by Carolyn Hart
“Jed knows something. I’ve been sure of it ever since I talked to him.” Max spooned a generous helping of chicken potpie.
Annie’s fried flounder sandwich was, as usual, superb. She wished she could concentrate on its flavor and the generous splash of tartar sauce and a bun with just a hint of onion, not enough to detract from the fresh whitefish. She wished the music would change. “Eileen saw Vera, too. All of the Hursts looked upset. Did Wesley go to the lot? Jed and Vera were both on the terrace. One of them could have followed him.”
Max looked grim. “They’ll never admit it.”
Annie put down her sandwich. “If we ask, it will get their attention.”
• • •
You and your husband have caused a lot of trouble.” Vera Hurst’s voice dropped with venom. “I’m warning you, Wesley and I have had enough and the mayor agrees. Wesley can’t help what Shell does. Leave us alone or we’ll sue you for slander.”
It had taken Annie several calls to track Vera to the pool at the club. She kept her voice even, but forceful. “We intend to find Shell.”
“We’ll see you in court. You’ve been warn—”
Annie interrupted. “You and Wesley were overheard at the dance.”
There was no answer, except for a quick intake of breath.
“I’m coming to the club. Wait for me.” Annie clicked off the line. Before she could put the phone in her purse, a text arrived: WTB? She compressed her lips, shot back: Looking.
It was hard enough to hide a body, but how did you hide a Porsche? Shell had left the overflow lot in the Porsche, either alive or dead. Where was the car? Impatiently, she shook her head, slid onto the hot leather seat of her Thunderbird.
By the time she reached the club, the car’s air-conditioning had lowered the temperature from sauna to just baking. In the main parking lot, Annie started to look for a slot, changed her mind. Instead, she drove through the main lot to exit onto the blacktop that led to the overflow lot and skirted the perimeter of the golf course.
The overflow lot was empty of cars on a drowsy hot Friday. Sunlight glanced through the filigree of Spanish moss, turning the gray epiphyte a shimmering silver. Beneath the canopy of the tall pines, the air was still and heavy. Annie left the windows down. She gazed at empty parking spaces. Somewhere here on the night of July fourth, Shell Hurst parked her green Porsche. There would have been visibility enough from the occasional lights strung in the trees. Slowly Annie walked toward the gap in the trees that marked the path to the club. Shell came this way in her lovely dress with its startling cleavage. Was she at all worried about the trouble she was causing?
What had been her mood? That morning she had taunted Edward Irwin over the phone, threatened him, surely frightened him. Max had described Edward’s gray face, his refusal to make any admissions. Edward was accustomed to comfortable surroundings, to wealth even though the money was his wife’s, not his. Annie thought of Eileen, so self-possessed this morning, taking a malicious pleasure in what she had seen and what she knew, but how would she feel if she ever found out what Edward had done? Eileen would not be pleased to see her husband accused of blackmail, possibly brought to trial, convicted. Annie hoped, for Edward’s sake, that she would never have to know. But wasn’t that reason enough for Edward to do whatever he had to do to keep Shell quiet?
Annie walked more slowly. Eileen had been open about Edward’s early departure from the fireworks. He’d claimed a headache, presumably walked home on a golf path, but he could have seen Shell on her way to the overflow lot and followed her.
Annie reached the oyster-shell path. She moved carefully in the exact center of the path. Although the club kept undergrowth at a minimum, she never doubted that beyond a rotten log there might be a sunning rattlesnake, and dank green water near a stand of cane very probably offered a haven to alligators. Annie had a healthy respect for alligators and if one chose to take up residence in the middle of the path, she was ready to grant the scaly beast immediate property rights. She subscribed to the if-you-don’t-bother-them-then-maybe-they-won’t-bother-you school of island residents.
She was relieved when she came around the last cluster of pines to reach the paved area. The silence of the wooded parking area was in marked contrast to the cries and shouts and squeals from the swimming pool to her right. Straight ahead was the terrace. The grassy area between the pool and the golf pro shop that had been used for temporary bleachers to view the fireworks was once again a sweep of green.
