Honeymoon With Murder

by Carolyn G. Hart

  In the fourth painting, fantasy and reality warred. A brown-handled kitchen knife protruded from the chest of an actor dressed as a Munchkin, the knife obscenely visible against the yellow coat of his comic soldiers uniform. He lay dead on the Yellow Brick Road, staring sightlessly up toward the sound-stage lights. The middle-aged man kneeling beside the body had a tough face with a nose that had taken too many blows.

  In the fifth painting, a traveler in bedouin dress but with a European face pitched a tent beside a dying camel. The desert wastes stretched endlessly, and a burning sun glittered in a cloudless sky. But there was neither despair nor fear on the face of the man, only utter and complete determination.

  Henny Brawley, of course, was probably five furlongs ahead of the competition in discovering the titles and authors represented. She was always excited at the prospect of receiving a free book. Henny was by far the most avid mystery fan on the island. Her taste ran from Millar to Rice, Van Dine to Langton, Kienzle to Maron, and that wouldn’t begin to cite them all. Moreover, she would immediately recognize this sub-genre (historical mysteries). She especially enjoyed Peter Lovesey and advised everyone who would listen to read The Detective Wore Silk Drawers. Henny also enjoyed dabbling in real mysteries, and had earned Annie’s undying (perhaps quite literally) respect for her timely arrival at the bookstore in the recent affair involving murder below stage during an amateur theatrical rehearsal of Arsenic and Old Lace.

  Recalling those difficult days, Annie groaned. Laurel had wrested control of the wedding plans while Annie was distracted by homicide. So, for the rest of the summer, Annie had engaged in guerrilla actions to try and regain mastery over the ceremony, one lightning foray at dawn to the seamstress, a clutch of impassioned midnight pleas to Max (these were usually very effective), several preemptive strikes on the telephone to various wholesalers and jobbers around the country.

  As a result, the ceremony was not quite as Laurel had hoped. (A Cosmic Statement on Love.) But it also wasn’t quite what Annie had envisioned (a dignified, simple exchange of vows) when she plighted her troth. Perhaps it would be fair to say it was a curious and original amalgam of the traditional—and the not-so-traditional.

  And it would begin at five P.M.

  The telephone rang.

  Annie jerked around and regarded it warily. It was certainly too late for Laurel to call with new ideas. Surely she couldn’t have any innovative suggestions, with the wedding only hours away.

  The shrill ring sounded again.

  Refusing to answer would be a cop-out. She hadn’t reached that point. Yet. Besides, it was probably a book rep. Or one of those infuriating robots that opened the onversation with, “Please——don’t——hang——up. This——call——could——change——your——life.” Or a friend. Or a wrong number.

  She yanked the receiver up in mid-peal. “Death on Demand.”

  “Annie, my sweet.” As always, Laurel’s husky voice brimmed with good cheer, delight, and eagerness. Annie had a vision of blond beauty levitating by a phone. “I had a feeling you might be—well, just a little bit nervy. And when I couldn’t find you anywhere, well, I knew you would have run to earth in your burrow.” A pause. “The shop.” In case Annie had by any chance missed her point. “And I thought, the very best thing I can do is help you take yourself out of yourself.”

  Annie pondered that interesting suggestion while the throaty discourse continued. It wasn’t necessary to hear Laurel’s every word. There were so many extraneous bits, asides about the glorious future of the world as a result of the recent Harmonic Convergence, the necessity of synchronizing with new vibrations, and the duty of each earthling to help cleanse the planet in preparation for the Momentous Events that would unfold in 2012, according to newly interpreted Mayan writings.

  With the skill of much recent practice, Annie winnowed the bright phrases, always alert for any reference to the wedding.

  But the kicker still caught her by total surprise.

  “What?” she demanded. “What did you say?”

  Simple, direct questions unnerved Laurel, eliciting verbiage festooned with qualifications, interpretations, explanations, and disclaimers, but the essential message remained the same.

  “I’d better go see,” Annie cut in hastily. She thumped down the receiver and raced for the back door.

  Annie braked just long enough to wave at the entry-point guard, shot through the open gate, pulled the wheel hard left, and squealed off the blacktop onto a rutted dirt road that snaked around clumps of palmettos and dipped into sloughs. A plume of grey dust boiled in her wake. She flew past Jerry’s Gas ’N Go.

