breath, hurried. “Eileen called me. About her shawl.” Maggie looked frightened. “She said you came by. Is it true that Shell’s missing?” Her eyes held, fear, uncertainty, and a flicker of panic.

  Annie slid into her seat at the worktable and felt the terror of the woman who sat across from her. “No one has seen or heard from her since the dance. That’s more than a week ago. There’s been an official missing person file opened.”

  Maggie’s face looked even thinner. “She may have left the island.”

  “She doesn’t answer her cell phone.”

  Maggie’s fingers closed on the silver chain of a summer necklace, a pendant with a lavender starfish. The necklace was perfect for the sunny days when it seemed summer would never end. Now the chain quivered because Maggie’s hand trembled.

  “The last time anyone admits seeing her was on the terrace during the fireworks. She was walking on the path to the overflow lot.”

  Maggie hunched her thin shoulders. “I wonder,” she spoke as if the words were painful, “where she went.”