by Carolyn Hart
Vanessa had spent the last year of her life in the company of these three men. The most careful scrutiny had not revealed contact with any other men. Kyle Curtis. Jon Dodd. Sam Golden. The murderer had to be one of them.
Annie stepped into the family room.
8
Here’s Georgia.” Lillian’s smile was kind, her tone positive. Lady Hamilton flashed an encouraging smile. Annie felt buoyed and was glad her mother-in-law was there. Now there were two of them to hunt and scratch and dig for information.
Lillian looked around the room. “I know everyone will be pleased to welcome Vanessa’s friend Georgia Lance. Georgia, this is my husband, Jon…”
In the flurry of introductions, Annie picked up a mélange of impressions:
Lillian Dodd was anxious that she be received politely and uncertain whether that would happen.
Jon Dodd’s cheery smile mixed oddly with a murmur of condolence.
Heather Whitman’s stare was cold and hostile.
Kyle Curtis had no interest in Annie’s presence. He never moved his brooding gaze from Heather.
Martha Golden lifted her wineglass, drank greedily. Her eyes burned in her ravaged face. She said not a word of greeting.
Sam Golden’s deep voice was gentle. “We’re sorry you have come on such a sad mission.”
There was an awkward silence.
Martha jerked toward him, her face twisting. “Sorry? You’re sorry? I’m not sorry. She was a slut. Bad things happen to—”
Lillian and Jon and Sam all spoke at once.
“Martha, won’t you try on my new bracelet?” Lillian was slipping it from her arm.
Red cheeks flushing, Jon strode toward Annie. “What would you like? Wine? Red or white? Or whisky? We run to a little of everything. Gin and tonic. Rum and coke. Bourbon? Scotch?”
Annie gave him a grateful smile as if thankful he was ending a painful scene. “White wine, please.”
Sam gripped his wife’s bony arm. “Sugar—”
“Don’t you ‘sugar’ me. I—” Her tone was as sharp as a slap.
Lillian slipped an arm around Martha’s thin shoulders, held up the bracelet. “I was so surprised when Jon gave it to me.”
Like a child diverted by a plaything, Martha took the bracelet, turned it around and around. The diamonds flashed and the rubies glowed.
Jon brought Annie a glass of white wine, handed it to her with an almost courtly bow. “As Sam said, we’re awfully sorry about Vanessa.” His face was suddenly sad. “Damn nice girl. She was fun to have around and a real help to Lillian.”
Cora stepped inside the family room, nodded to Lillian. Immediately, Lillian gestured toward the French windows. “We’re having a buffet on the terrace tonight. Esther’s fixed her famous buttermilk pecan chicken.”
Despite the heat of the day, the terrace was cool and pleasant as a result of the lengthening shadows and the sea breeze and a fine mist from nozzles on posts beneath a thatched roof. The breeze rustled the sea oats on the dunes. A vee of pelicans skimmed toward the darkening water.
Blue-and-white-checked cloths covered two tables. Blue pottery plates were at one end of a buffet table. Annie hung back, hoping to sit with Kyle and Heather, but Lillian arranged the seating. Annie was at a table with Sam Golden, Heather Whitman, and Jon Dodd. At Lillian’s table were Martha Golden, Lady Hamilton, and Kyle Curtis.
“Lady Hamilton, if you’ll lead the way.” Lillian was the encouraging hostess. “And Georgia…” Serving dishes held stir-fried carrots and bananas, eggplant soufflé, and black-eyed peas. The chicken was arranged on a blue platter. There was an instant when Annie and Laurel stood side by side and Annie heard a swift whisper. “Beach. Midnight.” Laurel leaned forward to spoon tomato relish over black-eyed peas.
Jon and Sam remained standing until Annie and Heather were seated. As they began to eat, Annie said shyly to Heather, “Vanessa was excited about helping you with the wedding plans.”
“Was she?” Heather cut a piece of chicken and it seemed to Annie that the jab of her fork was savage.
Jon gave his stepdaughter a swift glance, then turned to Annie. “So you and Vanessa grew up together. I’ll bet you have some great memories.” His smile was almost fatuous.
