by Carolyn Hart
Emma stopped at the bottom of the sloping ramp, planted her hands on her hips. “I’ve seen drowned rats that looked better. As Marigold tells Inspector Houlihan, ‘Call me next time before you get in trouble. I could save you some wear and tear.’”
Emma was a sport to retrieve them from the emergency room although Annie had protested that they could stay at the Sea Side Inn. Emma insisted she was eager to put them up and her home was always equipped for guests with a ground-floor guest suite perfect for a wheelchair. However, Emma quoting Marigold frazzled Annie. At the best of times, she loathed Marigold Rembrandt, Emma’s sleuth who enjoyed making Inspector Houlihan look like an idiot. This was not the best of times.
“But”—Emma seemed to realize she was booming and dropped her voice—“I don’t imagine I looked great when you found me comatose in Cabin Six. Turnabout’s fair play. Tomorrow when you are once again sleek rats”—she chuckled at her own humor—“we’ll gather round the campfire and talk about the strange events that have occurred at Nightingale Courts.” She reached for a handle and a rear door of the Rolls-Royce opened as smoothly as the door to a bank vault. The muscular orderly transferred Max smoothly to the seat, gave them a brisk smile, and turned away with the wheelchair.
Emma gestured toward the trunk. “Henny brought over a collapsible wheelchair. Dorothy L.’s already comfortable in your quarters.” She was matter-of-fact.
Annie was too dazed to do more than nod. Henny once again had proven her resourcefulness, providing comfort for their cat heroine and producing a wheelchair in the darkest watch of the night, smoothly as a magician exchanging a scarf for a rabbit.
Annie sank into the seat next to Max. The Rolls-Royce flowed away from the hospital, majestic as a luxury liner and just as comfortable. She reached over the driver’s seat and gave Emma’s shoulder a squeeze. “Thank you.” She sank into the feather-soft embrace of the leather seat, but she carried with her an indelible memory of fire and fear.
ANNIE OPENED THE SLATS OF THE SHUTTERS, LOOKED OUT at a paved terrace that ended at the dunes. As the ocean breeze swept inland, the sea oats bent toward the house. Beyond the dunes, green water glittered in bright sunlight.
A knock sounded on the door of the sitting room. Annie hurried to the door.
Emma’s tall, thin housekeeper, cheerful, unflappable Essie Faye, smiled and gestured at two suitcases near the door. “Mrs. Brawley brought them. She left a note.”
Annie tucked the envelope under her arm and carried in the cases. Behind her Essie Faye set the table in the sitting room and arranged dishes on the buffet. “Smoked salmon, sliced Vidalia onions, cream cheese and capers, scrambled eggs with country-cut bacon and cheese grits, mixed fruit. If you need anything more, let me know.”
“Thank you, Essie Faye. Everything looks wonderful.” As the door closed behind the housekeeper, Annie hurried to the bathroom and nudged the door. Sitting on a wooden bench, Max was half in, half out of the shower and half soaped. He scrubbed with a cloth. “Remind me to shake the hand of the next person I see in a wheelchair. What a hassle—and mine is temporary.” He spoke cheerfully, but he was pale and Annie suspected his feet throbbed. He’d shaken his head at pain pills this morning, saying only that he was okay and he didn’t want to feel fuzzy, he had work to do.
Annie flapped the sheet of paper. “Henny’s been busy.” Annie read aloud:
Ben came up with the folding wheelchair and opened the lock shop to make keys for the Volvo and the Jeep. The Volvo’s in Emma’s drive. Plus there’s a hand-operated electric golf cart. A friend of mine had it converted when she broke her leg. Max can scoot anywhere on the bike paths. Ben’s expecting you both at the tag agency for new driver’s licenses. Ben also came up with a key for the units where your stuff is stored for the move. I found boxes with clothes and picked out several outfits.
Annie had forgotten that Ben ran the lock shop and tag agency, but his finger was in most island business pies.
Marian Kenyon’s in a blue funk over the sidebar in Sunday’s paper. She wants to make amends, promises to share every scrap of info she has on the Howard deaths. Laurel will see to the store. I’m going to check my class notes for the year Iris ran away. Let me know when you want to talk.
