by Carolyn Hart
The phone rang.
She clicked it on. “Death on Demand, the finest—”
“Annie.” Max’s voice was rushed and clipped. “I have to miss dinner tonight. I’ve got a case. I’ve promised not to say anything about it to anyone—”
Annie recognized his tone. If Max made a promise, he kept it.
“—but if all goes well, I can fill you in when I get home. I’ll call if it runs late.” The line went dead.
Annie put down the phone. She felt oddly deflated. Well, that was childish. Sometimes she got really busy. Max never complained. She certainly couldn’t be unhappy about Max taking his work seriously. She was always encouraging him to work. She’d insisted he go to his office this afternoon, and obviously a client had hired him. Okay. She’d go on home, though the house would be dim and silent. She and Max both had missed her young stepsister’s effervescence since Rachel had moved in with Annie’s dad, Pudge, and his new wife, Sylvia, and her son Cole. Not only was Rachel gone, the entire family was high in the Andes on a backpacking trip, so Annie couldn’t invite them over for pizza. They’d be home next week in time for Max’s splendiferous birthday party.
A few minutes later, as Annie nosed her car into the garage, she lifted her chin in determination. She’d fix a fried flounder sandwich heavy on Thousand Island dressing and a big glass of iced tea, unsweetened. She stepped into the kitchen, flicked on the lights, and knew, deep inside, that home without Max was like a dance with no music.
Smoke coiled from a crackling fire. A half dozen teenagers, boom boxes blaring, held skewers over the flames. The smell of roasting hot dogs mingled with the sweet scent of the sea. The sun still rode on the horizon, a hot red ball. Max leaned against the fence on the boardwalk. His gaze drifted up and down the beach. Lifeguards were beginning to fold umbrellas, stack beach chairs. The beach crowd was thinning, though joggers pounded past every few minutes and sunburned children still squealed and ran. Max saw the sign: BLACKBEARD BEACH. A volleyball game was in progress. The photographer had likely stood just about here to get his picture. Today there was no stocky player in baggy blue trunks. Max wished he had the pictures with him, but Bridget had grabbed them up, refused to leave them. She’d seen his irritation, promised she’d have copies made, give them to him tomorrow. “They’re all I have of Danny.”
Max waved away a swarm of gnats. If he had the pictures with him, he could inquire of the two lifeguards on duty, a redheaded giant slathered with zinc oxide and wearing an Australian bush hat, floppy T-shirt and knee-length trunks, and a petite brunette scanning the water with binoculars. As far as Max could tell, and he’d looked carefully, Bridget’s brother wasn’t on the beach this afternoon. That would have been too easy.
He heard the faraway peal of church bells. Six o’clock. He should have been busy stirring a pot at home. He wiped a trickle of sweat from his face. He could almost taste a Bud Light and fish chowder. Instead, he had a dinner date at a cheap beer joint. Slowly, he twisted his wedding ring, pulled it loose. He held it for a minute then shoved it in his pocket.
Dust roiled beneath the Jag’s wheels as Max turned into the parking lot. The encroaching maritime forest was dense with undergrowth. Tangled ferns poked out into the clearing. Pickups predominated in the parking lot. At the far end, an old school bus was splashed with psychedelic colors. Faded lettering proclaimed MAMA’S HOT. A purple neon sign flickered on a tall pole. Three letters were dark: DOO EY’S NE. A central wooden porch with a peaked roof projected from a long, windowless cement-block building. White paint hung in strips from the porch. Crossed miners’ picks hung on the porch posts. An old-fashioned lantern dangled from the lintel.
Max enjoyed the bullet-swift power of his Jaguar and its shiny red finish. It wasn’t the car for a man seeking anonymity. Maybe Bridget’s fears had some basis. This was a place where anything could happen, most of it bad. He pulled into a space next to a mud-streaked pickup with oversize wheels. He glanced at the bumper sticker: GOTCHA IN MY SIGHTS. He didn’t need to see the gun racks to know what sights.