“Oh, I do. Vanessa was special.” Annie pushed the wire-rim glasses higher on her nose and looked from Jon to Sam. “When Vanessa walked into a room, everyone noticed.”
Sam’s craggy face softened. “I remember the first time I saw her. She was over there by the pool”—he waved a hand toward the sparkling pool—“and she had on one of those things that kind of wrap around and she was laughing. Her hair was shining in the sunlight and her skin was smooth and tanned. Her laugh…” He broke off, put down his fork.
“Vintage Vanessa.” Heather’s look was sardonic. “She always knew when a man was near. It was a performance especially for you, Sam.”
“Not for me.” His voice was wistful.
Annie saw pain in his eyes.
Jon lifted a hand and Cora stepped near to refill their wineglasses. As they ate, he kept up a constant chatter, trying, Annie felt, to mask Heather’s silence and Sam’s abstraction. Lillian’s husband was a pleasant dinner companion, discussing the most recent films, the latest bestsellers, the watercolor exhibit at the Island Art Center, players on the DL for the Braves. Annie could see the other table. Lillian orchestrated an adroit and determined social chatter, with Lady Hamilton as a cheerful participant. Martha occasionally moved food about on her plate, but she ate little and steadily drank wine. Kyle sat in sullen quiet but Annie saw anguish in his eyes when he glanced toward Heather.
Annie felt surrounded by dark emotions held in check by social conventions. “More wine?” “The secret to the recipe is adding sesame seeds to the ground pecans.” “I wouldn’t discount the Braves.” “The harbor definitely needs to be dredged again.” Several times Annie tried to talk about Vanessa but Jon steered the conversation another way.
When they finished dessert, Annie made her decision. Time was speeding past and she could no more stay its flight than stop the tide as it ran out. Soon the Dodd family would be gone to Cape Cod. Annie’s connection to the people who had known Vanessa was limited to this evening and tomorrow. Before Saturday morning she had to break through the social patina, bring the hidden emotions to the surface. She pushed back her chair, walked to the other table. She spoke loudly enough that everyone could hear. “Mrs. Dodd, I really appreciate being here. Thank you for a wonderful dinner. But I need to get back to the cottage. Ginny’s going to call me”—Annie looked at her watch. It was a few minutes before eight P.M.—“at seven o’clock her time. She may have more news about the investigation.” Annie stopped, lifted a hand to her lips. “Oh, I don’t know if I was supposed to mention it. But”—she brightened—“I don’t see why not. I’m sure the police will be back in touch with everyone who knew Vanessa and”—she looked toward Lillian—“you may already know about it. Anyway, thank you for being so kind to me. I’m really glad to have met everyone. Oh, before I go, let me get some pictures. Ginny will be pleased to see Vanessa’s friends.” She pulled the camera from her pocket, pressed the flash button. In an instant, she was snapping shots: Jon, Heather, and Sam. Then she turned to the other table: Lillian, Kyle, and—
Martha held up both hands in front of her face. “Not me.” The command was abrupt and harsh.
Annie murmured, “Oh, I’m sorry. That’s fine. I know some people don’t like to have their pictures taken. Well, I’d better hurry—”
It was Lillian Dodd who spoke sharply. “Know about what?” Her face looked strained and fearful.
“The investigation.” Annie looked at her directly. “It just goes to show the police are really careful. I talked to Ginny before dinner and she told me it looks like the man they arrested isn’t the right one. She said the police think there was another man and they’re looking for him. Something about a silver car.”
Annie sagged onto the sofa in
the cottage. She was weak and shaky as if she’d crossed a canyon on a high wire. She’d tried to look at all of them in the instant when she’d loosed a tiger in their midst. Jon’s hand paused midway between dessert dish and his lips. Slowly he put down the spoon. His gaze settled on Kyle. Lillian’s eyes jerked toward Kyle. Kyle’s dark brows drew down in a quick, intense frown. Sam looked shocked and uneasy. Martha muttered, “Silver car. That’s funny.” Her words were slurred. “Just like yours, Lillian.” Heather sat still as stone. She too—reluctantly, unwillingly, hopelessly—looked toward Kyle.