The night of the dance when she and Max slipped outside to step into the shadow of a honeysuckle arbor, the milling throng of guests had been the last thing on her mind. In Eileen’s recollection, the lighting had been dim and people came and went, but she had seen the Thornwalls, Vera, Wesley, and Jed Hurst. Annie felt a spurt of exasperation. She should have asked Eileen whether Vera was walking toward the terrace or toward the path. Then she shook her head. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that Vera had been on the terrace at or near the time Shell was seen on the path.
Annie kept to the walk, didn’t try to wend her way through the clusters of chairs and stretched-out beach towels on the apron of the pool. It wasn’t hard to spot Vera. The club had a bit of paradise for everyone. Teenagers splashed to music near the deep end with occasional forays to the diving boards. Toddlers in swim rings and floats enjoyed their own pool with watchful mamas in nearby deck chairs. Preteens splashed and squealed, ran and jumped, played tag and bounced in the shallow end. Beneath a jasmine-covered pergola, those seeking a quieter venue read and drowsed on cushioned pool chairs.
Vera Hurst was at the far end of the pergola. Her ivory swimsuit was beautifully cut, a perfect accompaniment to her long-limbed grace. She rose and waited, tall, slim, with the regal air of a woman who would have her way. Dark-tinted sunglasses hid her eyes. She might have been the picture of summer ease except for the taut line of her jaw, the unsmiling line of her coral lips, the stiffness of her pose.
Annie approached, unsmiling as well. She stopped and looked at the unrevealing dark glasses. All around them was the cadence of summer and play and evanescent happiness, but they stood in a separate, tight, tense pocket of silence.
Vera turned a hand in irritation. “I started to leave, but I don’t intend to let you arrange my schedule.”
“You don’t care whether Shell is ever found?”
Vera’s lips twisted in what might have been a sardonic smile. “Frankly, my dear, no.”
“Not even if you and Wesley can’t remarry? Everyone assumed since you’re having an affair—”
Vera’s lips parted in shock.
“—that he would leave Shell. Did he change his mind? Even if he didn’t, I don’t think he can get a divorce if she can’t be located.”
“If you don’t mind”—her voice dripped sarcasm—“we’ll manage our lives without your assistance. It was a mistake to wait. I’ll gather up my things.” She started to turn away.
Annie felt a hot flick of anger, decided she had nothing to lose. “You waited for me because you’re worried. Are you scared for yourself or for Wesley? You and Wesley quarreled on the terrace at the club. You told Wesley he had to deal with Shell that night. She hasn’t been seen since.”
The rigid face with the unrevealing sunglasses swiveled toward her. “What are you suggesting?”
“Where’s the body?”
Nothing moved in Vera’s still face.
The lack of response was an answer in itself. Vera, too, thought—or knew or feared—that Shell was dead.
Annie’s throat felt tight. “You think she’s dead.”
Vera spoke slowly, as if carefully choosing her words. “I have no reason to think anything of the kind. That’s all I intend to say.” She turned and walked away.
• • •
Max admired Jed Hurst’s stance. There was ease and confidence as the teenager addressed the ball. His swing was smooth, without a hitch. He had the untroubled arrogance of a young golfer with stead
y nerves who had never known the yips. If his putting game matched his long game, he would be formidable. Thwock. The golf ball curved up in a beautiful trajectory. The drive completed its arc, landing near the two-hundred-forty-yard marker.
“Good shot.”
Jed hunched his shoulders. He turned slowly, one big hand wrapped tightly around the shaft of his driver. The mop of dark hair that dangled down into his face made him look young and vulnerable, but his narrow face had the same strong jawline as his mother’s. He jutted out his chin. “My dad says I don’t have to talk to you.”
“There are witnesses. You and your dad were on the terrace.”
Jed’s mouth opened, then shut. He drew a breath. “If people know so much, what happened, then?”
Max spoke as if certain. “Your dad followed Shell.”
Jed stared at him, his dark blue eyes wide and strained. “Is that what he says?”
“He was seen.”
Jed yanked a cell from his pocket, called. “Hey, Dad, that guy, that creep’s here on the range, bugging me. He says somebody saw you go on that path to the back lot.” He listened, then handed the phone to Max.