Max frowned. Bridget had said she planned to check into the Buccaneer. He’d offered to come by and get her but she’d insisted that she’d meet him. He glanced at his watch. It was a quarter past six. He’d run into more traffic than expected. If she’d gone inside without him…
He swung out of the car, slammed the door, clicked the lock. Usually he didn’t bother to lock his car. After all, it was hard to get a stolen car off an island. But this was a sorry place. He hadn’t taken a half dozen steps before he felt hot and irritated. He’d never grown accustomed to the shock of August heat. At the beach, there had been a sea breeze and an illusion of coolness from the shade of the canopy above the boardwalk. In the blaze of late afternoon sun in the dusty parking lot, he felt like he’d stepped into the Sahara. He strode toward the front porch, the shade as beckoning as an oasis. His throat felt parched as brown grass. Sweat beaded his face, oozed down his back and legs. His shirt and slacks clung to him.
The front door banged open. A weedy man in his twenties tumbled outside.
Max stopped, watched warily. It looked like the young man had been given the heave-ho.
Before the screen door closed, a short, stocky, bald-headed man stalked onto the porch. He stopped, hands loose at his side, rocking on the balls of his feet, and watched as his victim picked himself up, backed toward the steps.
He glared at the older man. “Jesus, it’s a crime to make a man go out in this heat. Kill a damn dog, that’s what it could do.” He brushed back a tangle of shoulder-length blond hair. “You got no call to shove me around.”
“The lady said no.” The stocky man’s voice was soft as a snake’s slither.
“Lady?” Thin lips curled in a sneer. “Hell, she—”
“Time to leave, buddy.” The bald-headed man moved forward, hands curling into fists.
The skinny young man shot him a truculent look but moved quickly to stamp down the wooden steps.
The doorkeeper/bouncer/manager remained on the porch, watching.
Max started forward, hoping the lady in question wasn’t his client. Surely she hadn’t been damn fool enough to go inside by herself.
A glad cry sounded behind him.
“Max!” Her voice rose in a joyful lilt.
He felt a frisson of anger as he swung to face her. It was a lover’s cry. He stopped and stood stone still. It was his client but gone was the demure shirtwaist dress she’d worn earlier. She was strikingly noticeable in a short orange and ivory sarong with a deep V-neck.
She ran toward him, hands outstretched, a smile wreathing her face. Dust puffed beneath her feet. She reached him, flung her arms up to draw his head down for a kiss.
He pulled back. “Hey…” His voice was a growl.
“Please.” It was a desperate cry. “Don’t pull away. They may be watching. Maybe the man on the porch is part of it. We don’t know. Please…” She pressed her cheek to his.
At a distance, it could be nothing but a lover’s embrace.
She kissed him, then laughed and reached up to wipe gently at his cheek. “A spot of lipstick.” She pulled his arm close to hers and they were moving toward the building. Her face was bright with a smile. She looked up at him adoringly, and all the while she talked fast and low. “No one will pay any attention to us now. They’ll be watching for a woman alone. Oh, please, look like you’re happy to see me.”
Max forced a smile. Bridget Walker better ease up. He wasn’t a lapdog. He’d agreed to help search for her brother, but he didn’t like the way this was starting. Not by a damn long shot.
The stocky man on the porch frowned as Max and Bridget came up the steps. “Yeah?” He didn’t ask who they were or what they wanted. He didn’t have to. The implication was clear to Max. This wasn’t the right place to be. They didn’t fit in.
“Oh, I can hear the music. It sounds wonderful.” Bridget looked eager. “We’ve heard Dooley’s Mine is so much fun.” She moved fa
st, plunging into the darkness.
The round-faced man watched with an impassive face and cold eyes.
Jaw set, Max strode past him. Once inside, Max blinked, trying to adjust to the darkness and the noise. Slowly the room took shape. Papier-mâché boulders arched above booths, turning each into a dark cave. Red lanterns swung from posts by each booth. Tables with red lanterns as the centerpieces bracketed a small dance floor. Drinkers jammed the bar along the far wall. A whiny tenor sang of a gold-digging woman and the man whose life she ruined.
Bridget tugged at his arm. “There’s an empty booth right there.” She pointed to her right.
Max bent down, no longer trying to smile. “This doesn’t make sense. For one thing, how are we going to see Danny if he’s here?” Dooley’s Mine reminded Max of a painting of hell, faceless figures milling in darkness broken by occasional flashes of light from headlamps worn by waitresses in skimpy miners’ togs.
“It will work out.” She sounded feverish. She didn’t wait, hurrying toward the booth.