  Not far now.

  The Volvo’s chassis quivered at the jolts, but Annie kept her foot on the accelerator until she screeched to a stop just past the honeysuckle-covered wooden arch that marked the entrance to Nightingale Courts.

  She turned off her motor, looked around, and wondered if Laurel had suddenly become a practical joker.

  Because nothing disturbed the gentle, early morning quiet of this sun-burnished pocket of Broward’s Rock. Nightingale Courts, a semicircle of seven cabins, faced the salt marsh. At high tide, only the tips of the spartina grass could be glimpsed. At low tide, the marsh drained to shining mud flats and shallow salt-pan pools. Just past eight o’clock on this lovely September morning, the tide was flowing in; a hungry dolphin out in the sound sliced through the water in search of a tasty breakfast of herring, mackerel, and whiting; a fisherman in a bright yellow tank top and cutoffs leaned against the railing at the end of one of the piers that poked through the marsh to deep water; a ringbilled gull zeroed in on an unwary mouse, and a well-hidden clapper rail cackled derisively Three delicately plumed snowy egrets searched contentedly for crabs.

  It could not have been more placid or cheerful, the balmy morning sunshine bathing the cabins, the weathered wooden piers, and, across the inlet, the thick clumps of yucca and sea myrtle that partially screened from view two ramshackle cabins. The sunlight glistened, too, on the shiny tin roof of Jerry’s Gas ’N Go.

  As far as Annie could see, she and yellow tank top were the only people up and about.

  Feeling foolish, she stepped out of the Volvo and walked past the mailboxes toward the cabins. Built in the thirties as tourist courts, they’d fallen on hard times during the sixties, but had been bought and refurbished as rental units in the late seventies. Stuccoed a cheerful pink, they added a touch of California to the island. Annie had always enjoyed coming to Nightingale Courts to see Ingrid, who managed the property in exchange for her living quarters in Cabin 3.

  Ingrid’s door opened. She started down her steps, paused, then waved eagerly.

  They met midway on the path.

  “Ingrid, who’s the man—”

  “Annie, what are you doing—”

  They stopped and looked at each other in surprise.

  Annie spread her hands in puzzlement. “Laurel called and said you were having a rip-roaring fight with somebody. Or, to be more accurate, she said, ‘Ingrid is involved in a confrontational encounter with a somewhat sinister individual, and I do feel, Annie, that steps must be taken to assure her safety.’”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake!” Ingrid laughed shamefacedly. “I always knew the island grapevine was unmatched for intelligence-gathering capabilities this side of the CIA, but still, I’m impressed.”

  Annie looked warily around, searching the grove of palmettos. “Where’s Laurel?”

  “I haven’t seen her this morning, but I suppose—Oh, she must have been here when I had my run-in with Jesse Penrick. You know Jesse! As for Laurel, she was probably coming from an early morning session with Ophelia.”

  “Ophelia? Session?” Annie wasn’t much given to the kind of psychic intuitions that regularly cast such dark shadows in the paths of Mary Roberts Rinehart heroines, but she felt an undeniable quiver in the nerve endings around her spine. “Sessions?”

  “Oh, Annie, not to worry. It’s all nonsense, of course,
but no harm done. I’ll tell you all about it later.” Ingrid glanced at her watch and clapped her hands. “Good grief, we only have two minutes to make it across the island to the breakfast!”

  That’s how the rest of Annie’s wedding day went, in a breathless, tearing, headlong rush, with no more time for worry, cold feet, or panic. If the day at certain moments reminded her strongly of the islands annual triathlon, with all its attendant noise, confusion, concurrent activities, and exhaustion of available volunteers, she didn’t permit herself to dwell on the parallels.

  The breakfast, outdoors at a beach pavillion on the ocean side of the island, featured grits, sausage, bacon, ham with redeye gravy, pancakes, scrambled eggs, and fresh pineapple flown in from Hawaii along with six hula girls, who softly crooned a Hawaiian love song and draped guests with orchid leis. Annie was delighted to see that Laurel had her hands full with Uncle Waldo, who had taken a fancy to a fat, fortyish wahine and wasn’t to be fobbed off with only a lei.

