by Carolyn Hart
Annie tapped another number.
Mavis Cameron answered. “Broward’s Rock Police Department. How may I help you?” Alerted by caller ID, her formal tone segued into recognition. “Hey, Annie. What’s up?”
“Mavis, I need to talk to Vera Hurst. I know she’s there.” Annie felt unspoken resistance on the other end of the call. “Mavis, she’s a mom. She’s terrified. I can help her. I know Billy has good reason to question Jed, but Max and I think he’s innocent. Jed’s folks want to help him. Please tell Vera I’m sure Jed is innocent and I’m working to find a way to clear him. Give that message to Vera and ask her to call me on my cell.”
Silence.
“What harm can it do for me to speak to her?”
Mavis was a mom, too. Her son, Kevin, likely knew Jed at school. “I will if I can.”
• • •
Max stood on the boardwalk and looked the length of Fish Haul Pier. On this bright July afternoon, fishermen crowded the pier, some standing, some on camp stools, coolers beside them, clean for the catch, messy and stained for bait. A few had beach umbrellas to fend off the sun. Straw hats and ball caps offered some protection. Heavy humid air pressed against him. Mixed with the salty scent of the sea was the stench of a dead fish rotting on the shore.
No one had been on the pier on the night of July tenth. Rain pelted the wooden planks. Lightning zigzagged across a heavy sky. Clarissa said someone called Richard Ely at shortly after nine and set up a meeting.
Everyone was savvy about phone records now. Max knew that if he planned a murder, made a call to his victim, he wouldn’t use a home or cell phone. That meant the call had been placed from a public phone. Pay phones were almost a relic of the past now, rare and hard to find. The island had two pay phones not far away. One was attached to a wall of the ferry building. The other was an old-fashioned booth on one end of Main Street, maybe a block from the pier.
Max turned and walked fast. He reached the beginning of Main Street. A small shabby hotel sat in a weedy lot opposite the harbor. A second-story screened verandah held a half-dozen rocking chairs. Max squinted against the sun. A small elderly woman occupied one of the rockers. She had her choice of vistas. Straight ahead the Miss Jolene sat at the ferry dock. To the left, Fish Haul Pier jutted into green water. Down and to the right plate glass windows marked a row of small shops. An old-fashioned phone booth nestled between a butcher shop and a florist.
Max approached the wooden phone booth. The paint had long vanished, the glass panels in the folding door were scratched and dim, almost opaque. Max turned, shaded his eyes. The pier was not more than a block distant. Maybe, just maybe…
He pulled out his cell.
Mavis was brisk. “Broward’s Rock Police Station. Max, I’ve already given Annie’s message to Mrs. Hurst.”
Max had no idea what Annie was doing, but finding out could wait. “This is a different matter. I have information for Billy.”
“I can switch you to his voice mail.”
“It’s urgent.” Max stared at the pier, so clearly visible from the phone booth.
Mavis was reluctant. “He’s in conference.”
“A quick call. It’s important.”
The line went on hold. Max stood in the broiling sun, sweated, waited. But the connection held. Mavis wouldn’t cut him off. Max moved his shoulders, felt his damp shirt sticking to his back. One minute, two, three…
Billy’s voice was gruff. “Cameron.”
Max didn’t waste time. “Richard Ely talked to Shell’s murderer at nine P.M. July tenth. Here’s what his wife heard on Richard’s end.” Max was precise, repeating Clarissa’s words. “Two facts jump out: Richard said he liked to save club members from trouble. He wouldn’t talk to a kid like that. Richard expected his caller to be willing to meet him and pony up some cash in exchange for silence.”
Billy was still gruff. “For starters, we’re not investigating the death of Richard Ely. If it’s homicide, we’ll never prove it. But let’s give you Richard as a blackmailer. You may be right. You got to remember, the kid’s from a rich family. God knows how much ready cash he has around. And the kid dumped the body.”
“Nobody’s going to schmooze a teenager about going out of his way to save trouble for members and how generous members have been in response.”
Another silence. “Yeah. Not what I’d expect him to say.”
