Dead Days of Summer

by Carolyn Hart

  Billy looked across the lot. “Which way did she turn?” Dooley’s Mine faced north on River Otter Road, which ran east-west. River Otter dead-ended at the marsh to the west. As Billy vaguely recalled, there was an old rental cabin there and other inexpensive rentals down off-shoot lanes. Running east, River Otter led to Sassafras Lane, which wound south and west toward Main Street and the harbor.

  “To the left.” Dooley turned over his hand, thumb pointing west.

  Left. West. The dead end. Billy felt like a hound with a sniff of fox. He’d expected Dooley to say the Jag had turned right toward Sassafras en route to Main Street or a residential area. “West?” Billy felt puzzled, sounded skeptical. He forgot the blazing heat, the suffocating air. He focused on the cold-eyed man glaring at him.

  “Listen, Chief, I don’t know why the hell she turned left. Maybe she was a stranger in town. Maybe he pulled himself together, raised hell. Maybe she was going to find a turnaround, let him drive. That was her lookout.” Dooley’s face was hard and determined, “I want to be real clear. If she let him drive, it didn’t happen here. If there was a wreck last night and he was behind the wheel, I don’t have any liability. You got that? I came up on the porch, but I stayed here”—he jerked a stubby hand around the porch—“and watched the Jag leave. I watched it turn left.”

  Billy itched to get to the patrol car, drive west on River Otter Road. Henny’s search parties had started at the south because, as far as they knew, Max was last heard from when he called Annie from Confidential Commissions. More than likely, the scruffy, less inhabited north end of the island was yet to be explored. Billy was hot, thirsty, and sweaty. The air-conditioned patrol car would be as cooling as an ice floe. He almost grunted a perfunctory thanks and turned to hurry down the steps. But Billy remained standing on the porch. He’d learned a long time ago that uncorroborated evidence was suspect. People would tell you anything they thought they could get away with. He needed to try to come up with some confirmation of Dooley’s claim before he turned left on River Otter Road. And there might be more productive avenues to explore. For starters, he wanted to get a precise description of the woman—he wouldn’t call her Max’s girlfriend, not until he had to—and maybe get a drawing they could circulate.

  Billy gestured toward the road. “Got any proof? Anybody else in the lot when they drove off?”

  “Oh, sure. People were everywhere. You know, hanging out in the goddam heat instead of coming in for a cold drink. Look, Chief, I—” He broke off with a look of startled surprise. “Oh, yeah, yeah. I didn’t remember until you asked. No reason I should have. There was another car. I only got a glimpse of it. I was turning to go in when I saw it. A silver sedan. Big car. It turned left too.”

  Billy had watched a lot of faces since his rookie days. He’d learned to discount half of what he was told, was suspicious of the rest. There were many ways to lie. Some liars had a steady gaze and a bright look. Some had shifty eyes and shaking hands. Some were truculent, others benign. For all he knew, Ted Dooley had done summer stock in another life. But there had been an instant there—a swift flash of time—when Dooley’s face had appeared unguarded with an expression of remembrance.

  “What kind of car?” Billy leaned forward, pen poised above his pad.

  Dooley’s face crinkled as he thought. “I wasn’t looking at it. I saw it but I didn’t pay a lot of attention. All I know is, it was silver and expensive. Maybe a Lexus. Maybe a Mercedes. I just barely saw it.”

  Billy thought a Lexus or a Mercedes should have stood out in this parking lot. He stared at Dooley, waiting, face skeptical.

  Dooley glowered. “Hell, man, I’m not a parking lot attendant.”

  “Any thoughts on the driver?” Billy didn’t expect much.

  Dooley turned his stubby hands palms up. “Tinted windows. Besides, I knew it wasn’t one of my regulars. Not in that kind of car. So why should I care? Probably somebody got lost and was using the lot to turn around. Like I say, I keep an eye on my place. I’m not saying I knew everybody who was here last night. But nobody stood out except”—he glanced again at the picture—“him and his lady friend. Anyway, I didn’t get a clear look at the second car. So I guess that doesn’t help. Unless the Jag and a silver sedan smashed into each other.” He looked hopeful.

