by Carolyn Hart
“If she remembered, so what? Do you think somebody pushed her off the pier? Did you see anything tonight to suggest she was in danger?”
“People weren’t friendly, the ones I think she knew.” How threatening did that sound? Maybe she was conjuring trouble out of nothing. “Liz and Russell Montgomery. Buck and Fran Carlisle. Cara Wilkes.”
“They knew her.” His tone was cool. “Maybe they didn’t have any reason to be happy she was back. What happened? Any quarrels?”
“No.” The admission came reluctantly. “I think that Iris,” Annie spoke slowly, trying to communicate the force of Iris’s determination, “knew something that troubled her, something really bad, but she wasn’t sure.”
“Maybe something tonight triggered a memory,” Billy suggested, “and she went home with somebody and they’re talking it over. Maybe that’s why she didn’t tell you she was leaving. She was caught up in the past. And maybe,” Billy’s voice was matter-of-fact, “she couldn’t stay away from the sauce.”
Annie stopped next to Max’s Jeep in the parking lot behind the pavilion. “Oh.” It hadn’t occurred to her that Iris might have lost her never-ending battle, the hunger for alcohol, the quivering need for a drug. Maybe that was the sad answer to her disappearance.
“She’ll turn up.” Billy was relaxed. “You’re chasing shadows, Annie. There’s no reason to worry about Iris.”
MAX SWUNG THE FLASHLIGHT TOWARD THE BROODING darkness of the pines. “I’ve looked everywhere but the woods. She’s not anywhere on the picnic grounds.”
Annie stared at the towering pines, a dark mass beneath the starlit sky. The breeze rustled the limbs high in the air. Frogs chortled from a pond.
“Let’s go home, Annie. Maybe Billy got it right. Maybe being back on the island was too much stress and she started drinking.”
Annie remembered Iris’s thin face and burdened eyes. “She was making it. One day at a time.” But what if she hadn’t made it? What if she had wandered into the woods, collapsed in a stupor? Annie thought about snakes and alligators and bobcats. She would never be able to sleep, imagining Iris passed out in the woods, vulnerable to attack. “Let’s take the path through the woods to the pier.” Billy had alluded to the pier; something there had been bad for Iris. If she had too much to drink, maybe she had been drawn to the pier.
When they reached the pines, the sounds of the night enveloped them, courting frogs, wind-stirred palmetto fronds, cooing chuck-will’s-widows. Max’s flashlight poked a beam into a tunnel of darkness created by the forest canopy above and the heavy undergrowth bordering the path. They moved slowly, swerving here to avoid a fallen limb, there to jump a dank puddle. A nearby thrashing signaled a creature alarmed by their presence, a deer or raccoon or possibly a cougar.
With every step, Annie looked for any evidence of a plunge into the forest, smashed ferns or broken saw-palmetto fronds. Nothing appeared disturbed. They were nearing the end of the path and the opening on the other side of the woods near the harbor. Tension eased out of her neck and shoulders. If Iris wasn’t in the forest, they would have done all they could to search for her.
Suddenly Max’s hand closed hard on her wrist. His light swept up toward the canopy, leaving the trail in darkness, but she’d already seen Iris, lying facedown, unmoving, hands splayed on either side of her head.
Annie made a small whimpering sound and found herself in Max’s tight embrace. “Don’t look.”
But she had looked.
Iris wasn’t facedown dead drunk. Iris was facedown dead, her dark hair ruffled, a shiny black cord tight around her neck.
Chapter 6
The police car shot past them, stopped near the path into the woods. Billy slammed out of the cruiser, leaving on the headlights to illuminate the entrance. He strode toward Annie and Max. They waited midway between the woods and the boardwalk. Water slapped against the pilings of Fish Haul pier, the sound loud in the stillness of the night.
When Billy reached them, Max gestured at the woods. “She’s on the main path. Strangled.”
Billy’s face was grim. “Did you touch anything?” He reached back to tuck his uniform shirt into his trousers.
“I checked for a pulse.” Max glanced down at one hand, smudged with dirt. “I got some mud on my pants when I knelt beside her. You’ll find a depression there. I tried not to make any other tracks.”
