Walking on My Grave

by Carolyn Hart

  Laurel selected three lotions, two ointments, and a delicate mauve shade of eye shadow. At the checkout counter, Gretchen swiped the items, rang up the sale. She was so perfectly the well-bred society woman fallen on hard times in a job requiring finesse and charm. The lines near her eyes and lips were a little deeper than when they’d last met. She’d smoothly but determinedly plied Laurel with every possible high-end product. Was Gretchen desperate enough for money to slip through the fog to her ex-sister-in-law’s home with murder in mind?

  Gretchen looked up and their gazes met.

  Before the automatic smile transformed Gretchen’s expression, Laurel sensed a crackle of anger and desperation.

  Laurel picked up the shopping bag with her purchases. “I’m glad you were here today, Gretchen.” A slightly reproachful laugh. “I was soooo disappointed when I came by last Thursday around five and you weren’t here. The hours say ten to noon, two to six.”

  “Thursday.” Gretchen’s face was utterly still, her blue eyes watchful. “That must have been the afternoon I delivered some purchases to the inn.” Her tone was careless, as if it didn’t matter.

  Laurel remembered, from the last presidential campaign, clips of a politician speaking followed by clips of a dog barking, presumably in response to lies. She smiled at Gretchen. “Do you hear a dog barking?”

  Gretchen’s eyes were blank. “I don’t believe so.”

  Laurel smiled. “It must just be me. I was sure I heard a dog barking.” As she drifted to the door, she mused about the possibilities. Dogs can detect cancer, find the lost, protect the weak, rescue the drowning. Perhaps there was yet a new frontier. Which breed was most likely to detect insincerity, a cardinal sin to dogs? A basset hound? A cocker spaniel? A Labrador retriever?

  Laurel smiled as she started her car. Henny had a new dog with a pointed nose, a low-slung body, and a ferocious guttural bark. Cinnamon was an odd mixture of a basset hound and a German shepherd. If only she could be trained to bark at lies.

  • • •

  The island bank was small with a tiny lobby and two tellers. It boasted a marble floor, however, and the bank president’s office, behind an oak door to Annie’s left, was large and sumptuous. She stood in the center of the lobby on one side of a circular glass counter that held an assortment of slips to make deposits or withdrawals. She wondered what had compelled a half dozen islanders to arrive at the bank promptly at ten A.M. She continued her charade of adding and re-adding figures until there was no line.

  Fred looked a bit dazed. She’d overheard several conversations, including a brusque customer who demanded to know why he couldn’t get all the cash right now, this was a check from a reputable company, what did he mean it would have to clear, that was a crock, and if there was another bank on the island he’d be the first to sign up, and that’s what happened when people had a monopoly.

  Annie’s tone was commiserating. “Hi, Fred. Always fun to deal with the GP, right?”

  He looked frazzled, his tufting hair exaggerated by several frenzied swipes. He poked his bifocals higher on his plump nose and made an effort to smile. “Nice to see you, Annie.” He glanced at the checks on the counter. His taut shoulders eased and he took a deep breath. “Got some deposits today.”

  Annie usually used the bank drive-through. She banked the old-fashioned way. As far as she was concerned, taking a picture of checks and clicking to deposit was an open invitation to a hacker, even though Max insisted mysteries had made her paranoid and she needed to join the electronic world. She insisted she wasn’t paranoid, simply careful, and she’d bank electronically when hacking no longer occurred. “All deposits.”

  Fred turned to his computer. His plump fingers tapped without hesitation.

  “I missed seeing you when I was here Thursday afternoon.”

  She was watching closely and didn’t miss the fraction of a second when he stiffened.

  “Uh, no.”

  “Where were you?” Bright, friendly.

  A door opened behind him. Quick footsteps sounded. She nodded hello to big, red-faced Martin Ford, the trust officer, lifted her voice just a little. “Yes, I missed you Thursday afternoon. Were you on a holiday?”

  Martin stopped behind Fred, gave him a poke in one shoulder. “I’d guess Fred would prefer a holiday. Unless he thinks the dentist is a barrel of fun.” Martin gave a deep-throated laugh that sounded like an elephant’s trumpet before he swung away to push through a gate into the lobby. He was still laughing as the front door closed behind him.