Max stared after her. He was angry with his client, angrier with himself. He’d lost control of the evening. He wanted to turn his back, stride away, churn dust as he sped out of the dusty lot. That’s what he wanted to do. But that wasn’t an option. He couldn’t leave a woman alone in Dooley’s Mine. She wasn’t equipped to handle the kind of attention she would receive if she were unescorted. At the same time, he knew he was being manipulated. He didn’t doubt that Bridget understood the position in which she had placed him. That’s why she’d left him at the door, headed straight to a booth. She was counting on his reluctance to abandon her in what could be a dangerous situation. He took a breath and, head down, strode to the booth. He stood by the flickering red light of the lantern, looked at her with steely eyes.
She held out a hand in a silent plea. Her face was dimly visible in the pulsing red light. “Max”—she lifted her voice to be heard above the pounding bass—“give it a chance. Come on, let’s have a beer and hamburgers. Give it that long. Come on,” she repeated. “That’s fair enough, isn’t it?”
A beer and hamburgers. That was reasonable enough. He was too angry to be hungry, but he was damn thirsty. He would almost have traded his car for a cold beer. He slid into the booth.
The light from a waitress’s headlamp speared into the booth. She was a dark shape behind the glare. “Yeah?”
Bridget didn’t give him a chance. “Beer for both of us. Dos Equis. Chilled glasses. And we’ll have hamburgers. Honey, do you want fries or onion rings?”
The endearment jarred. Once again his face hardened into a tight frown. And he preferred Bud Light. But it didn’t matter. Any beer would be welcome at this point.
She didn’t wait for an answer, burbling to the waitress. “Make it fries and rings both. I’m starving.”
The waitress’s hand hovered above her pad. “What do you want on your burgers?”
When she had the order and moved away, Max rested a hand on the Formica tabletop, then quickly removed it from the sticky surface. Maybe a hamburger here wasn’t such a great idea. “Look, Miss Walker—”
“Bridget. Please.” Her gaze was entreating. “I understand. You don’t think we can find him. I know it’s dark as it can be. But maybe that can work for us. Why don’t you take a circuit of the room? If anybody notices, you can say you’re looking for a friend. You can check out the booths, look at the bar. I’ll keep an eye on the front door. By the time you get back, we’ll have our beer and some food.”
Max surveyed the long, dimly lit room. The headlamps of the waitresses bobbed, splashing narrow beams of light into booths and across tables. It was by no means certain he’d be able to distinguish the features of every man in the room, but he could certainly make a pretty complete canvass. It also made it possible for him to remove himself and his anger from the booth and proximity to a soon-to-be-former client. Once he got Bridget Walker safely out of Dooley’s Mine, she would no longer be his responsibility and she could seek help elsewhere.
“I’ll give it a try.” He was relieved to be free of the booth and Bridget. It wasn’t hard, given the darkness and the general disorderly movement of customers, to drift around the perimeter of the long room. The music was raucous, voices loud and blurred by alcohol. He bent near most booths. If anyone noticed him, he began to speak, “Jack? Oh, sorry. Thought I saw an old friend…” When he’d finished the circuit, he dropped into the booth. Before he spoke, he reached for the tall glass, beaded by cold. The beer was exquisite, icy, fresh, perfect. Max drank down half the glass. He’d been achingly dry. The beer was a lifesaver. He felt more kindly toward Bridget. She was looking at him with huge, hopeful eyes. Slowly he shook his head.
“No luck.” He wished he could have found Danny, been able to lift the fear and sorrow from her eyes. “I’m almost sure he’s not here. I guess—” He bent his head toward the door.
“No.” She pressed her lips together, bent her head.
A tray resting on her hip, the waitress delivered their burgers, fries, and onion rings. The light from her headlamp swept over Max’s glass. “Another beer?”
“Sure. We’re celebrating.” Once again it was Bridget who spoke, though her glass was almost full.
The waitress turned away.
Max called after her. “And the check.” He wouldn’t have ordered another beer, but he was thirsty enough to drink it. He lifted his glass and drained it.
Bridget was frowning. “Can’t we stay for a while? Danny might come later.”
Max added a dash of hot sauce to his hamburger. He picked it up, didn’t like the greasy feel of the bun, but took a bite. The message that had accompanied the photographs of Danny had been vague: Check out Dooley’s Mine most evenings.