  Max, of course, was smashingly handsome (a grown-up Joe Hardy) in his yachting cap as he climbed into his speedboat to compete in the race that followed. It was the first time Annie had ever watched Max race, and she was appalled at the incredible speed the beautiful boats achieved. Laurel swooped up to join her. A finger lightly touched the trough between Annie’s eyes. “It’s never too early to think about lines, my dear. Now, you must just relax. Max always wins.” Laurel, of course, was a vision of imperturbable Nordic beauty with her shimmering white-blond hair, ocean-blue eyes, and creamy gardenia-smooth complexion.

  “Fast,” Annie croaked.

  But Laurel was right. Max won. Triumphant, wet with spume, he climbed onto the dock. Laurel shoved a box in Annie’s arms. “You present the gift, my dear.”

  Max rooted happily in the tissue, then pulled out two peasants’ costumes from Lithuania. Let us rejoice, the card read, in brotherhood.

  “You and Annie can start a new fashion in sportswear that will bring together workers around the world,” Laurel crooned.

  Set up again, Annie realized.

  Luncheon beneath the live oak trees near the harbor was another triumph—caviar from Russia, salmon from Scotland, lamb from England, rice cakes from China, and what Annie knew that Laurel would describe as a touching love dance from Burma, accompanied by a high, whining string instrument which reminded Annie sharply of cats stating differing objectives during an amatory encounter.

  There was no opportunity to think—or to find out more from Ingrid about her morning argument or what she meant by Laurel’s sessions—during the afternoon craft bazaar, when wedding guests were encouraged to browse among offerings by island artists and shop owners, wood carvings, paintings of the sea and antebellum mansions, shell jewelry, bird-life photographs, and antiques ranging from counterbalance candlesticks in heavy polished brass to eighteenth-century Charles Fraser watercolors of Carolina landmarks and more exotic creations from artisans around the world; inlaid Chinese boxes, Swedish crystal, Tibetan thanka paintings, Belgian lace, French gilt furniture, German cuckoo clocks, and primitive African art.

  Annie wasn’t sure of Laurel’s intent with the bazaar (increase international commerce? cross-cultural germination? buy international; stamp out provincialism?). But an inkling came to her as they hurried into the church. Laurel beamed contentedly. “Now there, Annie, that wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

  Annie remembered the near panic she’d fought early that morning, and how it was swept away in the color and action of the day.

  Her future mother-in-law nodded understandingly, though Annie hadn’t said a word. Laurel’s dark blue eyes filled with delight and anticipation. She stood on tiptoe and brushed her lips against Annie’s cheek. “Oh, my dear, we’ve had a glorious day, and now for the crowning moment.” Gently, she pushed Annie toward the door leading to the dressing area.

  Ingrid was there already, of course, busy helping all the bridesmaids. Ingrid looked wonderful in the pale peach dress. She was calm and unhurried, even when Deidre stamped her foot and announced furiously, “This damn bodice is designed for a size forty cup, and I can’t wear it!” The other crises were surmounted, a button popped off of one of Annie’s gloves, the veil slipped sideways and hung like a broken sailboat mast, and the bridal bouquet disappeared. Ingrid had everyone at the proper spot, and just in time, as the processional sounded.

  The wedding began, and if it wasn’t traditional, it was perfect.

  Annie watched with a smile as the ushers and the bridesmaids preceded her.

  She walked alone down the aisle.

  That decision had been hers. And Max understood.

  She came to him on her own. She was not a gift from another, not even symbolically.

  But her wedding dress was not red, despite Laurel’s plea that red should be used in America as it was in China as the color of love and joy.

  Laurel had been consoled at this defeat by Annie’s agreement to carry a dozen cardinal-red roses. Red roses say, “I love you.”

  There was a red motif. Vivid red satin bows adorned the candle stands. The cushions where the bride and groom knelt were white with red embroidery. Roses blazed crimson behind the altar. (If onlookers detected a hint of rose in the creamy satin of the wedding gown, Annie would insist it was the spill of sunlight beaming through the vivid scarlet of the stained-glass windows at the back of the sanctuary.)

  As the stately liturgy unfolded, Annie looked toward her groom. Her heart surged. He was almost too handsome—straight nose, firm jaw, serious mien. Then he gave her a sidelong glance from his rollicking blue eyes and winked.