  “Bless your heart.” Annie leaned on the ledge. “Who’s your dentist, Fred?”

  Fred hooked a finger over his collar, tugged. “Nobody on the island. A dental surgeon in Chastain.”

  Annie was eager. “Someone asked me just the other day if I knew of a dental surgeon. What’s his name?”

  Fred’s voice was thin. “Charles Garcia.” He handed her the deposit slip.

  On the sidewalk outside the bank, Annie turned to her left, walked briskly past several shops and an old modest hotel with clientele that returned year after year. The wind picked up as she stepped onto the boardwalk. Whitecaps rippled across the harbor. The berth for the ferry was empty, the Miss Jolene likely just now reaching the mainland.

  Annie reached her goal, a worn phone booth, one of the last public pay phones on the island. Annie pulled, and the door grudgingly opened far enough for her to slide inside. Her nose wrinkled at a sour smell and her right shoe stepped on something sticky. She used her cell to get the number of the office of Charles Garcia, DDS, in Chastain, scrambled for change, dialed, fed the coin slot.

  “Dr. Garcia’s office. This is Chrissy. How may I help you?” The voice was young and pleasant.

  “Hello. Chrissy. This is Agnes Morrison for Cadillac Dental Pan. I’m simply calling to confirm the appointment last Thursday afternoon for Dr. Garcia’s patient Fred Butler.”

  “Hold on.”

  Annie pictured pinafores as she listened to a sprightly violin rendition of “Hi-Lili, Hi-Lo.”

  The young voice returned. “Excuse me. What was the patient’s name?”

  “Fred Butler.”

  The violin music resumed. Annie hummed along. She didn’t mind admitting she loved a great many unsophisticated things, including fried chicken, Edgar Guest, Thorne Smith’s Topper books, six-foot-tall sunflowers, week-old kittens, and old June Allyson movies. She sang a verse, broke off when the music was interrupted.

  “There appears to be some mistake. Dr. Garcia doesn’t have a patient named Fred Butl—”

  Annie interrupted with a quick laugh. “I’m in error. I meant to dial the number on the line above. Sorry to have bothered you.” She depressed the cradle.

  She took a deep breath of the sea-scented air when she stood on the boardwalk, scraped her right shoe bottom on a board. Still sticky. She moved to the sandy border of the walk, swiped her shoe back and forth. Better. She turned to stride back to the bank, ready to confront Fred Butler, ask what he was doing Thursday afternoon since he wasn’t at the dentist’s office as he claimed. She jolted to a stop. She and Max and the Incredible Trio were trying to garner information without alerting a Prospective Murderer. Fred was safe for the moment.

  • • •

  Henny Brawley looked at Ben Parotti and gestured at the front door. “Here comes Marian. What’s her favorite breakfast?” Marian Kenyon, the Gazette’s star reporter, was moving fast, her leather shoulder bag banging against one hip.

  Ben didn’t hesitate. “French toast with whipped cream and caramel syrup, sausage patties, and a side bowl of sliced bananas. Black coffee.”

  Henny laughed. “And she’s skinny enough to fit into a straw. Bring it on. The sliced bananas sound good with some whipped cream.” She’d enjoyed her usual bacon and eggs at shortly after six and watched dawn send fingers of light across the dark marsh. “Coffee black.�
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  Ben didn’t bother to write down the order. He waited until Marian plopped into the seat opposite Henny. His smile was fond. “You newlyweds behaving yourselves?”

  Marian’s narrow face came alight. “We wouldn’t dare do otherwise. Those joined in matrimony by Captain Ben Parotti know it would be the brig if we transgressed.” She reached up a thin hand, squeezed Ben’s wrist. “Oh, Ben—”

  He spoke hastily to head off an emotional moment. “I hear Craig’s the new City editor.”

  Diverted, Marian’s grin was supercharged. “He started this week. Walt said he’d sweated through his last July here. He’s retired to Colorado Springs to write a bodice ripper but I told him those went out with panty hose. Craig’s loving the city desk.”

  “Hope he knows the island’s pretty sleepy. Not a lot of news.”