“ID certain?” Billy looked at Annie.
Iris had worn her best outfit to the party, green-and-white-striped blouse, white slacks, red sandals. The dangling ends of the black cord had looked harsh against the green-and-white stripes.
“Yes.” Annie rubbed red-rimmed eyes.
Another cruiser and the crime van slid to a stop, training more lights on the trees. Car doors slammed. Stocky Lou Pirelli’s cheeks were dark with stubble. His red Braves sweatshirt hung halfway down cutoff jeans. Sgt. Harrison’s hair was neatly braided, her uniform fresh and crisp. Both carried Maglites.
The brightness at the edge of the woods emphasized the dark mass of the pier, its sole illumination a single light at the far end.
Lou Pirelli gave Annie and Max a quick nod, turned toward Billy. Sgt. Harrison ignored them, her pale eyes intent on Billy.
Billy gestured toward the path. “Victim in the woods on the main path. Strangled. We can’t touch anything until the M.E. certifies death. Lou, go to the west entrance to the woods, come this way until you see her. Go slow, look for anything, everything, trash, footprints, broken brush.”
Lou nodded and loped toward the picnic grounds.
“Sergeant, get the strobe lights and cameras. Set them up near the victim.”
Harrison hurried toward the van.
A shabby black coupe with a battered fender squealed to a stop behind the police vehicles.
“Doc Burford’s here.” Max squinted against the glare of the lights.
Face thunderous, black bag in hand, the island’s burly medical examiner bulled toward them. Annie knew anger carried him. Doc Burford fought death with ferocious tenacity as the island’s most beloved GP. As M.E., he encountered deaths that shouldn’t have happened, drownings, car wrecks, drug overdoses, fires, murder. To have life stolen infuriated him.
Iris’s life was stolen.
His expression remote, Billy glanced at Annie and Max. “You can leave now. Please come to the station at nine tomorrow. Bring the party guest list, plus I need to know who Iris spoke to at the picnic.” He nodded at Annie. “Don’t clear out her cabin. We’ll do that. And get some fingerprints.”
Annie knew that Billy was remembering her belief that someone had hidden in the cabin, knocked Emma forward. If only she’d told Iris of her suspicion.
Oyster shells crackled underfoot as Doc Burford hurried toward them. His face bleak, he grunted hello, turned to Billy.
“This way, Doc.”
As the men disappeared into the woods, Annie shivered, cold from the offshore breeze, cold from the icy ache deep inside. “I should have warned Iris, told her I thought someone hid in the cabin and hurt Emma. Iris might have been scared. Maybe she wouldn’t have gone into the woods.”
Max took her hand, gripped it hard. “Emma’s fall looked like an accident.”
“Pamela told me about the bruise on Emma’s back.” Annie’s voice quivered. “Any fool should have put it together.”
He slipped his arm around her shoulders. “Everyone thought Emma fell.”
She was grateful he understood her anguish, the empty feeling of having failed to act when action mattered. It might have made no difference if she’d warned Iris. But, oh, it might have saved her.
Max gently turned her away from the woods. “Let’s go home, honey.” They walked through the silent picnic area, the tables ghostly now, all traces of laughter and life gone.
Annie carried with her the memory of Iris’s thin face, burdened by sorrow. Iris had fought a good fight, one day at a time, until the days were no more.
THE TREMULOUS MOAN OF A SCRE
ECH OWL BROKE ANNIE’S shallow, fitful sleep. They’d left open the sliding door to the deck. Annie watched the rippling curtain, smelled the heady scent of the marsh. She lay as still as she could, trying not to disturb Max.
The late watches of the night often spawned formless fears, phantasms that danced at the edge of consciousness, darting from the dark places of the soul, leaving corrosive trails. Iris’s death was another reminder of the fragility of life. No one was safe. Not ever. Not anywhere. In an instant, everything could be lost.
Swept by anguish, Annie rolled up on her elbow. The hounds of death bayed in her heart. She flung an arm across Max. He was alive and living and so was she and there was goodness and love no matter how dark any night might be. She held tight to him.
He came awake.
Her lips found his, warm and living and loving.
