by Carolyn Hart
“She talked to them, but she didn’t find out any more.” Annie sounded exasperated. “They told her they couldn’t release any information right now. She was aggravated. She said she didn’t see why they didn’t tell her something. She doesn’t see who it could be. She said the only men Vanessa ever mentioned”—Annie watched him carefully—“were the ones she saw in your house.”
Jon turned a haggard face toward her. “I was afraid of this. I hate to tell Lillian.” He pushed up from the step, stood for a moment with his head bowed. “God, I hate to tell Lillian.”
Annie watched as he walked slowly away, shoulders slumped, hands clasped behind him, a man clearly reluctant to return home with news that could not be welcome.
Annie watched an owl swoop toward the dune. She shivered, knowing the owl sought a succulent rat for a midnight feast. She hurried across the boardwalk, reached the thick sand. Moonlight glittered on the water, the breakers ripples of white lace against the darkness of the sea. She drew a deep breath of salty air. The offshore breeze tugged at her loose blouse. The tide was in, leaving a narrow ribbon of soft sand for walking. Annie turned to her right. The house Laurel had leased was perhaps a hundred yards ahead. Annie saw lights gleaming from the second floor.
A fishing pier stretched out into the water. When Annie was perhaps twenty feet from the pilings, she heard a low call from the deep shadows beneath the wooden stairs. Annie hurried forward. She and Laurel came together with a quick embrace.
Laurel pointed in the darkness. “There’s a huge log. Driftwood. We can sit there.”
When they settled, Annie knew they were safe from observation, deep in the darkness beneath the pier. Quickly, she described the tawdry exchange between Sam and Martha Golden.
Laurel was thoughtful. “Obviously, Vanessa attracted him. But I don’t think he’s the one. The cook at the house I’ve rented loves to talk. We had a lovely chat—”
Annie smiled in the darkness. Few could resist Laurel’s charm, which was genuine and enchanting.
“—all about the houses up and down the beach and the people who live there. Phyllis is friends with some of the domestic staff at those houses, especially Cora at the Whitman house. Of course, Vanessa’s murder was the most exciting thing that has happened in years. Phyllis said Cora told her that Monday afternoon she was dusting in the hall—”
Annie concentrated, trying to sort out the pronouns.
“—and Vanessa was in the library and she must have been talking on the phone and her voice was all sugary and she kind of cooed, ‘Why, Kyle, you know I’m mad about you,’ and laughed. Cora told Phyllis that Vanessa then said the strangest thing. She said, ‘Oh well, you can relax after tonight. Everything will be out in the open.’”
Annie pictured the brooding face of Kyle Curtis, his occasional bitter glance toward Heather. “Kyle and Vanessa. That’s what it looks like.” She described Jon Dodd’s reluctant appearance at her cottage.
Laurel listened without comment until Annie concluded. “So he and Lillian are afraid Kyle’s guilty. I think Heather is afraid too. After you left tonight, Kyle waited a minute, then he strode over to Heather. I couldn’t hear what he said, but she just looked at him without answering. He gave her a black look and stalked off the terrace without another word to anybody. Heather ran into the house. That left me with the Dodds. I tried to pretend like everything was fine and thanked them for a lovely evening and left. Hmm.” Laurel paused, then said quickly, “Kyle could have taken the Dodds’ silver car. But why?”
Annie was accustomed to Laurel’s quick shift in thoughts. “Be cause he knew he was going to kill her and he didn’t want to be in his own car.”
Laurel’s whisper was faint. “Diabolic, if so.”
Annie shivered. Yes, but it would be in keeping with the entire plan, so artful and cruel. Vanessa dead. Max accused. But perhaps they were beginning to unravel the complex web. What did Vanessa’s odd comment to Kyle mean? Perhaps that overheard phone conversation—Vanessa laughing aloud only hours before her death—would prove to be the undoing of her murderer.
“It’s time to get in touch with Billy.” Laurel shifted as if to rise.
Annie put out a restraining hand. “We can’t.”
“Oh, my dear.” Laurel’s whisper lifted in surprise. “Billy will listen to us.”
“He might listen”—Annie was grim—“but he’s in Columbia. A law enforcement conference. We don’t have enough to take to him anyway.” Billy had not been on the Dodd terrace this evening. They could tell him about Sam Golden and Kyle Curtis but they had no proof, nothing to tie either man to the cabin where Vanessa died. “Kyle Curtis doesn’t know Vanessa was overheard. Tomorrow I’ll talk to him.”
Laurel drew in a quick breath. “That could be dangerous.”
Annie gave her mother-in-law a reassuring pat. “I’ll be careful.”