  That’s when Billy decided Dooley was telling the truth. There had been a silver car and it had turned to the left on River Otter Road behind the Jag, two cars heading toward a dead end.

  The white laundry van pulled into the drive, coasted to a stop beneath a porte cochere. Drapes were drawn in the windows of the two-story house, which had an unmistakable air of desertion. The Millers spent the summer on Cape Cod, returning to the island after Labor Day. Duane Webb swung down from the driver’s seat. His eyes scanned the front garden as he opened the back door of the van.

  Annie slipped from the shadows of a honeysuckle-covered arbor. She hurried across the drive, tossed in a duffel, and climbed into the back of the van.

  Duane gave a thumbs-up. “Not the fanciest conveyance but the owner’s in my poker group.” He slammed the door, twisted the key in the lock. Once in the driver’s seat, he spoke over his shoulder. “I locked it in case anybody gets nosy. When we reach the gate, stay down.” The van began to move, picked up speed.

  Annie wedged herself between the duffel and thick canvas bags of laundry piled almost to the roof. If there was air-conditioning, it didn’t reach her. She sat with her knees bunched almost to her chin. In her mind, she knew their route. She’d rowed across the lagoon to the Miller dock. It was a short row, a long way to drive. She pictured the houses on the curving road, the Jessops, the Daniels, the Chavezes, the Kinkaids, the Darlings…Annie swallowed. Their house, hers and Max’s, their happy wonderful house that shimmered with glass, shining windows that let in the sunshine.

  The van slowed, stopped. Duane’s voice was grumpy. “Look, buddy, I’m picking up laundry. If you people will let me through…”

  Voices clamored. “Do you know the Darlings? Do you stop at their house?”

  “Never been on this route before. Hey…back that car out of the way for me.”

  The handle on the back door moved, but the door stayed shut. It had been smart of Duane to lock the door. He’d been a city editor for a long time. Duane knew the lengths reporters go to for news.

  Annie was covered with sweat by the time the van lurched forward. It was disorienting to travel with no view of the outside. She knew they were at Sand Dollar Road when they slowed for a stop. Duane turned right. It wasn’t until the van picked up speed that he yelled, “You okay?”

  “Sure.” She forced the answer. It was a lie. She wasn’t okay. Her head throbbed. Nausea bubbled in her throat. Her hands shook. Sweat beaded her face and back and chest and legs. But at least she was free for the moment of the house that had turned into a prison. She couldn’t go in and out without shouted questions, the flicker of flashbulbs. She was determined to hunt for Max. Once she got to the cabin at Nightingale Courts, she could…

  Annie kneaded one cheek with a clenched fist. What could she do? Join a search party? She would be outside, moving, looking, caught up in an effort, no longer feeling useless. The prospect was tempting. Maybe one of the groups would find Max. She refused to accept what that thought meant. She wasn’t going to envision Max in a state where he could be found.

  Annie shifted uncomfortably on the hard metal floor of the van. If a search was successful…She pushed unbearable images away. Max was somewhere. He was alive and he needed her. She held to that belief. He was alive. If he weren’t, she would know. There would be an emptiness that could never be filled. She had to think and plan and figure, find out what had happened and who had kept Max from her. Last night someone had been in Confidential Commissions. Emma was convinced the intruder had used Max’s keys.

  Annie grabbed her duffel, loosened the cord, pulled out a notebook. Emma had insisted there were four questions that must be answered. Though it was dim
in the interior of the van, she had no trouble reading the questions even though she knew them now by heart:

  Emma’s Questions

  Who hired Max?

  Where did Max go when he left his office?

  Who was in Confidential Commissions when Annie arrived?

  Where is the file on the new client?

  Annie remembered Emma’s decisive tone: “When we know the answers to these questions, we will know everything.”

  Those were the questions. How could she find answers? There was an itinerant artist who often set up his easel and camp stool at that end of the boardwalk. He sketched with fine color pencils. He had an eye for faces. Perhaps he’d noticed someone entering Confidential Commissions.

  Annie flipped to a fresh page, wrote rapidly.