THE SUN SLANTING THROUGH THE WINDOW OF BILLY’S OFFICE Saturday morning emphasized the pouches beneath his eyes, eyes reddened by lack of sleep. His fresh uniform already looked wrinkled. This was one Saturday morning he wouldn’t spend mulching his roses. Two crumpled Coke cans topped discarded papers in an overflowing wastebasket. He had likely been at his desk since dawn. The files stacked on his highly varnished yellow oak desk tilted a little to his right. His stepson Kevin had made the desk in a woodworking class. One leg was shorter than the others, but Annie knew Kevin’s desk would be Billy’s pride and joy as long as Billy Cameron was chief of the Broward’s Rock Police.
Max pulled out a straight chair for Annie, took one himself. He handed a sheet of paper to Billy. “Here’s the guest list.”
Billy scanned the list. “Did you have any no-shows?”
It took some figuring, but they pared the list to thirty-three.
Billy scratched through names. “I’ll add the band members and Ben Parotti’s staff.”
Max leaned back in his chair. “I’ll bet Kevin can vouch for the band members. I remember they hung out in front of the bandstand during their break.”
Annie remembered, too. The boys were too excited at their prominence to step out of the limelight.
For an instant, a smile reached Billy’s eyes. “They thought they were as hot as the Jonas Brothers. We’ll interview them, but the path into the woods was behind the stage. I don’t expect they saw anything helpful. However, the catering steam tables faced the pines. Maybe we’ll get something helpful from Ben’s crew.”
Annie pictured the steam tables. They faced the picnic area. The picnic tables were perpendicular to the woods. None of the guests looked directly at the path.
A grim smile twisted Billy’s face. “Of course, someone not on your list may have shown up. We’ll ask. Trouble is, half the time people don’t remember anything right.” Billy put the list on the desk. He stared down at it, absently rubbed a varnish-sticky hand against his trousers. “I hope to God somebody saw something. Or maybe she talked to someone and that will give us a lead.” He glanced at a notebook. “You said Liz and Russell Montgomery and Cara Wilkes noticed Iris and Buck Carlisle talked to her. Anybody else?”
“Marian Kenyon talked to Iris early on. Iris sat with Laurel at dinner.” Annie hesitated, then reluctantly said, “Buck looked kind of menacing when he walked toward Iris, but maybe that was because he’s so big. Cara saw them and frowned.”
Billy doodled in the margin, his expression stolid.
“I know.” Annie felt despairing. “It doesn’t sound like anything at all. But there was something between Buck and Iris, something more than saying hello.”
“I’ll ask.” He didn’t sound encouraged. “Maybe we’ll get a lead from Iris’s cabin. If not, we’ve got a crime that occurred anytime after dinner and the end of the picnic. She was struck from behind, either stunned or knocked out. She fell forward. The killer flipped the cord under her neck, pulled it tight. Quick, silent. No mess, no noise, nothing to link up to anybody. The cord came from one of the centerpieces on the tables. There won’t be fingerprints, not with gloves handy for cracking oyster shells. Using the black rope from a table means the murder was premeditated. A guest doesn’t cram a length of line in a pocket without a reason.”
Annie’s throat felt dry. A quick tweak and the cord had been pulled away from the hurricane lamp, ready to use. “Iris told me she came back because she had to clear something up. You said she ran away from the island. Why did she run?”
Billy rubbed his neck as if it hurt. “I got out the old files.” He tapped an orange folder. “Ten years ago in April, Jocelyn Howard fell off Fish Haul pier. She drowned. An accident. Frank handled it.” He was reporting a fact without any hint of criticism. “You know how careful Frank was.”
Dyspeptic, hardworking Frank Saulter had been chief when Annie came to live on the island. He’d suspected Annie when murder occurred at Death on Demand. Annie and Max had discovered the truth, and Frank had been their good friend ever since. Frank would have checked every angle.
Billy flipped open the file, his face thoughtful. “Jocelyn’s brother Sam died of a cocaine overdose a week earlier. The kids at the sports picnic—”
Annie felt sad. Iris had accepted the invitation to last night’s party as if it were a duty. The pavilion and its nearness to the pier must have been a grim reminder of Jocelyn’s death.