Max felt a twinge of hope. Billy was listening. “You’ll have to convolute like Houdini to convince me Jed Hurst used a woman’s shawl to strangle somebody. Plus he didn’t have access to it. If you check the waitstaff that was clearing up, nobody saw Jed Hurst.” Maybe this would prod Billy to ask that question. Max felt confident of the answer. It wasn’t Jed Hurst who picked up a length of silk with murder in mind.
“Maybe that Irwin woman dropped the damn thing on the terrace. That woman’s a basket case. She stared at me like a goggle-eyed fish with a spear in her chest. Whatever, the kid dumped the body. We know that. He won’t say a damn thing. And I got a call from a club member who read Marian’s story, saw the bit about us hunting for information concerning Shell and people she talked to. The member saw Jed stop Shell on her way across the terrace when she first arrived. They had some kind of set-to. She laughed and walked on to the French door. The kid looked mad as hell, according to the witness. But I don’t get any answers from Jed Hurst. He stares at the floor and acts like he doesn’t hear me.”
Billy’s words landed like a punch in the gut. Max remembered his hard days of August when questions came at him and he was a grown man and a lawyer and they still struck panic inside. Jed was a kid. Jed stared at the floor because he was scared and bewildered and had his back against the wall.
Billy continued, his voice hard. “We’re waiting for the lawyer. We’re holding him on vandalism, car theft, obstruction of justice. More to come. He isn’t going anywhere.”
Max knew too well the quiet and isolation of the two cells at the end of a corridor at the station. Jed had probably never seen a jail cell except in a slam-bang movie. He wouldn’t have his iPhone in there. “Billy, will you do me one favor? Maybe it will turn out to be a favor for you. Check the outgoing calls from the public phone booth on Main Street a block from Fish Haul Pier at nine P.M. the night of July tenth.”
“Can you give me one good reason?”
“The murderer called Richard Ely at nine P.M. I’m betting the call came from that booth.”
A considering pause. “Say the numbers match. The kid could have used the phone booth.”
Max almost grinned. “I doubt Jed knows what a public phone booth is.”
A grudging chuckle. “You got a point. Kevin thinks the world began with an iPhone. Okay.” His voice was abruptly remote, obviously his mind moving beyond this conversation. “We’ll get the phone booth records. Not that it will matter a damn.” The connection ended.
14
Annie grabbed her cell. “Vera?”
“How can you help Jed?” Vera Hurst’s voice was thin, reedy, desperate.
Annie leaned against the storeroom worktable, glanced down at the drawing paper that covered the surface. “Someone waited for Shell at her car or followed her on the path. You and Wesley and Jed were on the terrace. You’ve got to tell me what you saw.”
“I thought you knew something.” Vera’s voice rose in disappointment and anger. “I thought—”
“If you want to save Jed, hear me out. What did Shell say when you talked to her on the terrace?” If Vera had slipped through the night to wait for Shell by the Porsche, the unexpected question should shock, constricting throat muscles, affect her voice.
Instead, Vera answered easily, without constraint. “That wasn’t me. I talked to her earlier in the hallway outside the dance. But I saw her on the terrace. She was in a shaft of light and that dress was so damn sheer she might as well have been naked. Slutty. But that’s what she was.”
Annie tried to keep her voice level. “Who was she talking to?”
“I don’t know. Does it matter? She was laughing. She looked at her watch and said something, then she turned and walked across the terrace. She came past me and said… It doesn’t matter now. Nasty. She went to the middle of the terrace and stopped to talk to that poisonous Lou Porter.” Vera’s words were clipped, anger evident.
Annie had a good idea of Shell’s intent. She was exacting revenge that night. More than likely she paused to talk to Lou simply to taunt Vera, knowing Vera would wonder if Shell was offering a juicy tidbit to Lou, something like, I suppose you know about Wesley and Vera… That didn’t matter now. All that mattered was Shell’s conversation that had been overheard by Richard Ely, Shell talking to her murderer.
“At the French door was Shell talking to a woman? A man?”
“I couldn’t see. The other person was in the shadow of a pottery vase.”
