Dead Days of Summer

by Carolyn Hart

  Conclusion: Intruder gained access with a key.

  To be determined: Who has keys?

  Billy thought that list would be short. Max. Annie. Max’s secretary. The agent for the leasing office. They could scratch the leasing agent. The building that housed the harbor-front shops was owned by an Atlanta outfit. As for Barb, she’d invited Mavis to join her on a shopping trip, but Mavis couldn’t afford the time off. Barb had left yesterday. Annie had used her key on the front door. That left Max’s key.

  Billy wrinkled his nose. He didn’t like the way this was shaping up. If it was Max’s key, who had it and how did they get it? He underlined Who has keys? And added:

  Smear of dirt found in storeroom near anteroom door, possibly indicative of intruder. Investigating officer observed no apparent search or theft of the premises. Disarray observed by investigating officer resulted from search made by Mrs. Darling while hunting for information on new case file. Possibly extraneous but Mrs. Darling found a real estate circular in a folder beneath the desk pad.

  Conclusion: Reason for entry unclear.

  Billy clicked off the storeroom light, shut the back door. It had an automatic lock. Once again he used his flashlight, lighting his path to the end of the alley and along the side of the building to the front boardwalk. It only took a moment to turn off the lights in Max’s office and the anteroom and pull the front door shut.

  He felt uneasy as he walked to the cruiser. He didn’t see what else he could do. Lou would call him if there was anything to report, good or bad. He might as well go home. But his face creased in a worried frown and he felt dissatisfied and uneasy. Annie must have seen someone. She wouldn’t have made up that dark figure. But nothing jibed with breaking and entering.

  Annie hesitated when she reached Laughing Gull Road. If Max had returned home, he would have seen her note, called her at once. She took a deep breath, pressed on the gas, shot ahead, the only car on Sand Dollar Road. She should have kept that real estate circular. That was the only odd thing she’d found. The circular must have something to do with his new case, because Max certainly wouldn’t have any interest in an old boarded-up wreck of a house.

  Triggered by the pass mounted on her windshield, the exit barrier from the gated community lifted. It was a scant mile more to Broward Rock’s waterfront, harbor, and main street. She turned two blocks short of Main onto Bay Street, passed Sea Side Inn, where lights gleamed softly. Next came an island restaurant in yet another incarnation. When it had carried the famous name of Raffles, its owner had found the name more inspiring than wise. Now it was known as Rick’s and the theme, of course, was Moroccan. The current owner’s name was actually Rick, and the influence of Casablanca was evident.

  Annie turned the wheel, curved around another stand of pines. There were no lights here, the road rutted, rarely traveled. Another half mile and she turned into what had once been a stately drive. Huge live oaks interlocked branches above her, but the road was eroded and the car bounced over bone-jolting potholes. The only hint of light in the black tunnel came from the beam of her headlights.

  She drew her breath in sharply when she reached the house. After the darkness of the tunnel, the house looked ghostly in the creamy moonlight. Annie slammed out of the car. “Max?” Her cry was hopeless, forlorn. There was no one here, no one and nothing but the remains of great beauty made desolate by time. She would find no answers here. Yet, Max had that circular….

  Annie took a flashlight from the car pocket. Its stalwart beam seemed puny against the unrelieved darkness. She flashed the light over the front of the house. Once it had been beautiful, but now shutters hung askew, windows were boarded over, paint peeled from elegant columns. A thrumming noise set her heart racing. She whirled, lifting the beam to catch a brief glimpse of a Mississippi Kite. When the hawk was out of sight, she turned back to face the forbidding house. Jaw set, she made a circuit around the house, thorns of wild roses scratching her legs, and almost tumbled into a stagnant fish pond. If anyone had been there, there was no trace. Every door was locked, the boarded windows firmly blocked. When she reached the broad front steps, she turned back to her car, shoulders slumping. If only she’d kept that circular. She tried desperately to remember the name written—in Max’s handwriting—at the bottom of the sheet, but she couldn’t. She’d have to ask Billy.