Max was cautious not to bump his feet as he dressed. When he rolled to the table in his wheelchair, Annie poured him a cup of coffee and brought filled plates.
“Max, we’ve got to find out—”
He held up his hand. “Breakfast first, Mrs. Darling.”
Despite her sense of urgency at the passage of time and her focus on fighting back against their attacker, Annie found she was voraciously hungry. They both ate huge breakfasts.
Annie refilled their coffee cups.
Max’s face was grim. “Someone wants you to die and I’m trapped in a wheelchair.”
Annie gestured at the domed ceiling of the sitting room with its elaborate frescoes. “It will take more than a tin of gas to set Emma’s house on fire.” Dorothy L. stretched in comfort on a velvet pillow in a window seat.
For survivors of a fire, they appeared remarkably unscathed, except for Max’s bandaged feet and the telltale lines of pain at the corners of his mouth and a splotch of red on Annie’s arm from a burning ember. Thanks to Henny, they were both attired in their own clothes.
“Don’t try to change the subject. Look, Annie”—his voice was calm and reasonable—“there’s no point in taking chances. Deirdre’s been wanting you to visit. This is a good time. It’s great weather in San Diego.”
Annie smiled. “It’s always great weather in San Diego. We’ll plan a trip. Your sister is a lot of fun.” Annie didn’t complete her thought. Deirdre was quite entertaining except that she expected guests to fully participate in her current enthusiasm. The last time they’d seen Deirdre, she was deeply engaged in training ferrets to play soccer with a Ping-Pong ball. Her mother’s daughter, but that was a thought better left unexpressed. “We have unfinished business here.”
Max’s eyes glinted with determination. “Let me handle this. Next time the murderer may have a gun.”
Annie wasn’t swayed. “Oh sure, I’ll take up tatting, maybe try out for a little theater role while you chase around the island”—she refrained from staring at his bandaged feet—“so you can get shot and I’ll be a brave little widow. I don’t think so.”
He looked at her. Despite a clear effort, his lips flickered into a reluctant grin. “You don’t think so?”
“No.” She smacked the table for emphasis. Silverware rattled.
He spread his hands in surrender. “I should have known better. You’ve never ducked a fight and you won’t start now. All right, Nora.”
She was scared deep inside, but there was liberation in confronting danger. They could no longer stay on the sidelines. This was now their fight. She managed a grin. “All we need is a wire-haired terrier, Nick.” She glanced toward the window seat and a somnolent Dorothy L. “But hey, we’ve got a smart white cat.” Her smile slipped away. “We didn’t set out to get involved. Now we don’t have a choice.”
She reached across the table, gripped his hand, his wonderful, strong, alive hand. The two of them together could handle anything.
She hoped.
THE WHEELCHAIR SPED ACROSS THE MARBLE FLOORING OF Emma’s main hall. Max was getting the hang of maneuvering it. Annie hurried to keep up. Sunshine flooded through a skylight, turning the mist from the waterfall near the front door into diamond-bright sparkles.
Annie poked her head into the drawing room. Gold-leaf baroque columns framed a dais. In a turquoise caftan, purplish hair now fashionably spiked, Emma sat in an oversize teak chair with crimson cushions, chin on hand, staring seaward.
Annie hesitated. Clearly their hostess was communing with the muse, sleepy from too much breakfast, or posing for an Architectural Digest photo.
Without looking back, Emma gestured peremptorily. “Come in.”
Annie was impressed. Either Emma had eyes in th
e back of her spiky-haired head or exceedingly acute hearing. As they approached the dais, Annie saw their reflection in a mirror.
Emma nodded toward the bone white divan that faced the dais, the queen granting audience to her courtiers. “Come join me.” She nodded approvingly. “Sleek rats this morning.” Before Annie could drop onto the sofa, Emma continued briskly. “I’ve put the book aside to join the hunt.”
When neither spoke, Emma pursed her lips, her stare flinty.
Annie realized applause was expected. Emma was making the most generous offer she could make, choosing to help old friends rather than devote every thought to her manuscript. “Emma, that’s grand.”
Emma gave a regal smile, the queen of crime sacrificing for her friends.
