by Carolyn Hart
Annie sipped the fizzy club soda, welcomed the burst of carbonation against her tongue. The den of the dragon…She riffled through the information they’d gathered on the Whitman house, found an article from a house-and-garden magazine. She studied the main photograph. The two-story pale lemon stucco house on high stucco foundations rose behind the beach dunes as gracefully as a dolphin arching above a wave. Pine trees formed the backdrop, the vivid green emphasizing the faint coloration of the stucco. Huge windows overlooked piazzas on each level. The Whitman house exuded light and airy space.
Annie read the caption beneath the photograph: Lillian Whitman Dodd gleefully describes her home as a meeting of East and West, Florida Mediterranean merging with California Spanish.
Annie scanned an excerpt from an accompanying article:
The eclectic decor and furnishings of the Whitman house reflect Dodd’s wide-ranging interests and well-traveled background. “I pick things I like. I love the old Spanish influence in California and I once lived in Boca Raton. I don’t care about design purity. I’m looking for comfort and beauty.” The home is planned for entertaining, and Dodd’s New Year’s Day oyster roast is an island tradition. The grounds are extensive and include four guest cabins. Dodd’s extensive charitable endeavors often bring overnight guests, and she enjoys being able to share Low Country hospitality. “There’s always fresh pineapple in the guest quarters as well as carved pineapples on the newel posts of the porch.”
Annie chased after a tag of memory. There was a quotation, something about every sweet thing having a sour side…. She blinked, her eyes grainy with fatigue. She couldn’t quite remember. In any event, it was likely Lillian Dodd’s propensity for hospitality that was making it possible for Annie to invade her home. That was an ugly recompense for generosity. What if Annie told her the truth? Oh yes, she could imagine it now. Mrs. Dodd, I know you’ll understand. My husband’s the one who’s been arrested for Vanessa’s murder but he’s innocent. Someone close to you, an intimate of this house, connived with Vanessa to lure my husband to a cheap bar and drug him and then that person killed Vanessa and I’m here to find out the truth.
The truth…the truth…the truth … Annie’s head jerked. She’d nodded off and now her neck ached. She came awake, put the picture to one side. There was more about the Whitman house. Oh yes, Duane Webb had gathered this information. A retired city editor, Duane was always accurate and he had an old newsman’s knack for discovering the unexpected. She read Duane’s report with interest:
The two-story house contains 3,800 square feet. The front entrance is on the west. The east facade faces the ocean with a terrace and pool. Between the house and the beach is a stand of pines. Four cabins curve in a semicircle around a lagoon. A huge pittosporum hedge screens the cabins from the house. The three-car garage and a maintenance shed are to the south beyond another stand of pines.
It’s quite a spread. House was built to order by Lillian Whitman and her first husband. Cost over a million then. Conservatively appraised now at two and a half million. Main house has living, dining, library, office, kitchen, solarium, family room with a billiards table and home theater television. Living room walls are Chinese-style watercolor on silk wallpaper. Floral fabrics include Coraggio, Kravet, and Scalamandre. Furniture a mix. Spanish Mission in the living and dining rooms, Low Country plantation in the library, including cypress paneling and an Adam mantel, Danish modern in the family room. Upstairs there are five bedrooms in addition to the master suite. Two bathrooms downstairs, five upstairs.
The staff includes the cook, Esther Riggs, and her husband William, who doubles as chauffeur and general handyman. The maids are Esther’s nieces Maybelle and Cora. Esther ends every conversation with a Bible verse. William’s known to drink a little too much bourbon when he gets the chance. Maybelle believes in black magic. Cora goes to school at night, working on a degree in computer science. Had a confidential talk with Luther Kinnon—
Annie knew Luther well. He ran a successful landscaping and yard business. His youngest son Samuel had been accused of murder one July Fourth that none of them would ever forget and it was thanks to Annie and Max that Samuel’s innocence had been proved.
—and when he knew I was trying to help you and Max, he got busy and found out a lot. Luther says he talked to all of them and nobody in the back of the house had any use for Vanessa. Esther pursed her lips and said, “Boast not thyself of tomorrow; for thou knowest not what a day may bring forth.” William muttered that Vanessa had a spiteful tongue. Maybelle tossed her head and said she’d told Vanessa that the Evil Eye was on her and Vanessa had laughed. Cora wondered if anybody had claim on Vanessa’s clothes.