  1. Check with artist.

  Max’s car was distinctive. How many people would it take to canvass the island, ask if a red Jag had been seen shortly after five o’clock yesterday? Annie fought away a sense of futility. The search had been under way for that very Jag throughout this long day. If anyone had contacted the police, she didn’t know about it. Surely Billy would have let her know—

  She heard the ring of the cell phone despite the muffling mound of laundry bags. Annie stiffened, scarcely breathed.

  “Hello?” Duane’s voice lifted in inquiry.

  Annie bent her head, straining to hear.

  “Hey, Vince. Yeah? River Otter Road? I don’t think I—Yeah. Got it.” The van hurtled ahead. “Annie, that’s Vince. He picked it up on the police scanner at the Gazette. They’ve found Max’s car.”

  Brakes squealed. The van rocked to a stop. “Oh, Jesus.” Duane’s voice was stricken.

  Annie clambered over laundry bags, scrambled into the front seat. She looked through the streaked windshield at the Broward’s Rock Police cruiser turned sideways to block the dusty dirt road. Yellow crime scene tape dangled across the road, strung between two live oaks.

  Annie wrenched open the door, jumped to the ground. She heard Duane’s shout behind her. She ran and ducked beneath the tape, pounded around a curve in the narrow rutted road. She skidded to a stop, a hand at her throat.

  The steaming salt marsh, spartina grass undulating in the onshore breeze, stretched toward the Sound. The distinctive gassy odor, a smell she had always loved, now seemed alien, threatening. A breeze stirred the palmetto fronds, but did nothing to dispel the choking summer heat. The blazing late-afternoon sun turned the chrome on Max’s car a blinding silver. The red Jag, trunk lid raised, was parked on a slant in front of a wooden cabin on stilts. The island’s newest police officer, a stringy redhead with a long pale face, stood by the Jag, hand resting on the butt of the .38 Special in her holster. The dull gray Broward’s Rock Forensics van was a few feet away, the back door open. Another cruiser was parked near the cabin.

  Most ominous to Annie was the dingy black Dodge sedan nosed next to the cabin steps. Annie struggled to breathe. She knew that sedan, knew its owner. Dr. Horace Burford was the island’s medical examiner as well as chief of staff at the hospital. His presence spelled death.

  Crime scene tape…Max’s car…Dr. Burford…Annie’s vision blurred. She wavered on her feet.

  Duane’s hand gripped her elbow. “Stay here.” His voice was hoarse, stricken.

  Duane’s command pierced the numbness that threatened to overwhelm her. She made no answer. She couldn’t answer. Instead, she shook free of Duane, plodded one heavy step after another toward the car, a hand outstretched.

  “Annie.” Duane was beside her, imploring her.

  The police officer jerked around to face them. “No access. Crime scene.” Her voice was high and sharp.

  Annie walked on. She didn’t look at the officer. Her eyes could not move away from the dark opening of the trunk.

  “Halt. No entry. This is a crime scene.” She moved to block Annie.

  Annie stopped a scant foot away.

  Lank red curls poked from beneath a visored cap. Dark glasses hid her gaze. The pale face twisted in a scowl. The police officer loomed in front of Annie, upheld hands palm out. “Halt.”

  Annie couldn’t see past the officer. Annie’s head throbbed. Her heart thudded. Abruptly, she jerked to one side, darted past the officer, and stared into the open trunk, a roaring in her ears. Empty, oh God, it was empty except for a tire tool that looked as if it had been flung there, one end resting on the back wall of the trunk. “…move away. I’ll have to arrest you…”

  Annie didn’t budge, though she felt the harsh grip at her elbow. The tire tool was smeared with a darkish substance and there were clumps of hair. Dark hair. Not blond. If a tire tool had been used as a weapon, who had been hurt? Where was Dr. Burford? Where was Billy? Annie’s head jerked toward the cabin. She yanked free of the officer, broke into a run, clattered up the wooden steps.

  “Halt. Halt!” The shrill shout rose behind Annie.

  Suddenly Billy was in the doorway. “Annie, you can’t come in.”

  She looked past him, saw Mavis with a camcorder and Dr. Burford kneeling on the floor. Dr. Burford’s stocky body blocked her view.

  “Max.” Her voice was dull, dead as death itself.