Annie pictured the terrace windows. Between each window stood tall earth-filled vases with honeysuckle spilling down the sides.
Disappointment swept Annie. That was the critical moment, Shell’s encounter with the person who planned to meet her in the overflow lot. “Did you see anything that could identify that person? A hand? A shoe? Anything?”
“I didn’t even get a glimpse. It was dark there.”
Once Shell turned away, Vera’s gaze had turned as well, following her across the terrace, watching her talk to Lou. Shell’s conversation with Lou gave the murderer time to slip down the terrace, staying in shadow, and move on the far side of the temporary bleachers to slip ahead of Shell to the overflow lot. Or the unseen person waited and followed Shell.
“Was anyone else standing near the terrace windows?”
“I don’t think so.” But Vera’s voice was uncertain. “I wasn’t paying much attention. Oh… I saw a waiter near them. I think his name’s Richard. I don’t know his last name.” Personal contact with waitstaff wouldn’t be a priority for Vera. “Maybe you can ask him.”
Perhaps Vera never bothered to read the Gazette. Or perhaps the fate of a drowning victim brought in by a shrimp boat wasn’t of interest.
“You were watching Shell. She took the path. Did anyone follow her?”
Annie had sensed no constraint earlier. Now the silence throbbed with wariness, tension, and fear.
Then there was no connection.
• • •
Dust motes swirled in a lazy current of air from a creaking ceiling fan. On one side a staircase rose in gloom. The front desk had likely been in place since the Mermaid Hotel’s first day. A plaque proudly proclaimed: Mermaid by the Sea since 1907. Max stood at a narrow wooden counter marked with stains and gouges. No one sat at an old swivel chair next to a deal table beneath a wooden case with slots for keys. More than half the slots held keys.
“Hello?” His call emphasized the quiet in the postage-stamp lobby.
A Persian cat jumped to the top of the counter, gazed at him with limpid green eyes.
“Are you in charge?” Max smiled and reached out, smoothed well-brushed hair. “Somebody takes good care of you.”
A narrow door next to the deal table squeaked open. A tall woman with a thin, bony face stepped into the cramped space behind the counter. “Tell him you are brushed morning and evening, Lydia.”
Max once again stroked the cat. “Lydia. That’s a nice name.”
The sharp features softened. “Of a noble sort. The name is perfect for her. Don’t you think she has a regal air?”
“Definitely. Persians are always beautiful. How long have you had her?” Max didn’t hurry the proprietor, Miss Beatrice Barton, as she traced Lydia’s lineage. But soon enough they were on very good terms as he described Dorothy L. As for the rooms that opened to the second-story verandah, she had her regulars who came every summer, had done so for years.
“I’m interested in the occupants of the rooms fronting the second-story verandah on the night of July tenth. The night of the big storm.”
Miss Barton placed long, thin fingers flat on the counter. Her face was abruptly wary. “May I ask why?”
“I want to find out if anyone was on the verandah during the storm. To be exact, at nine P.M.”
“That is an odd question.” Wary brown eyes studied his face.
Max made no effort to cajole. This was a woman of intelligence who had no intention of revealing the names of guests. “Miss Barton, I am not from the police. I am a private citizen trying to help a young man who is in danger of being arrested for a murder he didn’t commit. I can’t promise I’ll discover anything that will help him. But it’s possible. From the porch, a guest could easily look down and see the telephone booth. Will you call the occupants of each of those rooms”—he thought quickly—“the four rooms that front on the porch and ask these questions: Were you on the porch the night of July tenth at nine P.M.? Did you see anyone using the public telephone? Can you describe that person?” He pulled his billfold from a back pocket, slipped out a business card. “Here is my cell phone number. Miss Barton, he’s a good kid. He’s innocent.” And his golf swing was a thing of beauty and his sister and a friend on faraway Kauai believed in him.
• • •
Annie flashed a smile at Dave Peterson’s secretary. “No need to announce me. I know the way. Dave’s expecting me.” She walked fast, expecting at any moment to hear a stern challenge. But sometimes brashness carried the day and the secretary’s silence meant Dave was in his office. Annie moved swiftly down the hallway. The door was closed. She took a deep breath, tapped twice, turned the knob.