Kyle. Handsome. Dangerous. Different. It was as if Annie was playing a game with an arrow in the center and when she spun the arrow, it stopped and pointed to him. But she couldn’t offer impressions to the police. She couldn’t scoop up the fear that swirled around her listeners, hand it to Billy Cameron. She had to find facts. She had to link Kyle to Vanessa, prove he was the shadowy figure behind her death. Police…
Annie pulled out her cell. She punched a familiar number. Billy wouldn’t be there, of course. Everything depended upon who answered. She held the phone to her ear, resisted the impulse to readjust the wig.
“Broward’s Rock Police.” It was a woman’s voice. Not Mavis. Annie knew she couldn’t talk to Hyla Harrison. “May I leave a message for Lou Pirelli?”
“I’ll connect you to his extension.”
When Lou’s recorded voice answered, Annie waited for the message to end, then spoke quickly, “Lou, Annie Darling. I hope you can do me a favor. If Mrs. Dodd calls and asks about a new investigation into Vanessa Taylor’s murder, could you say you can’t comment on an ongoing investigation?” She paused, took a deep breath. “Please, Lou.” She ended the call.
Annie popped to her feet, began to pace. She’d accomplished her goal. No one who heard her artless revelations would doubt that a search was under way for another man. Unless—what if Lillian called Genevieve Willett? Vanessa’s sister was out of touch, declining to answer calls, but she wouldn’t refuse a call from Lillian Dodd. If Lillian Dodd reached her, not only would the report of a new investigation be revealed as a sham, Annie would be unmasked as an intruder. Annie felt queasy. If only—
Her cell phone rang. Annie took a deep breath, answered. “Yes?”
The husky whisper was light as spun sugar. “Powder room. Martha and Sam just left. She’s reached the lugubrious stage and getting weepy. Why don’t you walk that way, see what you can hear.”
The sky glowed blood red as the setting sun sank behind a low bank of dark clouds. Henny Brawley rested comfortably in a canvas chair on her porch overlooking the marsh. She sipped her favorite drink, a cooler made with orange-spiced tea, orange juice, lemon juice, and honey. She considered the icy sweet-tart drink a perfect complement to the close of a hot summer day. Usually she was at peace as night fell over the marsh, enjoying the refreshing cooler, basking in the beauty of rippling cordgrass and dark water splashed with crimson and mysterious hummocks. Tonight she was waiting.
How could a woman as striking as Vanessa have carried on a love affair on a small island without someone somewhere seeing her in the company of the man? Of course, and Henny’s thought was bleak, the prosecution would claim she had managed just that with Max. So far, the flyers Henny had left at every business on the island had brought forth not a single response except for the hesitant suggestion from a secretary at Seaside Realty: “…Rita said something the day after that girl’s body was found, about seeing her Saturday night. But I’m not sure and Rita’s got a lot on her plate right now. She’s out of the office until Monday. Her mom’s having some problems.” Henny persisted. She obtained a phone number. She placed a call to Rita Powell, faced the aggravation of an answering machine. She made her voice as warm and reassuring and official as possible. “…seeking help from citizens in investigating the death of Vanessa Taylor. We understand you saw Miss Taylor on Saturday night. It would be helpful to police to obtain a description of Miss Taylor’s companion.” She ended, of course, with the bait. “…a reward of ten thousand dollars to anyone with information helpful to the investigation.” She didn’t claim to be official. Certainly it wouldn’t be her fault if her status was misconstrued.
Her telephone rang. Henny scooped it up. “Henny Brawley.” A brisk tone. An official tone. “Mrs. Powell, we appreciate your call. Yes, this is in regard to the murder of Vanessa Taylor. Now, if you could describe what you saw on Saturday evening…
Annie slipped from the shadows of a weeping willow, eased behind an urn next to a flagstone terrace. She’d changed into dark clothing, a T-shirt and slacks. Her sneakers made no sound as she took a cautious step, then another.
“Where are you going?” The call was high and shrill.
Annie lifted a spray of wisteria. Sam Golden stopped midway down a flight of steps. He looked up at his wife, who leaned against a brick pillar. In the red glow of the sunset, he looked big and powerful. His face, touched by copper, was etched by sorrow and weariness.