“Absolutely grand.” Max was hearty. He kept his face suitably grave, but his eyes glinted with amusement.
Homage paid, Emma nodded gracefully. “It is my pleasure. I will likely spell the difference between success and failure. I’ve applied Marigold’s acuteness to the problem.”
Annie maintained her admiring gaze. Emma was bright, quick, and clever. If only she wouldn’t present her own thoughts as Marigold’s. But friends must be forbearing with friends. “And what,” Annie asked brightly, “does Marigold think?”
Emma’s bright blue eyes gleamed. “Marigold points out that Iris Tilford was staying in Cabin Six at Nightingale Courts. That’s where I fell. What was I doing in that cabin?”
Emma was nobody’s fool, and now she had every right to know. Annie was matter-of-fact, her tone carefully neutral. “You were intrigued when Duane told us that Iris arrived alone on a bicycle in the rain. You took a key from the office”—Annie refrained from using the accusatory filched instead of took—“and slipped”—here she substituted slipped for sneaked—“into her cabin, carrying towels so you could pretend to be housekeeping. Now it seems obvious you didn’t fall. Someone was behind the door who was determined not to be seen.”
Emma’s eyes widened. “I should have known. When I wrote the scene, I realized that Marigold must search the cabin if she hopes to find out anything about the girl. Marigold obtains a passkey and pretends to be a maid and takes towels. An intruder is hidden behind the door and Marigold is struck down.” Emma lifted stubby fingers to lightly touch the small bandage on her forehead. “Clearly my subconscious knows what happened.” Her gaze became distant, misty, as if she plumbed far recesses of her mind, hunting, seeking, hoping. “If only I can remember…I almost remembered in the hospital when you came.” There was no trace of the imperious author in her voice. She sounded uneasy. “I almost remembered that instant before everything went dark. Something in the hospital brought it back.”
“I was at the hospital. And Pamela.” Annie had been delighted when Emma glared at them, her old demanding, impossible self.
Emma stared into the distance. “Pamela.” She waited, slowly shook her head. Her gaze settled on Annie. Another slow shake of her head. “It’s here.” She touched her fingers to her temples. “Something in the hospital triggered a memory. Though”—she was ruminative—“I don’t see how that will help. Marigold walks into the room. She’s looking straight ahead. She’s pushed forward. She’s thrown into the bed and knocked out. Obviously, she has no glimpse of her attacker.” Once again Emma brushed the small bandage. “That’s how it happened. That’s why my back is sore. I must remember to go back and put a bruise between Marigold’s shoulder blades. Marigold can’t see her assailant, but still she’s gained some knowledge, there is some fact that she knows, something that matters.” Square face set in determination, Emma announced, “The way forward is now clear. I will leave the overt investigation to you and Max. I must write the book.”
ANNIE STOOD BESIDE THE PINK GOLF CART WITH A MATCHING pink fringe. Max awkwardly swung himself into the seat. His face stiffened with pain as a foot banged against the side. She hurried around to reach for the wheelchair, but he was already folding it to swing it into the cart. “I can manage.” He lifted worried eyes to her. “Why don’t you come with me?”
She understood. He wanted her next to him. He wanted to keep her safe. But she wasn’t ready to give in to fear. “I’m fine.” She may have spoken a little loudly. She was aware, more aware than she had ever been, of the fragility of life. The slant of sun on Max’s face, the blue of his eyes, the smell of the sea, the rustle of a magnolia were beautiful. She felt tears inside and a quick rush of anger. She was fiercely determined to live with Max in happiness on their lovely sea island. She would do what had to be done. “I’ll be fine.” Possibly she might meet danger, but that was the price to be paid for freedom. “We’re going to find out what happened, Max. I can’t run scared. You go to your office. Find out everything you can. I’ll come as soon as I’ve talked to Henny.”
Chapter 11
Annie loved the view from Henny’s deck. The incoming tide was flooding the spartina grass to its tips. A great blue heron stood immobile. Suddenly its head shot down, long black plumes quivering, to snatch a brown snake from the water. A tufted titmouse sang its sighing song as if in applause. When the tide ran out, the mudflats would be exposed, steaming in the warming sun, a hint of how the marsh would burgeon with life in summer.