Dave looked up with a frown that turned into a scowl. “What the hell do you want?”
She stepped inside, closed the panel behind her. “The police are holding Jed Hurst on suspicion of murdering Shell.”
The scowl faded. “That’s nuts. He’s one of the best junior golfers in the state. He’s not that kind of kid.”
She felt a wave of thankfulness that men cherished athletes. “Max and I are sure he’s innocent. We know someone either waited for Shell in the overflow lot or followed her there from the terrace. Did you see Shell leave the terrace?”
He looked grim. “I didn’t hang around to see the fireworks. Shell—” A deep breath. “We had a disagreement.” His gaze shifted away from her.
Annie knew he’d stormed off in a fury after Shell—surely at what he would see as the last moment—announced she wasn’t going to flee the island with him for a new life. But antagonizing Dave wasn’t part of her plan. If he killed Shell, he would have a smooth story ready. If he was innocent of murder, he might know something useful.
“What happened after you left the dance?”
“What business is it of yours?”
“I’m trying to find out everything that happened that night. I don’t think Jed’s guilty either. You may know something useful. You have no reason not to answer if you’re innocent.”
The combativeness eased out of his face. “You’ve got a point. I might have wanted to kill her but I didn’t. So I’ll tell you what I did. I wasn’t”—his tone was laconic—“in a hell of a good mood. I took the golf path, then started up the fairway on nine. About halfway to the green, I decided I was going to give her an earful. I turned around and headed for the overflow lot. The fireworks weren’t over and I figured I’d catch her after they ended.”
Annie pictured the golf course. He was midway up the fairway to the ninth green. “How did you get to the lot?”
“I cut across the fairway to one, came through the pines to the path.”
“How did you know she’d parked there?” Annie watched him carefully.
Dave didn’t appear to attach any significance to the question. His beefy face looked impatient. “She came late. Where else would she park? Besides she came in from the terrace. Anyway, I headed for the lot. I got there and I got mad all over again.” He seemed oblivious to her. His face corrugated in a frown. “But I was too late. She was leaving. All I thought about was how I wished I’d been there two minutes sooner
and caught her.”
“You saw the Porsche leave?”
“Yeah. I was too late.”
“How’d you know it was her car?”
He sounded impatient. “You know how cars park there. A winding road curves around under the pines and people pull up in cleared spots between the trees. She’d parked in the last row. I saw the Porsche heading for the exit. There’s a light pole there. I ran. But I couldn’t catch up. The Porsche turned right. I thought that was odd. I decided maybe she had a new guy on the string, was going to somebody’s house.”
The Porsche went to the right, Jed driving fast to get to the golf path.
Annie was suddenly breathless. “Did you see anyone in the lot?”
“Not in the lot.”
“On the path? Did you see anyone, hear anything?” Jed found Shell dead, decided in a panic to do away with her body, afraid the police might suspect him or his dad. By then the murderer may have regained the terrace or headed behind the bleachers to walk across the golf course. But it was possible that the murderer was still nearby, escape to the terrace blocked by Dave’s presence.
The urgency in her voice caught his attention. He sat at his desk, big, burly, thinking, just like he might figure a job, taking this figure and that into consideration. “Let me get it straight. Shell walked to her car. She left. So what difference does it make?”
“Her body was in the Porsche. Somebody strangled her in the lot and drove away.”
He looked momentarily shocked. “You mean she was dead when the car pulled out of the lot?”
“Yes.”
He took a quick breath. “Then…” He paused, swallowed. “When I came through the woods to the path, I waited in the pines for a few minutes. I sure didn’t want to talk to him.”
“Who did you see?”
“Wesley.” Dave’s voice was subdued. “He was walking fast back toward the terrace. He looked like hell. I thought he’d had a dustup with Shell. He rushed past. I gave him time to get to the terrace. I was about to step out of the shadows and here came Jed, running toward the lot.”