Annie felt chilled. Surely someone grieved for Vanessa. Annie resented how Vanessa had deceived Max, but she had already paid a bitter price. She too had been deceived. It was the shadowy figure behind Vanessa who deserved scorn. That shadowy figure…Annie replaced Duane’s report and the magazine printout in the house folder, picked up a folder entitled “Dossiers” and began to read:
Lillian Jennings Whitman Dodd—b. April 2, 1954, in Fort Worth, Texas. Father Mitchell Jennings, oilman, mother Agnes Hale, homemaker. Educated private schools, BFA University of Texas 1975, m. Howard Whitman in June 1980. He was a good deal older than Lillian. They met on a cruise to the Galapagos. He had been married twice before, no children. Whitman was a mining engineer who moved into management. They spent several years in Bolivia and later Brazil. After his retirement, they moved to Broward’s Rock. One daughter, Heather. Whitman died nine years ago. Lillian met Jon Dodd at a local bridge tournament and they married four years ago. Lillian has always been active in art circles wherever they lived. She collects works by American Impressionist painters, including William Merritt Chase, Childe Hassam, and Guy C. Wiggins. She is active in charities and serves on several boards. She is renowned for elegant dinner parties. Guests receive a memento of the evening, sometimes a silver charm or piece of engraved crystal or miniature painting.
Annie finished the club soda, felt impatient. Lillian Dodd appreciated vivid splashes of oil on canvas, knew how to make guests feel cosseted, and was generous to her community. What made her laugh or cry? Who did she admire or loathe? Did she have friends or hangers-on? Annie skimmed down several paragraphs, then nodded in approval. Emma and Henny were as gifted at snagging tasty personal morsels as terns diving for menhaden.
Longtime Art League director Maurice McKenna: “Lillian goes out of her way to encourage young artists, everything from anonymously paying a month’s rent to replenishing art supplies to picking up a hospital bill. She isn’t judgmental, dismisses iconoclasm as youthful spirits even when it’s a surly artist in his sixties. Once she said, ‘Everyone’s different but artists are even more different. They see things the rest of us don’t see and they’re not easy to understand. I find them fascinating. It would be wonderful to be outside looking in.’ She sounded wistful. I think she’s always felt constrained to be who she is because of who she is. If that makes any sense.”
Hairdresser Sheila Becker: “I wish she’d let me frost her hair but she says she wouldn’t feel comfortable. She’s never had a face-lift. I can always tell. The scars are there.”
Art dealer Louis Adler: “Shrewd. Not a trusting woman. I don’t know if she was bilked at one time but something in her past has made her very cautious.”
Social acquaintance Missy Moffat: “Oh, she’s charming. But I’ve always thought there’s something a little icy about her. A friend of hers once told me that Lillian holds a grudge, that she’s not nearly as nice as most people think she is.”
The Reverend Robert Cooley: “As with most people, the outward perception of Lillian often doesn’t always match the reality of her being. I think she often feels lost and anxious.”
Golf pro Hal Kelly: “A powerful swing. Can easily play from the men’s tee. Nerveless putter.”
Annie looked at the photos printed on a sheet. On a dance floor—a nightclub? charit
y ball? country club?—Lillian’s silver chiffon dress swirled as her partner pulled her near. She was laughing. He smiled in return. Annie checked the caption: Lillian and Jon Dodd. They were a handsome couple. She was slender and graceful, with a thin, attractive, intelligent face framed by smooth straight brown hair. He looked comfortable and expansive, ruddy cheeked with straight black brows, a shock of black hair that looked as though it defied comb or gel, light green eyes and olive-toned skin. Annie realized that Lillian was taller than average, almost as tall as her companion. Annie looked at the text beneath the photo: Lillian and Jon Dodd lead off the dancing at the annual Gala Ball at the Island Hills Country Club. The next photograph caught Lillian, face intent, body lightly balanced, as she swung the sailboat tiller to windward. The wind lifted her hair, fluttered the loose-fitting red-and-white-striped tee. In the final photograph, she studied a chessboard, chin on her hand, expression alert, determined, and analytical.
Lillian Whitman Dodd would be a formidable opponent. At chess. Or any other endeavor.
