by Carolyn Hart
Annie wondered what had caused the disagreement. Did he want to leave? He didn’t look comfortable. There was resistance in every line of his body. Was she insisting they stay? Was it a wedding reception? Whatever, Annie wondered if there would be a lifetime of miscommunication awaiting them.
Kyle would often be at the Whitman house, so he knew Vanessa. How well did he know her?
Annie pushed back her chair, stretched, stood. She opened another club soda, poured it over fresh ice, and carried the glass back to the table. She turned to the final dossiers:
Sam Golden—b. March 1, 1951, Monroe, Wisconsin. Father Stanton a dairy farmer, mother Betty homemaker. Four brothers, Aaron, Richard, Theodore, and Michael. Active in 4-H. In high school, excellent grades, lettered in three sports. Received appointment to West Point. Graduated ninth in his class. Infantry officer, assigned to Ft. Benning. Met Martha Whelan at a classmate’s wedding. They were married in 1982. No children. They were stationed at Ft. Bliss, then he was deployed to Korea. Next duty station was Ft. Hauchuca. After his commitment had been served, he resigned his commission. They spent time in Paris, Acapulco, and San Francisco, moving to Broward’s Rock ten years ago.
West Point classmate Lt. Col. Henry Harrison: “Sam was a good officer, but Martha hated the life. She didn’t want to be a gypsy. Looks to me like they travel a lot. Of course, Ritz-Carltons are fancier than army posts. She inherited millions when her folks died, so they don’t have to work. He’d be happier if he had something to do.”
Sam’s oldest brother, Aaron: “Haven’t seen much of Sam in recent years. People’s lives take different paths. If he’d stayed in the Army…We’d hoped he and Martha would come home for our daughter’s wedding. But they were in Nice.”
Rare-book collector Joshua Rhodes: “He’ll buy anything about the Peloponnesian War. Nice gentleman. Soft-spoken, courteous. A pleasure to deal with.”
Annie saw more than a difference in age between his picture as a senior cadet and a recent studio portrait. The young West Pointer stood ramrod straight, blue eyes confident and eager, black hair cut short, face stern and resolved, the epitome of spit and polish. Now his dark hair was streaked with silver, his gaze remote, his expression vaguely sardonic. In a snapshot, he stood beside his wife, hand firmly on her elbow. She looked up at him, mouth twisted in anger. His face was sad.
Martha Whelan Golden—b. June 15, 1954, in Peoria, Illinois. Father Charles real estate investment, mother Serena homemaker. One sister, Melissa, who died in a car accident in high school. Martha had excellent grades in high school. At Northwestern, she majored in history. Roomed for two years with Lillian Jennings. Lillian is her closest friend. Martha’s parents were killed in a small plane crash two years after she finished college. Married 2nd Lt. Sam Golden in 1982. Lived at various army posts until he resigned his commission. Lived abroad, traveled widely, settled on Broward’s Rock ten years ago and bought the house next to Lillian Whitman.
Family cook for the Whelans in Peoria, Hilda Morrissey: “Poor little Miss Martha. First Missy died. She took that so hard. Tried to be perfect. Martha didn’t care much about school but all of a sudden she had to make all A’s. Missy had planned to go to Northwestern, so that’s where Miss Martha went. Then when Mr. and Mrs. Whelan died, she was like a waif. I was so glad when she met Mr. Sam and got married. If they’d had a family…But they didn’t. Sometimes, you know, it’s harder to be left alive. Poor little Miss Martha.”
Bridge player Madge Burton: “Martha’s partner is sick and tired of putting up with her. Martha doesn’t fool anybody with that little bottle of ‘perfume’ in her purse. A few sips in the ladies’ room and she thinks she can bid any way she wants to. And she’s not any too damn sweet when she’s high.”
Body shop repairman Luke Cheval: “Mr. Golden doesn’t even think about calling the insurance company. I don’t know how many times she’s bashed in one of their cars. He hides the keys but then she goes next door and takes one of Mrs. Dodd’s cars. Everybody knows they keep the keys hanging on the wall. Mrs. Dodd was real nice about it the time Mrs. Golden clipped the fountain in the front drive.