  All the way home, she willed the cell phone to ring, but it lay silent on the seat. When she reached their house, the only light shining from the front window was the one she’d left on. She punched the automatic door opener. Slowly the door lifted and the lights came on. The garage was empty. She jumped from her car, ran through the garage, shoes clattering on cement, banged into the house. The note was lying untouched on the kitchen table. Her eyes went directly to the phone. No red blink signaled a message. She held the cell phone tight in her hand.

  The kitchen was just as it had always been, a long, inviting, homey room with a central work station, a white wooden table, bright yellow walls. A brilliant toucan cocked an inquiring head on each of the pale blue place mats that sat at either end of the table, awaiting their breakfast dishes. Everything was as it had always been and nothing was as it should be. The very normalcy and familiarity of the kitchen was a wrenching contrast to the frantic scrabbling of her thoughts and the terror that made her feel old and stiff.

  She walked to the refrigerator, poured a glass of orange juice, drank without tasting it. She ate a handful of peanuts and forced her racing mind to slow. Her instinct was to scour the island even though she had no idea where to start. If she had help…She glanced at the phone, then at the clock.

  One o’clock in the morning was a shocking time to call anyone. But there were friends she could rouse, friends she could count on. Was she at that point? Was Max’s failure to call or come home an emergency?

  Fear twisted inside her. Yes. He would never—not if he had a choice—leave her to worry and wonder about him. Worry? She was beyond worry. She was an organism devoured by fear. But she had to push past that agony, try to find answers to an impossible riddle.

  Annie hurried across the kitchen, grabbed up the phone from the counter. She made the calls and heard familiar voices dulled by sleep sharpen and respond.

  Henny Brawley was confident. “We’ll find him,” she said. Henny had ferried bombers across the country during World War II, married a fellow pilot who was lost in a bombing raid over Berlin. A retired teacher, she’d served twice in the Peace Corps. She was a world-class mystery reader and Annie’s best customer and best friend.

  Annie almost managed a smile when she heard Emma Clyde’s gruff instruction. “Brew coffee. Get out the island maps.” If anyone could take on the denizens of evil and prevail, it was smart, tough, imperious Emma Clyde. Creator of famous sleuth Marigold Rembrandt, she was the author of almost a hundred mysteries. The author’s cold intelligence and intractable will were reflected in her piercing blue eyes, square face, and blunt chin.

  Ingrid Webb drew in a sharp breath. “Oh, Annie. We’ll be right there.” Ingrid was the best clerk anyone ever had. She herself had once gone missing. Ingrid and her husband, Duane, would understand Annie’s fear. Duane had an old newspaper editor’s disdain for the obvious. He always looked for the reason behind the story.

  Annie blinked back tears when Pamela Potts’s soft, sweet voice made a mournful coo. “I’ll say a prayer as I come.” Pamela, earnest, serious, and literal, was the island’s most active volunteer. Annie didn’t expect Pamela to offer cogent insights, but having her near would be a reminder that the world can be good.

  Edith Cummings didn’t hesitate. “I’ll be right there. I’ll check out the police scanner, see if there’s anything that’s come in.” Edith rode a computer like a smart jockey; she was a research librarian who could answer any question. Now the question was the most important Annie would ever ask: Where is Max?

  Vince Ellis tried to be encouraging. “Max is like a cat, Annie. He’ll land on his feet.” Vince owned the I
sland Gazette. He was a first-rate newsman and a former lightweight boxing champion. If they got any leads on Max’s whereabouts, Vince would fight for facts with the same intensity he’d shown in the ring.

  She wished Frank Saulter were in town. He was her oldest friend on the island and the former chief of police, but Frank was on a hiking trip with his grandson.

  When she’d finished the calls, Annie felt a hot burn of tears, blinked them back. Her friends and Max’s friends were coming. It was like holding out chilled fingers to a warming fire. For the first moment since fear caught her up, made her a prisoner, turned her insides to ice, she felt a flicker of hope. If smart minds and good hearts could make a difference, they would.

  Annie still stood by the counter. They were coming. Knowing that, seeing them in her mind, gave her strength to pick up the phone again. There was one more call she had to make.

  Laurel Darling Roethke came awake in an instant. She looked at the luminous dial. One-forty. She turned on the light, picked up the phone on the second ring. “Hello.” She kept her voice even though her heart thudded. From the caller ID, she knew the origin of the call. Neither Annie nor Max would call at this hour unless there was an emergency. Was Annie ill? Had Max been in an accident? Had Max received bad news about one of his sisters?