“Thought I’d take a walk on the beach.” His voice was heavy, the voice of a man without hope. “I thought you’d gone upstairs to rest.”
“Rest.” Her voice quivered. “You’d like for me to rest, wouldn’t you?” The words were slurred, but they came fast and furious. “Don’t think I didn’t know how you chased after her. She won’t be on the beach now, will she? Did she make you mad, Sam? You went out to meet her Monday night, didn’t you? I saw you go. I looked out my window. You thought I was—” She stopped, pressed trembling fingers against her mouth.
“Go to bed, Martha.” He turned and thudded down the steps, strode toward the boardwalk to the beach. His figure was silhouetted against the red sky and then he was out of sight, hidden behind the dune.
Martha sank down to the steps, huddled there. She bent forward, head pressed against her knees. Racking sobs shook her thin body.
Annie took a hesitant step toward the stairs. Martha Golden needed help. She reached the base of the stairs. “Mrs. Golden…”
Martha’s head slowly lifted. Tears streamed down her face. She struggled for breath, pushed herself unsteadily up. “Get out of here. I don’t want to talk to you. Why should I? She was a slut. A slut!” Her voice rose into a scream. She turned and walked unsteadily across the porch, yanked open a door.
Annie turned away, walked back toward the cottages. She reached the dark pines and plunged into thickening gloom. She had left on the porch light to her cottage. She was grateful to see that beacon. The pines loomed like black sentinels against the dark sky. She was hurrying up the steps when a low voice called, “Georgia.” Annie stopped and turned, looking into the shadows where a man stood.
Jon Dodd strolled toward her. In the pool of light from the porch, his dark hair was shiny as ebony, the flush in his cheeks more pronounced than at dinner. His expression was uncomfortable, as if he did not relish his errand. “Wondered if we could visit for a minute.” He had a pleasant tenor voice. “Maybe take a stroll on the beach. I’d ask you back to the house but Lillian was afraid Heather might see us. If you’re too tired to talk, that’s fine. I guess you’ve just had a stroll.”
Annie walked down the steps, stood a few feet from him. Her flare of alarm was subsiding. She had no sense of danger emanating from him. He was a stocky middle-aged man in a fine-mesh polo shirt and linen slacks, clearly wishing he were elsewhere.
“Why shouldn’t Heather see us?” She looked up into light eyes that blinked as he made a quick grimace.
“She’d think we thought—Damn.” His tone was rueful. “I’m no good at this. And like I told Lillian, probably we’ll hear from the police if there’s anything to this. I mean”—he spread a hand in apology—“I’m not saying you don’t have it right. But Lillian’s worried.” He nodded toward the steps. “We can sit there. I won’t keep you long.”
They sat on the middle step. Annie smelled cinnamon aftershave, knew he’d shaved before dinner.
Jon straightened the creas in his slacks. �
�I’ve made a botch of this. I guess I might as well be honest, but if you can keep this to yourself, we’d appreciate it. It’s what you said at dinner, about the police thinking there’s another man involved.” His discomfort was obvious in his worried gaze and perplexed frown. “Vanessa—well, she was attractive. Very attractive. It was Lillian who noticed first. A few weeks ago she told me she was worried that Kyle was falling for Vanessa. I didn’t think much about it. Sure, Vanessa played up to Kyle. She was young and there weren’t any other young men around. Then I noticed it too. Oh, he tried to act like Vanessa was bugging him, but that was pretty transparent. Anyway, Heather was furious and she stopped talking about the wedding. Lillian thought she was going to break their engagement. Don’t think he didn’t try to right the ship. That didn’t surprise me. I’ve always thought he had his eyes on Heather’s income. She has some trusts from her father. Kyle can’t make much of a living with that catamaran charter business. Heather wouldn’t pay any attention when Lillian warned her. I didn’t even try.” He was rueful. “Heather’s not my number one fan. I don’t think she’d like anybody her mother married. Anyway, none of that matters. But Heather matters. And if he’s…well, we’ve got to find out. You said Vanessa’s sister was going to call.” He looked at Annie hopefully. “Has she heard anything more from the police?”