In the family Christmas card photograph, Charles Whelan looked prosperous and proud. Serena Whelan had a gentle smile. Their two daughters, both in red velvet dresses, stood between them, Melissa holding a huge gray tabby, Martha with one hand lifted to stroke the cat. Martha was slender and ethereal, red-gold hair swirling in soft curls, green eyes eager and excited.
Annie lifted the glass, drank deeply, but the buzz of the soda did nothing to diminish the sadness of a photograph taken before happiness and safety were swept away.
Martha was still ethereal in her wedding picture, but the shadows were there, eyes that held sadness, the faint droop of lips no longer quick to smile. In a snapshot taken at a bridge tournament, she stared at her hand. Her face was lined, her eyes bleak, her mouth hard. She looked impatient, pouty, and dissatisfied.
Annie closed the folder. Now she had a picture in her mind of the Whitman house. Within hours she would meet Lillian Dodd, her husband, Jon, her daughter, Heather, and possibly Heather’s fiancé, Kyle. The next-door neighbors, Sam and Martha Golden, would be present at some point. The images in her mind would become people with hopes and fears, dreams and disappointments. One of them hid a terrible secret if Annie’s instinct was right. If Georgia Lance ferreted out that secret, Max would be free. He would come home to love and life.
If Georgia Lance failed…
7
Where is she?” Max struggled to keep his voice low. If he made a disturbance, the guard would haul him back to his cell. He wanted to smash a chair through the screen, grab his lawyer by the shoulders. The guard sat on a straight chair near the door of the conference room, face impassive, arms folded. Three panels in the overhead fluorescent light were dim, making the dingy room even darker.
Handler Jones’s boyish face was troubled. “I don’t know. Your secretary called this morning and asked me to tell you that Annie will be occupied for the next few days, that she’s left the island. Barb said you weren’t to worry—”
“Not worry!” Max’s voice was hoarse. “She’s trying to find the murderer. I know she is. We’ve got to stop her.”
The lawyer turned his hands palms up. “I’ve got calls in to Emma Clyde, Ingrid Webb, and Henny Brawley. No one has responded.”
Emma’s tone was demanding. “What was her boyfriend’s name when you were juniors?”
Annie’s skin felt itchy beneath the wig. She poked up a finger and scratched. “Frank. Frank Jacobs. Six foot three. Center on the basketball team. He and Vanessa dated for two years.” Annie had studied Frank’s “O” Club picture. He was lean but muscular, with a beaked nose and a mop of curly red hair.
Makeup brush in hand, Henny tilted her head to look critically at Annie’s face. “Mix a little of the peach powder with the base. That will make you look sallow. And no fingers under your wig, you’ve tilted it.” She held a hand mirror in front of Annie.
Annie gazed at her reflection. The line of her eyebrows was changed. They were black as hot asphalt and arched as a startled cat’s back. The faintly pink tint of the wire-rim glasses made her gray eyes less distinct and striking. The makeup transformed her fair complexion into a muddy tan, hiding the spatter of freckles on her nose. Vivid coral lipstick was far brighter than any she ever chose. She reached up, straightened the wig. “Henny, you’re a marvel.”
“Not bad. Not bad. It’s almost as much fun as stage makeup.” Henny wiped her fingers on a tissue. “You’re definitely okay with your appearance. But more important than the way you look”—Henny’s tone was suddenly grave—“is the way you feel. You’re Georgia Lance. You don’t know Annie Darling. You know nothing about her or the island or the Dodds or the Whitman house. Everything’s new to you. But you know a lot about Vanessa.”
“Lots of slumber parties.” Emma riffled through some sheets. “Where’s her birthmark?”
“A strawberry m
ark an inch below her right elbow.”
“Favorite band?”
“Backstreet Boys.”
“Favorite baseball team?”
“Cubs.”
“Favorite player?”
“Carlos Zambrano.”
“What was she scared of?”
“Thunderstorms.”
“What was her cat’s name?”
“Pretty Miss.”
“What did she call her big sister?”
“Ginny.”
Emma straightened the sheets. “You’ll do.” A frown corrugated her face. “I hope to God. Look, Annie, don’t take any chances. If you get scared, get the hell out of there.”