  “Laurel…”

  Laurel barely recognized Annie’s voice, it was so thin and strained. Laurel felt a twist of anguish deep within. Was that how a heart broke? Please, God…“Annie, what’s happened?”

  Emma Clyde was the first to arrive, her Rolls-Royce squealing to a stop in the drive. She swept in, candy-striped caftan swirling, and took charge. The island mystery writer, imperious and intense, outlined the search efforts to begin at daybreak. She dispatched Vince Ellis to the Gazette office to run off hundreds of pictures of Max. She instructed Henny Brawley and Pamela Potts to begin the phone canvass for volunteers at six A.M. sharp. “Start with the Altar Guild. They should be early risers.” She sent Ingrid and Duane Webb to Confidential Commissions. “Wear gloves but make an inch-by-inch search.” She pulled Laurel Darling Roethke into a bear hug embrace and, at three A.M., ordered Annie to bed.

  There was no word from Max.

  Annie thrashed awake, swept by panic and a devastating sense of desperate needs unmet. Her mind was a jumble of voices and faces and odd disconnected memories: darkness filled with menace, stolid Billy Cameron in T-shirt and paint-spattered jeans, the thrum of hawk wings, the strangeness of their kitchen when she came home from Confidential Commissions, the uncharacteristic gentleness in Emma Clyde’s raspy voice, the sweetness and desperation of Laurel’s embrace.

  Annie pulled herself up, gazed around the bedroom. Her eyes felt grainy. Her head hurt, a dull persistent ache. The blinds were closed but, even so, the brightness of an August day seeped around the edges, spelling a morning half spent.

  The bedroom door opened. Pamela Potts stepped inside, carrying a tray. A sheaf of papers was tucked under one arm. She eased the door shut. “You were moving around, calling out. I knew you were waking up, so I hurried down to get you some breakfast.”

  “Pamela.” Annie’s throat was dry and scratchy.

  Pamela placed the tray and the sheets of paper on the round table near the French doors to the balcony. Her blond hair swept back in a businesslike bun, Pamela looked crisp in a white blouse and blue slacks. But when she turned to face Annie, the hollows beneath her eyes spoke of sleepless hours sitting at the bedside.

  Annie tumbled from the bed, stared wildly around. “I shouldn’t have slept so long.”

  Pamela hurried to reassure her. “You needed the rest. Everything’s under control.”

  Annie struggled to be calm. If Max had called or come home or been found, she would have been awakened for the happy news. Under control…

  Pamela was firm. “Come and eat now.” It was vintage Pamela, soothing voice, genuine concern, nursery school firmness. She was at Annie’s side, shepherding her toward the table. “I’ve brought up the latest reports.” She pointed at the pile of papers.

  Annie stopped, jerked to face her. “What?”

  Pamela’s big blue eyes were encouraging. “There’s a huge search under way. Everyone’s looking for him. Here’s what’s happening…” She waited for Annie to sit down at the table, then took the opposite chair.

  Annie ate fast, the sooner to be done. She knew the Belgian waffle was excellent, but didn’t care. Max always put powdered sugar and fresh strawberries on Belgian waffles. She swallowed hard, kept on eating. She had to get outside. She had to hunt. Maybe she’d find something. There had to be something to find. She listened to Pamela.

  Pamela peered nearsightedly at the top sheet. “…at last count Henny was directing one hundred and fifty volunteers in an island-wide search. There are about thirty kids from the Haven. Henny said they were falling all over themselves to get out and help…”

  Max was on the board of the community recreation center, which offered games and crafts and a meeting place for island kids who didn’t live on the posh side of the island. Annie looked across the room at an amateurish but vigorous charcoal sketch of Max playing volleyball with the bigger kids. Max had made sure there were plenty of supplies for the artist.

  “…two Boy Scout troops, the Red Lion softball team…”

  Annie finished the orange juice, took too large a gulp of coffee, scalded her tongue.