“Get away from my boy. I’ll swear out a complaint. Stalking, harassment. I’m on the phone to the cops right now.” The call ended.
Max returned the cell to Jed.
Jed folded his lips tight, jammed the cell in his pocket. He moved toward his bag, stuffed the club inside, hefted the bag by the strap, gave Max a dark glare, and strode away.
• • •
Max drew a U to represent the main parking lot at the country club. A thin line led from the base to a thicker streak, the blacktop road. He shaded stacked triangles for pines, made a rectangle for the overflow lot. More quick strokes created the curving blacktop as it passed the boundary of the golf course, ending when it merged into a residential street in the housing development where homes backed onto the golf course.
Annie looked over his shoulder. “The first thing we have to decide is whether Shell drove the Porsche out of the overflow lot.”
“I don’t think she was driving. Or she had someone with her.” Max’s answer was decisive.
Annie moved around the end of his desk, settled in one of the webbed chrome chairs. “I don’t disagree but why are you so sure?”
“She left before the fireworks ended. If she’d driven out toward the front of the club, Ross Martin would have noticed the car. He likes sports cars. He saw her arrive. She left during the fireworks and the valet boys weren’t busy then. Ross couldn’t have missed seeing the Porsche. It would pass very close to the valet stand. That means the Porsche was driven away from the club on the back road. Shell had no reason to use the back road. That’s not the way she would drive home. If she drove on the back road, there had to be a reason. Perhaps someone was with her and they were headed somewhere other than her house.”
Annie looked discouraged. “If the car went on the far side of the golf course and into the residential area, it could be anywhere on the island.”
Max tapped the thicker line on his drawing. “If the Porsche took the back way out, she was taking someone somewhere or she was dead and the murderer wanted to get rid of her and the car.”
Annie tried to picture a faceless driver. Was Shell smiling seductively at her passenger? Or was a murderer, hands clenched on the wheel, a dead woman slumped in the passenger seat or tumbled into a backseat, seeking somewhere to leave a body and a car? If the latter, no wonder the back road was taken.
For that moment, Annie looked at the overflow lot as if it had been a crime scene and Shell the victim. Had Shell died as she sat in the driver’s seat? If so, her body had been dumped over into the passenger seat. If she had been killed outside the car, perhaps standing alongside it, perhaps caught unaware as she turned to open the door, again the body must have been dragged to the opposite side, possibly heaved into the backseat, her evening purse tossed inside. The grisly task would be done quickly, heart pounding. At any moment, someone might come. Perhaps someone did come. Perhaps there were cheerful voices and the crunch of oyster shells scarcely heard above the crackle and boom of fireworks. The murderer heard because life depended upon hearing. If dark figures moved toward a car, the murderer slipped into deeper shadow, waited, perhaps dropped to the ground to avoid being seen in passing headlights. When silence returned, had there been a moment when the murderer considered returning to the terrace? Or had the departing car planted a seed? Would it help to take the Porsche, place it somewhere else, delay the discovery of Shell’s body? Was there a desperate search for the keys or had the killer been savvy enough to think it through, her keys must be in her evening bag, the bag was on the floor of the passenger seat, it was only necessary to punch the push-button starter.
Thinking of bodies… “If she’s dead, the murderer must be a man. How would a woman handle Shell’s body, especially if she was killed outside the car?”
“Adrenaline. Shell wasn’t big or heavy. I wouldn’t count out a woman.”
Annie was definite. “A woman couldn’t carry a gun in an evening bag. A man could manage in a tuxedo.”
Max looked at her curiously. “Why a gun?”
“Maggie talked about the gun in Dave’s desk. A shot wouldn’t be heard because of the fireworks.”
Max drew a gun on the pad. “If Maggie shot her, she didn’t have much time to drive the Porsche away before she was seen leaving in Dave’s car. Or maybe Dave did the deed. We don’t know where he was during the fireworks.” Abruptly, Max reached in his pocket, pulled out his cell. “Vibrating.” He looked. “Cute.” He didn’t sound amused.
Annie raised an eyebrow.
“Three texts in a row from Emma, Henny, and Ma. Same old, same old.”
“WTB?” Annie asked.