The front door banged open. Face flushed from exertion, Ingrid bustled inside. Her arms were full with several FedEx packages, a sack, and a shopping bag. She used her foot to push the door shut. She looked at the clock. “Whew. I made it. As long as we get you to the noon ferry, the timing will work out. It’s been hectic. I’ve been busy every minute, but”—her faded eyes were worried—“I can’t find Laurel. Obviously, she doesn’t want to be found. I got a call from Barb a few minutes ago. Laurel sent a message to you.” Ingrid reached the table, unloaded the packages. “Barb insists that Laurel said, ‘If we don’t see anything from the outside in, well then, we must look from the inside out. And, of course, there are only six degrees of separation. More anon.’ That was it. Do you have any idea what she meant?”
Annie long ago had ceased trying to understand the convoluted patterns of her mother-in-law’s mind. “God knows.”
Emma looked skeptical. “Possibly. But wherever she is, whatever she’s doing, we don’t have time to worry about it right now.” She looked at the packages on the table. “The Illinois license plates?”
Ingrid pointed at a FedEx box with the pleasure of a conjuror producing a fat rabbit. “It arrived on the early ferry. Emma, how did you do it?”
“Oh”—the author’s tone was vague, but her eyes were amused—“I thought what I’d do if I needed an object for a scavenger hunt, rather an elaborate hunt. Say someone wanted a California license plate. Well, if you had a friend who often went shopping, say to the Beverly Center, what would be easier than taking along a screwdriver and in a remote area of the parking garage, lifting the plates? Another possibility would be finding one of those pull-apart junkyards. In any event, I suppose someone seeking something like that might make a couple of phone calls and presto”—she waved a stubby hand at the box—“the next morning the needed items would arrive. Now, it’s time to load the car. Duane can drive it over to Beaufort. He’ll change the plates and leave the car at the lot at Saint Helena’s. Georgia’s suitcases will already be in the trunk. I’ll take my houseguest sightseeing”—she looked at Annie, an unrecognizable Annie with dark hair and olive-toned skin and wire-rim glasses perched on her nose—“and of course we will visit historic Beaufort.”
Emma’s Rolls-Royce slid to a stop in the shade of a live oak at the far end of the church parking lot. She parked next to the shabby cream Toyota with Illinois license plates. The car was dusty with a few artistic mud splashes. It looked as if it had been driven a long way.
As Annie opened the door, Emma said gruffly, “Maybe you better not take your cell. If anyone got hold of it, it would be easy to trace it to you.”
“No one’s going to get hold of it.” If necessary, she’d tuck it under her pillow at night, keep it in a pocket during the day. She pushed away the uneasiness that threatened to engulf her. She was going to be fine. After all, her quarry had no idea the fox was sniffing near. The murderer at this point should be relaxed, confident his scheme had succeeded. “I’ll be careful with the phone. And Emma”—Annie reached out to touch her old friend’s arm—“thank you.”
Emma was brusque. “No thanks needed. Just find the bastard.”
Annie found the keys tucked beneath the backseat floor mat. By the time she stood up, the Rolls-Royce was gone. Annie slipped behind the wheel, started the motor, turned on the air-conditioning. As she waited for the car to cool, she glanced down at the passenger seat. She picked up a printout of the MapQuest route from Wilmette to Broward’s Rock: Total estimated time: 16 hours, 6 minutes. The route was marked with a bright red pencil. On the floor was a crumpled food sack. She opened it, found a receipt from a McDonald’s in Spartanburg. She wondered who Emma had called there with her story of a scavenger hunt. But if anyone was curious about Georgia Lance and her car, they were welcome to look. In her purse, which she would leave unguarded in the guest quarters, her billfold contained an Illinois driver’s license as well as assorted credit cards, all belonging to Georgia Lance. Annie hadn’t inquired of Emma as to the origin of these items. Quite likely Emma’s young computer guru had myriad talents in the creation of computer-generated materials, talents which were better left undisclosed. There was even an Illinois Power and Light bill, a little crumpled, and a couple of cash receipts from Marshall Field’s.