  The reception blazed with color and sound. Laurel had transformed the somewhat uninspired grand ballroom of the Island Hills Golf and Country Club into a paradise of blooms, including a frieze of bright red tulips flown from Holland. If there was not present a horticultural representative from every nation, it was no fault of Laurel’s. She could point with pride—and did—to obscure botanical offerings from the heights of the Alps to the deepest recesses of the Amazon. The hours sped by with handshakes and kisses, laughter and toasts, a magnificent seated dinner (Annie wondered if T-bone steaks from Texas were yet another effort by Laurel to be international), the first dance with Max, the cutting of the cake.

  The cake.

  Well, Annie had to admit the gloriously, ebulliently, unmistakably carmine icing set it off.

  Why not start new traditions?

  Be open.

  Be flexible.

  Go with the flow.

  Finally, amid happy shouts, a rain of confetti, and a blare of trumpets, they made their escape.

  But not yet to the mainland and the forty-five-minute drive to the Savannah airport. Tomorrow, after attending the early service at St. Mary’s, they’d arranged for ferry service. (Grumpy ferry owner Ben Parotti had tilted a beer, looked at Max blearily, and growled, “Well, this one time I’ll do it.”) Now, Max wheeled the crimson Maserati (a gift from Laurel) up the familiar coast road toward Annie’s tree house. Laurel, of course, had wanted them to stay in the bridal suite at the islands finest hotel, The Palmetto House, but Annie wanted to spend one last night in her old home. By the time they returned from their honeymoon (and Max so far had refused to give even a hint of their destination), their new home on the golf course should be completed.

  As the headlights dipped into the thick gloom of the lampless road, Max chuckled. “Remember the first night I ever brought you home?”

  She smiled. “You said it was darker than the Black Hole of Calcutta. I never thought a city boy like you would go native.”

  The car coasted to a stop by the steps leading up to her house, and he took her hand. “A lot of things I didn’t know then. The difference between hard-boiled and soft.” (He didn’t mean eggs.) “What B’con stands for. That Martha Grimes’s titles are all names of pubs. Damn, I was an unlettered boor.” He hurried around the side of the car to open her door. (Yes, it was sexist, but, after all, this was a special night.)
“But,” and he reached to help her out and then pulled her into his arms, “I always knew I loved you.”

  In a moment, she murmured, “Let’s go inside.” She had visions of the filmy silk nightgown hanging in her closet, waiting. Her bags were packed and sat in the living room next to Max’s, ready for the morning’s departure. Once inside the door, however, she turned to him and promptly forgot all about the waiting nightgown. (Maisie didn’t know everything.)

  And for an instant, perhaps longer, the shrill peal of the telephone didn’t register.

  “To hell with it,” Max finally said urgently.

  But Annie pulled away. She would not later claim that she had a premonition. That was the province of Victoria Holt heroines. But the persistent ring faintly stirred a chord of fear. Hardly anyone knew they were there—and wrong numbers rarely ring after midnight.

  With an apologetic squeeze of his arm, Annie bolted across the room and scooped up the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  “Annie.” The voice was high, frantic, frightened. “Oh, my God, please. Come quick. I need—” A scream, a moan, then the receiver was slammed into the cradle.

  “Ingrid! Ingrid, what’s happened?”

  But Annie’s voice echoed emptily on the dead line.

  SIX

  Just past midnight,

  Sunday, September 20

  The night guard at the entry-exit gate, a college student from the mainland supplementing his income, stared at them in sleepy astonishment. There was little traffic into or out of the resort property after midnight. The ferry made its final run at ten, so residents and tourists alike found their pleasures on the island within the confines of the resort, enjoying the waterfront restaurants, the two nightclubs, the Island Hills Country Club (which, however, this Saturday night had been almost totally devoted to the continuing celebration of the Darling-Laurance nuptials), or pursued other indoor delights within the preserves of Halcyon Development, Inc. Little beckoned after dark in the islands original community near the ferry landing. The small-town main street offered one-and two-story buildings, most of frame, a few brick: a furniture store, a five-and-dime, a doctors office, a dentists, the bank, the drugstore (old-fashioned, with marble-topped tables and wire-backed chairs), an insurance agency, a post office. The high school was two blocks from Main Street, as was the small Community Hospital. Most establishments closed at five on Saturday afternoons. Shades were pulled, lights switched off Only Ben Parotti’s Bar and Bait Shop offered a loud but noisome Saturday night, although chili dogs, soft cones, and gossip were available until eleven at the Dairy Queen.