“Right. But”—there was a considering expression on his face—“we may surprise them with an answer one way or another pretty soon. If Shell was murdered, I don’t think someone came out of the blue and just happened into the overflow lot and just happened to murder her and just happened to drive her body away in the Porsche. And we know who had reason to follow Shell into the lot and kill her.” Max pulled the pad close and sketched with quick, sure strokes. He handed the pad to Annie.
She recognized each face with features and emotions exaggerated: a thin-haired Maggie with staring eyes, Dave’s heavy features set in anger, Wesley’s patrician good looks marred by a scowl, Vera’s straight gaze that revealed nothing and thereby revealed much, Jed’s young features stony but scared, puffy-cheeked Edward with shifting eyes. “There wasn’t much time. The Porsche had to leave the lot before the fireworks were over and people started streaming out to get into their cars.”
Max stared at her. Suddenly his face was excited. “Annie, that tells us everything. Now we know where to look.”
Annie wished for a heady little dose of ESP. She had no idea what Max meant. Then, abruptly, she did. He realized that those who had reason to kill Shell were observed very soon after the end of the fireworks. If she died shortly after leaving the terrace at perhaps five minutes after ten, there was less than twenty minutes for the murderer to get rid of the car and return to the club. Once the car was left, the murderer was on foot so the car couldn’t be more than a few minutes drive from the overflow lot.
“Almost all of them were seen after the fireworks ended. Edward’s the only one we don’t know about.” Annie pulled out her cell, called. Eileen answered. There was an undercurrent of interest in her voice. No doubt she enjoyed being a part of the ongoing drama about Shell since, so far as she knew, it didn’t affect her personally. “Eileen, Annie Darling.” Though, of course, she knew. Cell phones made it easy to find anyone at any time, but caller ID revealed your identity. “Max and I are still sorting out where people were during the fireworks. Eileen, when you got home, did you and Edward talk about the dance or Shell?… Maybe you could ask him when he gets home… Yes, thanks.” Annie clicked off the cell. “Eileen said he had an
ice pack on his head and she brought him some milk with a Tylenol and they didn’t talk about the dance at all. Now we know Edward was at their house when she walked home after the fireworks. That means he, too, only had a short time when he could have driven the Porsche—”
The front bell to Confidential Commissions sang. Purposeful steps sounded in the anteroom. Billy Cameron, big and imposing, stood in the open doorway.
“Hey, Billy—” Max broke off.
Billy’s face was furrowed in a tight frown. He folded his arms, stood with his feet apart, like a man at the bow of a boat. “Heads up. Wesley Hurst’s sworn out a complaint, accusing you and Annie of stalking, harassment, defamation of character, slander.” Billy looked disgusted. “The mayor’s all over it. The message to me is back off, stay off, leave it alone.” He took a deep breath. “‘Private citizens’”—it was clear he was quoting—“‘have to respect the rights of others. There is no crime. There never was a crime.’” Billy pressed his lips together, then concluded heavily, “The safe thing for you two is to play ball. The last thing Wesley Hurst yelled as he went out the door was that he’d see you both in court and he hoped you went to jail. I’m pretty much stymied, but I’ve got people looking for the Porsche.” He turned, strode briskly away. The front door bell signaled his departure.
Annie was puzzled. “Why didn’t you tell him what we’ve figured out?”
“Because he would set wheels in motion, the mayor would hear about it, and Billy would probably be put on leave for complicity in harassment of that fine upstanding Broward’s Rock rich guy Wesley Hurst. There’s no point in making Billy go out on a limb until we have more than a theory.” Max turned to his computer, clicked several times. He picked up a sheet of paper from the printer. “It may take us a while, but when we figure out the area that’s within a few minutes drive from the overflow lot, surely we can find the car if it’s out there. If we don’t find it, we can almost be sure that Shell drove on her merry way, the Porsche’s hidden in a forest somewhere, and she’s having a ball thinking about Wesley trying to explain where she is. But if somebody killed her, there was very little time to get rid of the car and make it back to the club and be seen. Here’s a map of the golf club and the surrounding area. We know we can pinpoint everyone during the fireworks and not too long after. That means, a murderer had maybe twenty minutes to kill Shell, move the Porsche, and show up again.”