  “Not Max.” Billy was grim. “There’s a dead woman in here. His car’s outside and there’s a bloody tire tool in the trunk of his car. Max is nowhere to be found. That’s all we know.”

  A dead woman. Annie felt frozen in place, her body rigid. A dead woman but no Max. Max had accepted a case, expected to be late coming home. The victim had to be his client. She was dead. And Max…

  Dr. Burford pushed himself up from the floor, his craggy face creased in a glower. Dr. Burford hated death. He especially hated violent death. “Okay, Billy.” He didn’t look toward the doorway, moved to give Mavis a clearer shot of the body. “I’ll do some tests. Looks like the tire tool’s the murder weapon. Multiple trauma, crushed brain stem. Been dead”—he gave a heavy sigh—“roughly twenty to twenty-five hours.”

  Annie stared at the body, the battered head, blood crusted against dark hair. The woman lay facedown. Had she been struck from behind? Blood spattered the floor and the orange and ivory sarong. The low-cut sarong revealed smooth shoulders, pallid in death.

  Annie’s hands clenched.

  Billy was watching her. “All right. You’re here. Do you know her?”

  Annie felt a surge of anger. How would she know? How would anyone know? “I can’t see her face. But Max would have told me if his client was someone we knew.” She jerked her eyes away from the body, saw two crystal champagne flutes and a bottle of champagne tilted in a bucket. Water lapped near the rim of the bucket. When ice melts, the volume increases. It made no sense, a woman dead in a seductive sarong and unopened champagne and Max’s car and no Max. He would have tried to protect his client. Annie was certain of that and equally certain the dead woman wasn’t wearing a sarong because she was with Max. Though why in the world…Annie shook her head back and forth, pushed away unanswerable questions. If someone had killed a woman and someone had Max’s car keys—the thoughts jumbled in her mind—that meant Max was…hurt? Worse than hurt?

  Annie clutched Billy’s arm, felt rigid muscles. “Have you looked for Max? Oh God, Billy, you have to look for him.” She gestured toward the marsh, simmering in the August sunlight.

  “We’re looking for him.” Billy’s voice was grim. “I’ve got an APB out. Everybody in the state’s looking for him.”

  Annie heard the roughness in his tone. Billy sounded like a cop, a cop seeking a criminal. Didn’t he understand? Max had taken a case. He’d gone out, planning to be home late that evening. Annie swallowed hard. “If this is his client, where is he?”

  Billy’s face, the face she had thought belonged to a friend, was closed and hard, unyielding. “Client?” Billy turned over his hand as if pushing away the word. “Client…” Now the tone was weary. “Look, Annie, I’m sorry. Sorry for you. Sorrier for a dead woman. I’ve got to deal with the facts. Max and a
woman—probably the one who’s lying on the floor of this cabin—were at Dooley’s Mine last night. Max had too much to drink and—”

  Annie stared at him. She heard Billy speak, but his words made no sense. Max never drank too much. Two beers or one scotch or a glass of wine. That was all he ever drank.

  “—he and the woman left. She was driving the Jag. We’ll match prints. See if the victim’s are on the steering wheel. If that’s the case…Anyway, that’s all we know except Max isn’t here. There’s no sign of him. None. Yeah, we’re looking for Max. God, Annie, I’m sorry.”

  Annie willed her hands not to shake. She huddled in the passenger seat of the laundry van and punched the familiar number into her cell as Duane scowled at the long line of cars on Main Street. He blew the horn, bulled his way into the bumper-to-bumper traffic. “It’s freaking hot. Why don’t they go to the beach?” he snarled.

  The call was answered on the first ring. “Yes, Annie.” Emma Clyde’s in-your-face voice was muted, gentle. “It’s already on the news. CNN broke in with a flash. Unidentified woman found dead near his abandoned car.”

  “Max.” Annie wiped away a hot rush of tears. “Is there any word?”

  “I would have called you.” She tried to sound matter-of-fact. “I’ve alerted the search parties. They’re en route to the north end of the island. I understand there are some dogs on the way but they won’t get here until tonight. Everything possible’s being done to find Max. So”—now she was the decisive Emma of old—“we need to start at the other end.”