  “…Emma’s drawn up a list of questions that need to be answered.” Pamela tapped the legal pad. “Ingrid’s gone to grocery shop. Duane’s cleaning up one of their cabins—”

  Annie was sure she had misunderstood. “Grocery shop?”

  Pamela nodded energetically. “Getting things ready. Billy sent out a missing-person bulletin this morning about two A.M.—”

  Annie was glad and terrified at the same time. For Billy to officially deem Max a missing person meant Billy believed something had happened to Max. He was a victim…. Annie pushed away unbearable images. Max was alive. He had to be alive. If he weren’t, she would know. Oh God, she would know…

  “—and they started coming on the first ferry. Some of them hired boats. Anyway, Duane’s cleaning up one of the cabins for you and—”

  Annie finished the coffee, tried to make her mind work. Ingrid and Duane managed Nightingale Courts in addition to Ingrid working at the bookstore. Why would Duane clean up a vacant cabin for her? What was Pamela talking about?

  “—Ingrid thinks we can smuggle you across the lagoon to—”

  “Wait a minute.” Annie pushed back the plate. She’d managed half the waffle, one piece of bacon. “Why smuggle me out? Where?”

  Pamela’s tone was patient. “—to one of their cabins. It would be dreadful if you went out the front door. There are cameras everywhere with cables and sound trucks—whatever a live feed is, they’re doing it—and they’re so pushy and they’ve got microphones and the flashes from the cameras make you blink. They smile but their eyes are colder than ice chips. They even tried to get me to talk to them and I just said I thought they were rude and I didn’t have a thing to say. One of them yelled, ‘So the family refuses to say where he might be? Is he a drunk? Gambler? Has he got a—’” Pamela broke off, her face flushing.

  Annie wrapped her arms around herself. She didn’t need a prompter to finish Pamela’s sentence. Has he got a girlfriend? “Media.” Of course. Once Billy sent out the missing-persons alarm and the wire services picked up the police report, reporters would be in full cry. These were the dog days of summer. There was no hurricane brewing in the tropics, no celebrated murder case in court, no Washington scandal dominating the headlines. Television was reduced to reruns. A missing person, especially an athletic, handsome, rich man in his late twenties, was a gift from news heaven, sure to spice up the five o’clock, offer fodder for titillating speculation on talk shows, plump up the headlines in the morning papers. Missing Person: Maxwell Darling, 29, 6 feet 2 inches tall, blond hair, blue eyes, 182 pounds, no visible scars�
��

  Annie’s eyes were suddenly alive and eager. “Did Emma”—she knew without asking that Emma was in charge—“hand out pictures of Max?”

  Pamela spread out her hands in a helpless gesture. “Emma insisted Vince make copies of a picture he had on file and pass them out.” She wasn’t a private who would challenge the general, but disapproval flashed in her eyes.

  Annie clapped her hands. “That’s great. They’ll be everywhere. On TV and in the papers, on the Internet. Someone will see a picture and recognize him. It’s our best chance to find him.”

  Pamela’s lips rounded in an O. Her face brightened. “I hadn’t thought of that. Why, Emma did the right thing. And Edith rushed out with a picture and said she was going to make flyers, put them all over town. Laurel told her to offer a ten-thousand-dollar reward for any information on his whereabouts. Laurel went with Edith to help distribute the flyers.”

  Laurel. Last night Annie had seen the echo of her own anguish in Laurel’s lake blue eyes. As they’d clasped hands, Laurel had smiled her insouciant, unforgettable, brilliant smile. “We will find him.” There had been only the tiniest of quavers in her husky voice.

  “That’s wonderful.” Annie felt a surge of affection and respect for her mother-in-law. Laurel was unpredictable, madcap, and original. Now she’d proved that she was practical as well. Why hadn’t Annie thought about a reward? In fact, it was time she thought, and thought hard. It was like stepping out of shadow into sunlight. Maybe sleep had lifted her out of that first frozen state of shock. Maybe she was buoyed by the friends who came to help. Maybe it was that tiny flame of certainty burning in her soul that Max was alive.

  Annie bounced up. She’d take a quick shower, hurry down to help. She’d check with Billy, get the name that had been on the real estate circular. And maybe, before that, someone somewhere would have seen Max. There would be a call and they would find him.