Annie felt an instant of breathlessness. Tomorrow Georgia Lance had to be formidable too. Tomorrow…She glanced at the clock. Two twenty-five A.M. Tomorrow was here. She must finish quickly, snatch what sleep she could. There would be time to reread the dossiers before she arrived at the Whitman house, but she’d learned as a student that facts absorbed at night had a way of lodging deep in her mind, ready to be utilized when needed. She flipped to the next page:
Jon Buchanan Dodd—b. January 12, 1951, in Birmingham, AL. Father Calvin, an attorney. Mother Alice, a homemaker. BBA University of Alabama 1972, several years as a congressional aide in D.C., ten years with Atlanta PR agency, twelve years as assistant to Chamber of Commerce director in Jacksonville, opened a public relations agency on Broward’s Rock seven years ago. A brief marriage to Helen Porter ended in divorce. No children. Master bridge player. On the Men’s A ladder in tennis. Collects national political campaign buttons and letters written by famous Americans. Most recent acquisition: a letter written by Abraham Lincoln to his first vice president, Hannibal Hamlin, on June 16, 1864.
Bridge opponent Tom Gorman: “Don’t play bridge for money with Jon Dodd. Somehow he always wins. Smiles a lot. Reminds me of a barracuda.”
Client Harry Rodriguez: “Best money I ever spent. He put my store on the map. Business doubled the first month after his campaign started.”
Doubles partner Sidney Schwartz: “Jon has a hell of an overhead smash. He’s quick at the net. Good sport. He doesn’t lose too often.”
Secretary of the Jacksonville Chamber of Commerce, Janet Goodrich: “You can always count on Jon. He delivers. He’s friendly, pleasant, responsible, and he never met a woman he couldn’t charm.”
Annie blinked tired eyes. Had he charmed the secretary and she hoped for more? It would have been interesting to have heard the tone of voice when Janet Goodrich spoke of him. Admiring? Sarcastic? Factual?
Annie studied the photographs of Jon Dodd. The most recent was from the island’s Fourth of July parade. He held aloft a white straw boater with a red, white, and blue band. A flag T-shirt was in bright contrast to white shorts. He looked like a younger version of Jack Nicholson, with the same swagger and self-confidence. His cheeks flamed. Sunburn? High blood pressure? Bourbon? In a formal studio portrait, he was grave with a slight smile. There was no touch of gray in his curly black hair. In an informal snapshot, he sprawled on a picnic blanket, completely at ease, his head thrown back as he roared with laughter.
Annie tipped her glass, finished the soda, crunched a piece of ice, and turned to the next page:
Heather Whitman—b. January 15, 1982, in La Paz, Bolivia. She was six when her parents moved to Broward’s Rock. Graduated from Broward’s Rock High School. Played tennis, soccer, and field hockey. On the swim team, state record in the 200 backstroke. Editor high school yearbook. BA in English from Clemson. Junior year at sea. Tennis intramurals singles champion. Became engaged in her senior year to Kyle Curtis. They had been dating since junior high school. Returned to island after graduation to plan December wedding.
High school best friend Ellen Massad: “Loyal to a fault. Once she decides you’re on her team, that’s it. I’ve tried to tell her Kyle’s bad news and she never would listen. She thinks everybody gives him a hard time. I guess he’s always been swell to her, but I think he’s like a train without brakes and there’s sure to be a smashup.”
College roommate Gina Fitzwilliam: “I hoped she’d go to New York with me. I mean, you’re only young once. But all she wants is Kyle. What a bore. If you’re married at twenty-two, well, I mean, what’s the fun in that?”
English professor Roland Cardew: “Heather has an original turn of mind. She doesn’t care if a writer’s out of fashion. She wrote her senior thesis on Kipling’s ‘When Earth’s Last Picture Is Painted.’ I liked that.”
So did Annie. The rousing poem had color and cadence. Annie smiled. The poem was a favorite of Emma’s and she was only too willing to recite it. Often. Annie loved the second verse, relishing the image of brushes of comets’ hair splashing paint on a ten-league canvas. Emma’s favorite was the third verse with its paean to the glory of work for sheer pleasure.
Annie wished that she could meet Heather Whitman as a friend, not enter her world ready to destroy it. But Vanessa and her murderer had made the Whitman house and all who frequented it fair game as far as Annie was concerned. Her eyes dropped to the page:
Bridal consultant Nora Delmonte: “As far as I’m concerned, if she breaks one more appointment she can find a new consultant. Nice enough girl but I’m not a damn therapist. If she wants an outdoor wedding, it’s time to make some decisions.”