Max had no intention of returning here on a regular basis. There was more than one way to discover if the missing man ever visited Dooley’s Mine. Max took another bite, chewed slowly. He blinked, put the hamburger back on his plate. He didn’t think he’d eat any more. Something was making him feel sick…food poisoning wasn’t that quick…couldn’t expect the food here to be very good…he swallowed…his throat felt thick…everything looked funny…muzzy…out of focus…Bridget moved closer and away…her voice came from a long distance…arms so heavy…
2
Annie turned on the faucets full force. Bubbles coalesced into glistening mounds as water thundered into the bathtub. The sweet scent of roses was enticing. The water would be warm and silky, help her relax. She was ready to climb the two broad steps into the oversize bath. Yet she stood unmoving, her tense body reflected in a wall of mirrors. She was scarcely aware of the mirrors, her eyes locked instead on the tiled counter. She’d placed the portable phone next to her cell phone.
Surely the cell would ring any minute now. It was her link to the world. A link to Max…
She turned off the water. The only sound was the slap of her bare feet as she hurried across the bathroom, grabbed the clothes she’d dropped in the hamper. She pulled them on, the pale blue silk tee and cream-colored shorts. She grabbed up the phones, slipped into huaraches, and left the water to grow cold, the bubbles to dissolve.
When she reached the main hallway downstairs, she skidded to a stop. It was silent, frightfully silent. No bang or clang in the kitchen, no Max deciding to whip up a batch of double chocolate brownies, no salsa swelling from the CD player.
“Oh, Max.” She spoke aloud, her voice lifting as if in a question. She looked at the grandfather clock. All right. He’d said he might be late. It was just a little past eleven. Certainly, that was still a reasonable time of night. But where was he, what was he doing that she’d had no word? He’d said he would call. It was unlike him to not be in touch. Unlike him? It was completely contrary to his nature. He was always thoughtful.
Max. She massaged the tight muscles in his throat. He would have called if he had been able. Therefore, something unexpected had happened, something that prevented him from contacting her.
She took a deep breath. Steady. It was as if he were here. That’s what he would say. Steady, honey. Okay, she’d figure it out. He’d taken on an assignment. When he phoned, he said he didn’t know when he’d get home. Wherever he was, he was still on the job. Perhaps he was on a stakeout and couldn’t call because he must make no sound. Perhaps he’d lost his cell and there was no available phone.
Annie walked into the terrace room, flipped on all the lights. Dorothy L., their plump white cat, lifted a startled head. Dorothy L. had a tendency to nap until very late at night. Her favorite time to ease outside was around three o’clock in the morning. Annie put the phones on the coffee table. She flung herself on the rattan sofa, picked up a small cushion, rubbed her fingers across the tasseled fringe. For some reason that she truly couldn’t fathom, Max couldn’t get in touch with her.
Max was in danger.
She gripped the cushion so hard her hands ached. She might have been carved from ice. Deep inside, she felt sick. The sensation was beyond thought. The dreadful burgeoning horror within her was instinct.
Max was in danger.
The only sounds in the room were her quick breaths and the thump as Dorothy L. dropped to the parquet floor and padded toward her.
Annie stared at the phones, willing one to ring.
She jumped to her feet. She had to find Max. She grabbed her cell and ran toward the kitchen. Quickly, she scribbled a note—Out looking for you. Call my cell if—she scratched out the word, wrote—when you get home. She propped the note in the middle of the kitchen table, grabbed her car keys and purse.
She turned left on Laughing Gull Road. They always laughed about their commute, three minutes total from their house to the harbor and her bookstore and Max’s office. Why hadn’t she gone to his office earlier? Why had she waited, stewing and fretting? She’d find out about his job. He always created a file. She’d find out who hired him and why and what his objective had been tonight. She drove too fast, knew she should slow down. Deer were often abroad at night. Coming around a curve too fast, a driver could end up with a dead buck or doe and a smashed car. She flew through the stop sign at Sand Dollar Road, screeched left. Tall pines blocked the moonlight. Her headlights speared into the gloom. There were no other cars. She came around a curve. Usually lights sparkled at the country club, but it was closed on Mondays, contributing to the lack of traffic. Even though it was August and the height of the tourist season, this portion of the island was quiet. The shops on the boardwalk overlooking the marina closed at ten. Broward’s Rock nightlife was confined to the north end of the island, primarily Parotti’s Bar and Grill, a jazz club, and a couple of beer joints.