Henny placed the tray with a pitcher of iced tea and glasses brimful of ice with a garnish of mint. They sat at the wicker table.
Annie crushed the mint, drank tea, and smiled at her old friend.
Henny placed a plate near Annie. “Icebox cookies. I know they’re your favorites.”
Small things bring happy memories. The old-fashioned recipe always carried Annie home to Amarillo and her mother cutting her a slice of the refrigerated dough to eat before putting the cookies in to bake.
Henny handed a high school annual to Annie, ornate gold letters bright against a dark blue faux-leather cover.
Yellow sticky notes protruded from pages. Annie turned to the first marker, a full-page portrait of that year’s homecoming queen, Jocelyn Howard. Annie was glad for the April morning in the marsh, brimming with life, a counterbalance to the sadness generated by the long-ago picture. Pictures of Sam Howard and Jocelyn Howard and Iris Tilford now held the mournful fascination of photographs taken when death must have seemed far distant. Only the observer is aware that time was running out.
In the senior class section, the first note in Henny’s elegant handwriting was beneath the photograph of Elizabeth Katherine Ames:
Liz was a good student, diligent, careful, precise. Never an original thought, but capable of absorbing information. She was always serious and tried her best. She was a dusty blonde then. Her hair turned white when she was in her midtwenties. Liz usually managed to be near Russell Montgomery. He was nice to her, but he never saw anyone but Jocelyn.
I’m very much afraid Liz hated Jocelyn.
Annie would have found that last sentence shocking a week ago. “Last week I would have laughed at the idea of Liz hating anyone. Not anymore. She was like a piece of granite when I asked her for a memory of Iris. Malevolent granite.”
Henny looked away. She took off her glasses, drew in a breath.
Annie was surprised. Had Henny found Annie’s characterization of Liz offensive?
Henny’s face folded in a worried frown. “Unproven accusations can ruin lives.”
“That’s true.” Annie met her uneasy gaze. “But someone tried to kill us last night.”
Henny nodded, replaced her glasses. “That’s why I have to tell you. But I’ve never known if my suspicion was right.” She took a deep breath, spoke quickly. “Jocelyn’s car was vandalized in the school parking lot. A brick was thrown through the windshield. A pine grove screens the parking lot from the school. I was on the way to my car. I had a dental appointment. I saw Liz hurrying in a side door. It was during class. She could have had a hall permit to take care of some kind of errand. But there was something furtive about her movements. Later I heard about the damage to Jocelyn’s car. At the time, Jocelyn was involved in
a campaign against cockfighting. There had been other incidents, but they all happened late at night at the Howard house. The attack on her car was attributed to the men behind the cockfights. But I always wondered.” Henny looked sad. “It would take great anger to throw a brick that hard.”
Annie looked into her old friend’s concerned gaze. “We may be seeking someone driven by anger.” As she envisioned a young, furious Liz with a brick raised high, Annie turned to the next marked page.
Stanley George Carlisle IV smiled into the camera, his face a younger, fresher, less stressed version of the man Annie knew. She looked at the yellow sticky.
Buck often had a lost look, especially when his parents were around. With the kids, he was popular. He was friendly and kind to everyone. He always got there with his schoolwork, but it took effort. Nothing academic came easily for him. He was a big guy, but he wasn’t an athlete. That made high school hard for him because Friday night lights shine pretty bright on the island.
Annie needed no explanation. High school football was a religion in the South.
Sam Howard treated Buck like a flunky. He called Buck “sonny.” Sometimes, when Sam and the other football guys were together, he’d ignore Buck. Kids are vulnerable at that age. It’s desperately important to belong. Hanging out with Sam was Buck’s ticket to the inner circle. Sometimes Buck was in, sometimes he was out.
I may have been wrong, but Buck appeared more shaken by Sam’s death than seemed normal. He was distraught, unresponsive in class for several weeks. He seemed devastated. Certainly the death of a friend can be shocking, upsetting. But there was something more here, something deeper.
Annie was startled. “Do you think Buck’s gay?” Buck was virile and exceedingly attractive to women. There was always undeniable awareness between heterosexual men and women, whether or not acknowledged. She absolutely didn’t think Buck was gay.