Annie turned restlessly in the bed. A strange bed. Comfortable enough but no bed was ever comfortable unless Max was nearby for her to curve against. She needed sleep. Would sleep ever come again with sweetness, carrying her into bright dreams filled with sunshine and laughter? Now if she slept, it would be fitful. Waking or sleeping, she felt the pressure of foreboding. She’d arranged everything. Tomorrow she’d go to the marina, pick up boxes to use in packing Vanessa’s belongings. Barb would be waiting near the gift shop. They would pass and when they did, Annie would pocket a small tape recorder. Cats by Curtis was near one of the piers. The box store didn’t open until ten but there was plenty to do—breakfast at the Whitman house, perhaps talk to some of the family, perhaps snatch a moment with Maybelle.
Annie twisted, turned, felt the square of paper in the pocket of her shorty pajamas. She lifted her hand, pulled out the folded real estate circular, cupped it in her hand. The Franklin house. Max had a vision for her and for him, a big happy house with open doors for friends and family. She slipped into sleep. Rising in her dream was a restored house, bright with fresh white paint, new glass in its windows, and together, hand in hand, she and Max walked up the broad front steps.
Max pulled the pillow over his face to block out the light. Not to be able to turn a light on or off. Not to be able to walk out if he pleased. Not to be able to make a phone call or drive a car. Not to be able to see Annie. On Monday night, if everything had gone as they’d planned, he and Annie would have walked hand in hand down the boardwalk and felt the softness of the sea breeze, looked at the boats riding in the water, some large enough to sail the Atlantic, some just Sailfish. They would have driven home and fixed dinner. They would have laughed and she would have walked near and he would have pulled her into his arms….
He flung the pillow away, sat up on the narrow bunk, looked toward the high pale square in the wall that was his only link to the outside. All right. He couldn’t get out, but he wasn’t helpless. He had to do something to fight the fear that bubbled inside him, noxious as poison. Tomorrow he’d insist on seeing Handler Jones, and Handler Jones was damn well going to do what Max demanded. Handler Jones was going to find Annie and make sure she wasn’t getting too close to a killer.
The drumbeat of minutes speeding past began when Annie awoke Friday morning. Twenty-four more hours and the Dodds would be gone and with them Annie’s tenuous connection to Kyle Curtis. No matter how slowly and deliberately Annie packed Vanessa’s belongings, she couldn’t delay her departure for more than a day. Annie jumped out of bed. She’d overslept. It was almost eight o’clock. Damn. She didn’t want to miss breakfast with the family. She was in the shower and out in five minutes and dressed and on her way to the house.
The house was quiet when she stepped inside. At the kitchen door, she hesitated, then moved on. Esther would surely frown on Annie asking Maybelle questions that had to do with an evil eye. Hopefully, Annie would track down Maybelle alone at some point during the day. She looked into the dining room but it was dim. She walked on and turned into the main hall. There was a murmur of voices in the family room.
> Annie moved swiftly and silently. As a true guest she would never have tried to eavesdrop. Now it was automatic. She stopped at the archway, head cocked to listen.
“…try to get everything packed today. I’ll have William bring the suitcases up this afternoon. Oh, Jon, Heather’s terribly upset. We were talking about the trip and all of a sudden she threw down her napkin and dashed off. She was trying not to cry.” Lillian’s voice broke.
“Honey, I know it’s tough. But if Kyle’s done what we think he’s done, if the police turn out to be looking for him, well, it’s a damn good thing Heather’s dumped him.” He was emphatic.
Annie moved down the hall, approached the archway with brisk footsteps. When she stepped into the family room, Jon looked up from his newspaper, Lillian stirred brown sugar into oatmeal.
Annie smiled. “Good morning. Oh, the buffet looks wonderful.” She picked up a plate, ladled fresh fruit, spooned up a serving of frittata. “I’m going to work hard on the packing today, I checked and there’s a box store on the marina. I called and got directions….”
Lou Pirelli knelt near the last tire print. He aimed a spray of shellac at a sheet of cardboard held at an angle over the print. The cardboard deflected the shellac and a fine mist drifted down onto the print, settling gently into every crevice, topping every ridge. Lou wrinkled his nose at the smell. He pushed up carefully from the ground, walked back to the first print, eyed it critically. Good. Dry as if baked. He smiled. The shellac had hardened quickly despite the wet-rag humidity because the temperature was already nudging ninety. The print had turned brownish yellow, each ridge and crease clear and distinct. There were four prints, all beauties.