  Marian shook her head like a terrier with a rag doll. “Not so. There’s always news.”

  As Ben started to turn away, Marian looked surprised.

  Henny laughed. “He already has the order. I asked him what you like. I know you’re always hungry even though it’s midmorning. Consider it a bribe.”

  “Bribe?” Marian leaned her elbows on the table, dark eyes bright. “What’s up?”

  Henny picked her words carefully. Marian was smart, quick, always alert for a scoop. “You know more about everybody on the island than anybody but Father Morris, and what he knows never leaves the confessional.”

  Marian’s bony face was intent. “I’m listening.”

  “I’m looking for gossip, fact, surmise, or questions about several islanders.”

  “What’s in it for me?” Marian had her quid pro quo look.

  Henny was grave. “I won’t have anything to—”

  Ben arrived with a tray, placed a plate before Marian, a bowl and small pitcher of cream before Henny. Steaming mugs for both of them.

  “—share with you if your information helps solve a problem. Least said, the better at that point. If things go horribly wrong, I’ll tell you everything I know.”

  Marian dabbed a chunk of French toast in caramel syrup. “Sounds like I get the story if there is a story. Okay. Run the names by me.” She spoke with her mouth full. She cut another portion of French toast with the edge of her fork, used her left hand to tug a laptop out of her purse. She set the laptop up to the left of her plate.

  “Katherine and Bob Farley.”

  Marian ignored her laptop. “You consider yourself a friend of theirs?”

  Henny was startled. Ves Roundtree’s safety was her objective, the objective of Laurel and Emma and Annie and Max. The Farleys? She liked them. If neither had attempted murder, she wished them well. She said the words aloud. “I wish them well.” With an unspoken caveat.

  “So maybe”—Marian added another splash of caramel syrup—“you’re worried about them. I hear a lot of things I never repeat. If someone has a problem according to island know-it-alls, I file it away under Rumors.” She pointed her fork at the laptop. “There’s nothing but good stuff in the Gazette files about Katherine and Bob. But an unnamed source told me Katherine and Bob are broke on their ass and the bank is about to call some loans due.” Marian’s face scrunched in thought. “I understand people have problems. I’ve been there. Maybe it’s money. Maybe it’s his bunged-up body, but something’s wrong big-time with Bob. Somebody I know, a bird-watching nut, was out near Gurney Point Wednesday afternoon.”

  Henny knew the remote area on the northern tip of the island. Swirling, tricky currents raced against a reddish clay bluff, eroding a foot a year, making the water murky, making a maelstrom at high tide.

  Marian looked wry. “The bird-watcher spotted a peregrine falcon and was ecstatic, and here came Hyla Harrison on her yellow scooter.”

  Police Officer Hyla Harrison was a familiar sight to islanders on her bright yellow scooter.

  “My guy was scarcely breathing. And, of course, the put-put of the scooter spooked the falcon. My guy was ready to storm out of his spot behind a pine to ream out Hyla, then he got interested. She rolled the scooter behind a bayberry bush and went up the trail, disappeared in the fog. Then he thought maybe he better stay where he was, maybe she was after someone and something criminal was going on. About this time an SUV pulls around a bend, parks at the foot of the trail. Bob Farley, my guy knows him, got out and somehow, hard to imagine doing it with bum legs and a cane, Bob labors up the trail. My friend said he looked like a crooked scarecrow in the fog, was hardly visible. My friend had binoculars, but the fog got thicker and he couldn’t see either Bob or Hyla. A few minutes passed and Bob came hobbling down the trail. Hyla was behind him. He climbed in the SUV, drove away. Hyla got her scooter and left.” Marian lifted bony shoulders, let them fall. “Maybe he was out there to look at the water. Not that he could probably see much in the fog. On a clear day you can see the water foam when it hits the rocks, hear it gurgle and suck.” Marian speared a piece of banana, dipped it in whipped cream. “Hyla waited until he’d driven away before she left.”

  Henny felt as if she stood on the bluff and fog swirled around her. Now she knew where Bob Farley was on Wednesday afternoon. She remembered his bleak expression when he told her he’d promised Katherine he’d stay home Thursday. She’d sensed darkness and now she understood. He claimed he’d stayed home on Thursday. Perhaps that was true.