“—told Frank that Jocelyn was upset. Some of them were surprised she came. Nobody noticed when she left but one girl said Jocelyn was going to come home with her. When the girl couldn’t find her anywhere, she raised an alarm. They didn’t find her. Her body turned up out in the Sound two days later. Frank thought she’d jumped. He didn’t see any reason to make that public. The family was suffering enough. The coroner ruled accidental death by drowning. A week after that, Iris’s grandmother reported Iris missing. She was seen leaving on the ferry. She caught a bus to Savannah. We never picked up her trail after that. She was officially listed as a runaway.”
Annie leaned forward. “Iris said something wasn’t right and she had come back to the island because she needed to clear up some things. She ran away right after Jocelyn died. Does that mean Jocelyn’s death wasn’t an accident?”
“That remains to be seen,” Billy spoke with finality.
“Does the file”—Annie pointed at the orange folder—“have the names of the kids Frank interviewed?”
Billy rolled his pen between his thumb and forefinger. “Why would you want to know?” His voice was crisp.
“Someone at our picnic murdered Iris. I want to know which of our guests were at the pavilion when Jocelyn died.” Annie’s gaze challenged him.
“We’re on top of this investigation.” Billy’s expression was mild. “That’s our job. You’ve done your job by coming here, helping us out.” He pushed back his chair and stood. He was a commanding figure, well over six feet with a fullback’s build.
Max put his hand on Annie’s elbow, gently tugged her to her feet, turned them toward the door.
Annie wanted to resist, but Billy obviously didn’t intend to share anything about his investigation. Why was Billy refusing to answer? Didn’t he understand that she felt responsible for Iris’s presence at the picnic?
She stopped at the doorway, looked back at him. “I urged her to come to the picnic.” She kept her voice steady, but it took effort.
Billy gestured at the stack of folders on his desk. “You and Max have nothing to do with Iris’s death. There’s a lot of history here, miseries you didn’t know about and can’t change. You can be sure of one fact, Annie, when a murderer decides to kill, that murder will happen one place or another, one time or another.”
Annie wished she felt comforted. “You’ll find out the truth if anyone can.” Her gaze told Billy that she admired and respected him. “Max and I don’t want to interfere, but I feel like I owe Iris. I can’t walk out of here and forget everything that’s happened.” Would she ever forget? Would she ever draw a breath or take a step with the confidence that those she knew and those she loved were safe? “What harm would it do
for us to know more about what happened to Jocelyn? Wasn’t the investigation closed when her drowning was declared accidental? Isn’t the file on Jocelyn Howard’s death public record now?”
Billy got his bulldog look. Annie had seen that same expression when he continued to investigate after the mayor and the media had convicted Max of murder in the public eye. “I can’t accommodate you. That file has been reclassified.”
Annie persisted. “Reclassified as what?”
“An ongoing investigation. As such it is closed to public inspection. Thanks for coming in.” He picked up a folder, obviously ready for them to leave.
Max looked puzzled. “Who reclassified it?”
“I did.” The answer was succinct, the intent clear. His face was stern. “I know you both want Iris’s murderer found. You are upset because she was killed at your party. You want to nose around, see what you can find out, try to help, but finding her murderer is my job. You’re outsiders this time. Iris was an island girl. If I can’t find out what happened to her, no one can. She walked up that path with someone she knew, someone out of her past, someone determined to prevent her from revealing anything about—” He broke off. “Anyway, someone moved fast. We’re dealing with a clever and dangerous killer. I don’t want you two to get out in front of us.”
Max moved to Billy’s desk, reached across to grip Billy’s hand, shake it firmly. “We understand. We won’t get in the way.” He returned to the door.
Annie glared at Max, then swung her hot gaze back to Billy.
Billy looked at her calmly. “Listen up, Annie. I figure you were right. Someone hid behind the door in Iris’s cabin and shoved Emma when she walked in. The decision to kill Iris had already been made. The intruder couldn’t afford to be seen. One hard push and Emma slammed into the end of the bed. Emma could have died, too. Iris’s murderer will attack anyone who is seen as a threat.” His blue eyes softened. “You guys make a difference for this island. Keep safe. For me. For all of us.”