As she turned the car, a Carlos Zambrano bobblehead wobbled from its perch on the dash. Georgia and Vanessa had sat in the bleachers at many a Cubs game. Annie looked at her watch. Her timing was perfect. She would catch the two o’clock ferry to the island and arrive at the Whitman house just before three. Three o’clock on Thursday afternoon. The Dodds were leaving on Saturday for Cape Cod. Annie’s face—she glanced at the unfamiliar visage in the mirror—set in resolve. Between now and then…
Henny Brawley slammed the trunk lid of her old black Dodge. Three boxes held a thousand copies each of the flyer she’d created. She carried a folder with two hundred. That was enough for a start. Somewhere on this island someone must have seen Vanessa Taylor in the company of her murderer. Even if Vanessa’s usual contact had been at the Whitman house, a love affair surely brought them into public view somewhere. If not…Henny pushed that thought away.
She would be methodical and visit every island business, ask if she could leave twenty-five copies. She climbed the steps to the boardwalk that fronted the harbor. Her first stop was a dental office. She stepped inside, glad she wasn’t a patient. She never entered a dentist’s office without remembering the unfortunate Greek businessman in Agatha Christie’s One, Two, Buckle My Shoe. As she waited behind a sunburned woman in halter and shorts with one hand pressed to her cheek, Henny scanned her flyer: A bold headline in red topped the sheet: BE A DETECTIVE AND EARN TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS. Beneath the headline was a picture of a smiling Vanessa on the left and a square box with a huge question mark on the right. Next came a boldface paragraph:
Efforts are under way to trace recent activities of murder victim Vanessa Taylor. If you have seen Vanessa and can describe her companions, please call Barb at 321-HELP. If the information provided leads to the arrest and conviction of her murderer, a ten-thousand-dollar reward will be yours.
The woman in front of her moved toward a seat. Henny reached the counter, put down a sheaf of flyers, smiled. “I’m Henny Brawley and…”
The fountain in the paved courtyard reminded Annie of a hacienda she and Max had once visited in San Miguel de Allende. Water splashed from a stone porpoise into a blue-tiled basin, providing an illusion of coolness. The drive curved around the fountain. Annie parked near the front door of the two-story pale lemon stucco house. Of course, one branch of the drive led to the south and the garage, the other to the north and the lane to the guest cottages. But she had never been here, didn’t know that fact, would wait until she was told and then she’d drive the car there. By the time she’d mounted the broad shallow steps, she was hot and sweaty. She would certainly look the part of the weary traveler.
An art-glass door glittered in the midafternoon sun. Annie pushed the bell. She was Georgia Lance, Vanessa’s old friend. She’d driven nine hours from Asheville and she was tired and sad about Vanessa but excited to see a place she’d never been to….
The door opened. A petite young black woman in a neat gray uniform looked at her politely.
“I’m Georgia La
nce. Mrs. Dodd is expecting me.” Annie looked into an entry hall bright with flowers in a tall jade vase on a glass table.
“Yes, Miss Lance. Please come in.” The maid held the door.
Annie was aware of dark intelligent eyes and a swift, covert, curious glance.
“Mrs. Dodd is in the living room. If you’ll come this way.” The maid turned toward an archway.
Annie heard a murmur of voices. She reached the archway to a long room with dark Monterey furniture. Instead of the expected leather cushions, there were bright splashes of orange and red fabrics. Instead of the expected cream of stucco, silk-covered walls were cool and elegant with stylized storks among green rushes. The mixture of styles was odd but came together to create a sense of both comfort and challenge.
“Mrs. Dodd”—the girl’s voice was soft—“Miss Lance is here.”
Annie swept the room with a quick glance. Lillian Dodd looked regal in a high-backed chair that might have come from a castle in Seville. Her dark hair was brushed back in a bun. A double chain of lapis lazuli looked bright against her white V-neck blouse. The delft blue linen skirt was perfectly matched in color by her ankle-strap sandals. Sitting opposite Lillian was a dramatic figure in a red and gold turban and cream sheath dress. Oversize red-framed glasses almost obscured the elegance of a beautiful woman’s bone structure. Almost, but not quite.
Annie paused in the archway. It was good that hesitation might be expected, because she could not have managed another step. She stared at the turbaned woman, who was still talking.