Longtime friend Jimmy Frazier: “Maybe I’m a last-century kind of guy. Do or die for a lady who doesn’t give a damn. I passed up a chance to go with a national law firm in Chicago because I knew she was coming back to the island. You know that old George Jones song. But I don’t think I’ll stop loving her even when I’m dead.”
Annie studied Heather’s pictures with interest. Eyes merry, lips curved in laughter, Heather caught a bridal bouquet with an athlete’s sure grasp. The shocking-pink short-length bridesmaid’s dress made the other bridesmaids look gawky and frumpy. Heather was slim and appealing, the pink a nice foil for her dark hair. In a studio portrait there was a hint of rebelliousness in the direct, challenging stare of vivid blue eyes. She wasn’t conventionally pretty, her nose a shade long, her chin pointed, her cheekbones sharp, but the combination was striking and intriguing. In a snapshot, she strolled hand in hand on the beach with a tall, lanky young man. She looked up at him, her expression quizzical. He was gazing not at her but at the horizon.
Annie flipped to the photographs of Kyle Curtis. He was Heather’s companion on the beach.
Kyle Curtis—b. June 4, 1982, on Broward’s Rock. Father Wilton a dentist, mother Teresa a realtor. One older sister, Margaret. Marriage ended in divorce when Kyle was twelve. Wilton now lives in Atlanta with his partner Mike Thayer. After his father’s departure, Kyle twice ran away from home. He had been an excellent student. His grades slipped. He was considered a disciplinary problem in high school. Two DUIs. Kicked off the football team for fighting with the quarterback. He graduated from high school at the bottom of his class, didn’t go to college, got a job as a seaman on a yacht that berths on Broward’s Rock. Two years ago he used his savings plus a loan from his mother to buy a small oceangoing catamaran. He now runs his own business: Cat with Curtis.
Best friend in high school Julius Cray: “Man, did he know how to party. And creative! He got into the school computer system and sent a message to the faculty: ‘Good morning. All classes dismissed for student holiday as a result of unused extra snow days.’ He signed the principal’s name and about half the teachers fell for it. We spent the day at the beach. But the best was when he got into the assistant principal’s desk where she kept an extra pair of underwear. I mean, what kind of emergency was she expecting
? Anyway, he got the panties—they were slinky black—and ran them up the flagpole upside down. And Mrs. Coburn is a massive lady. That one got him suspended for two weeks. It’s a miracle he ever graduated.”
High school coach Roy Dollarhide: “A fine athlete. Tight end. Faster than a fox and just about as deceptive. Kicking him off the team probably cost us the state championship, but I had to do it. I don’t think he and his dad have ever straightened things out. I wish Kyle could understand that people do the best they can. Anyway, Kyle never missed a chance to screw any girl who was willing. One of them was the quarterback’s girlfriend. When he found out, he started taunting Kyle about his dad and they had a hell of a fight in the locker room before I got in there to break it up. Kyle threw the first punch, so he was the one that had to go. I can’t help what had been said. You got to learn you can’t always bust somebody when they make you mad. No matter what was said.”
Skipper of Daisy’s Delight Chester Maguire: “Good sailor. Guts. A passenger went overboard trying to reel in a blue marlin. Kyle went right in after him and there were sharks out there. I hated to lose him as a hand but I had to let him go when the owner’s daughter got a little too friendly.”
Annie understood Heather’s passion for Kyle when she looked at his photographs. In a beach photo, a wide-brimmed hat shaded his face, providing only a glimpse of a cocky smile. His muscular body—broad shoulders, slim waist, powerful legs—gleamed with suntan oil. Boxy red trunks sagged from his hips. Sunlight glistened on the dark mat of hair on his chest. Everything about the way he stood—head tilted back, arms akimbo, legs widespread—proclaimed king-of-the-hill insouciance. Annie felt a smile tug at her lips. He wasn’t the answer to any mother’s prayer, but he was definitely an adventurous girl’s easy choice. A snapshot pictured Kyle rappelling up a cliff. The close-up showed an unshaven face drawn in a tight frown of concentration. Muscles bulged in his arm as he pulled himself higher. A party pic caught Kyle and Heather unaware. She looked at him, eyes wide in dismay, a hand lifted in appeal. He lounged back against his chair, face stubborn, arms folded.