  Marian took a big swallow of coffee. “Who else is on your prom list?”

  “Jane Wilson.”

  Marian looked blank. “Don’t know the name.” She turned to the laptop, tapped, clicked several times. “Only Gazette mention is in the obituary of her mother. I knew her mother. She quilted, won some prizes at the fair.”

  “Tim Holt.”

  Marian muttered to herself as she checked. “Rings a bell. Yeah, here it is, arrested in a big melee during a summer beer bust two years ago, no charges filed. Last summer swam out despite shark sighting to rescue a teenager caught in an undertow.” Another click. “Good-looking dude. A shot of the lifeguards at the start of the season.”

  “Adam Nash.”

  Marian’s expression was sardonic. “Best friend to rich old ladies. I’d sooner trust a barracuda. Something about his eyes. Kind of a dull green. They remind me of pond scum. Before Craig and I got back together, I used to go out to the Country Place.”

  Henny knew about the old plantation house with a roulette wheel, slots, and poker.

  “Adam was a regular. He gambled big-time. That’s the only thing I know about him that doesn’t fit his civic leader profile. So far as I know, he’s never landed in any trouble, and I’d know.”

  “Fred Butler.”

  Marian rolled her eyes. “Fred reminds me of wilted lettuce. But”—she brightened—“he gets interesting if you ask about Black Jack MacDougal. Fred has a man crush on pirates. Ginger—”

  Henny often played bridge with the Gazette Lifestyle editor, whose Southern charm masked the instinct of a piranha when she was on a story.

  “—did a feature on him about hidden gold on the island. She said he’s a little unhinged on the topic. She was kind enough not to point out that pirate maps are an industry and so far as she knows nobody’s ever found any buried gold. Otherwise, Fred’s a fussy old maid, no wine, no women, no song.”

  “Curt Roundtree.”

  “Rufus Roundtree’s son?”

  Henny nodded.

  Marian shrugged. “Never made any waves on the island.”

  “Gretchen Roundtree.”

  Marian considered another bite of French toast, regretfully shook her head, put her fork and knife on the plate. “Funny you should ask. This is pure speculation, but I learned about an interesting coincidence. I e-mail with an old friend who works on a Phoenix paper. She said there was a rash of jewel robberies last spring. Rich ladies went beddy-bye, and when they woke up the next morning, jewelry was gone f
rom the boudoir. There were house guests. Turns out Gretchen was in the houses when several robberies occurred. Or had recently been a guest. No one’s been arrested. The last robbery was in late April. My friend wanted to know what I could find about Gretchen. I did some checking. Gretchen came back to the island May fourteenth. Also interesting to note, no more jewel thefts have occurred there. But”—a Gallic shrug—“Gretchen has been working in a makeup bar so she’s either the world’s most cautious thief, frugal with the proceeds, or she’s innocent.” Marian picked up her coffee mug. “I have to hand it to you. I thought for sure I’d see a connection when I heard all the names. Not so. Are we playing a new version of that brain teaser where you’re supposed to spot a common denominator?”

  • • •

  Emma Clyde’s sharp blue eyes noted scuff marks on the floor of the poorly lit corridor. Adam Nash’s office door needed screws tightened in the upper hasp to right a tilt. She touched the knob, pulled her hand back. She burrowed in her purse for a package of wet wipes, cleaned the knob. She found a Kleenex, wrapped the wipe in a ball.

  Opening the door, she stepped inside. No one sat at a receptionist’s desk. Emma strode forward, spotted a wastebasket, tossed her trash. Two unoccupied easy chairs sat on either side of a coffee table. She looked past the chairs at a door with a frosted glass panel.

  She knocked twice on the door, turned the knob.

  Adam Nash looked up with a frown. He was in his shirtsleeves. Interesting. She’d not imagined he wore suspenders. As always, he appeared immaculate. It was surprising he tolerated the slovenliness of a building that needed a better effort from the cleaning crew. Perhaps he was in arrears on his rent and in no position to make demands.

  Adam’s frown was replaced with an ingratiating smile. He came to his feet. “Emma, it’s wonderful to see you. You’re looking splendid.”