He moved quickly to the open door of the crime van, lifted out a sack of plaster of paris. He carried it to the first print. Billy was going to be pleased. Next he brought a big rubber bowl and a container of distilled water, placed them to one side. He measured fifteen ounces of water per pound of plaster of paris. He hummed as he dribbled in dry plaster of paris, moving his plastic ladle back and forth. When he was finished, the bowl brimmed with a thick goop the consistency of pancake batter. No bubbles, no lumps. As he worked, sweat matted his dark curls to his head, ran in rivulets down his face. His shirt and trousers clung to him. He used a clean measuring cup to pour the mixture over the shellacked prints. He kept his hand steady, ignoring the streak of fire that curled around one ankle. He waited until the bowl was empty before he reached back to claw at the ants.
When he finished pouring the plaster of paris into the last print, he retrieved a cold Pepsi from the cooler in the front of the van. He leaned against a fender in the shade as he waited for the molds to dry. He took thirsty gulps of the icy Pepsi and pulled out his cell.
Annie gazed critically at the mirror. She still felt a moment of shock when she saw the unfamiliar image—the glossy dark hair, dramatic eyebrows, and vermilion lips. The prim wire-rim glasses were in sharp contrast to the vivid makeup. Her peach blouse was loose fitting, styled like a smock, unlike anything she ever wore. Ingrid had included it in the last-minute purchases. Annie had smiled when she unpacked, doubting she would wear it. It was an easy choice this morning along with a casual pair of jeans. The oversize patch pockets of the smock were roomy and that was what she needed. She looked a little like a volunteer at a church rummage sale. Max would laugh. She had a sudden sensation of emptiness, almost vertigo. The thought had been so swift. Max would laugh. But his laughter would be only a memory if she didn’t find out the truth about Vanessa. She frowned as she walked toward the door of the guest cottage. What was the truth of Vanessa? So far, little seemed certain. She had been beautiful. Men were drawn to her. But Annie hadn’t found what she’d expected. She’d been sure she would discover a passionate love affair. Instead there was what looked to be an ambiguous relationship with Kyle Curtis and perhaps a hopeful yearning on the part of Sam Golden. There was no indication of any connection to Jon Dodd.
Annie pulled the door shut, started down the front steps. It was certain that Vanessa’s death had been carefully planned. The circumstances had required her active though unwitting cooperation. That precluded any possibility she had been killed by a casual acquaintance.
Further, they knew the murderer had to be a man because of the strength required to lift an unconscious Max.
Why would a man want Vanessa dead? Passion. That had been Annie’s immediate visceral judgment. But her murder was such a coldly calculated crime. Did that suggest thwarted passion? Jealousy? Perhaps she wasn’t murdered because of love or even hate. Perhaps her continued existence posed a threat to the murderer.
Annie was almost to the door of the Toyota when shrubbery rustled behind her. She jerked around.
Sam Golden emerged from the deep shadows of the pines. He walked toward her. His face was shadowed by the brim of a Panama hat. He was a big man, muscular and well built, imposing in a polo shirt and khaki shorts. His running shoes made no sound on the pine straw. He carried a large manila folder under one arm. An expensive Leica hung on a strap around his neck.
Annie stood with one hand gripping the car door. She found it hard to breathe. She was almost sure he’d been waiting for her, standing in the recesses of the pines, watching the cottage. But if he meant her harm, wouldn’t he have come to the cottage, knocked, pushed his way inside? Her heart thudded as he loomed nearer.
“Good morning.” His deep voice was a pleasant rumble.
The constriction in Annie’s chest eased. “Hello.”
“I’m glad I caught you, Georgia. I brought some pictures I thought Vanessa’s sister might like to have.” He held out the manila folder.
She took the folder, managed a smile. “That’s very kind of you, Sam.” She looked at the camera. “You took pictures of Vanessa?”
He rocked back on his heels. A quick smile tugged at his lips and for an instant his somber face looked cheerful. “You don’t know me or you’d know I always take pictures. Some of these”—he nodded toward the folder—“are really good. But I can’t keep them. Martha wouldn’t like it.” A frown pulled down his thick, dark brows.
“I guess you could tell last night. She thought I paid too much attention to Vanessa. But it wasn’t anything. Didn’t mean anything to Vanessa, certainly.”
Annie wondered if the flicker in his eyes meant sadness or bitterness. “Vanessa was beautiful.” Her voice was gentle.
“Like a sunset.” He looked reflective. “A flame of color but nothing to hold or touch.”
“Were you in love with her?” Annie’s fingers tightened on the folder.
Sam gave a shrug. “Love? No, I don’t think so. Oh, she had a way of looking at you…She didn’t mean it. I don’t think Vanessa knew what love is. Love is—” He took a deep breath. “Caring when there’s no reason left to care except you made a promise. Anyway”—his sigh was tired—“I hope her sister will like the pictures.” He turned and walked away.
Annie watched him go. Was Sam’s visit what it purported to be, simply a kind effort to make recent photographs available to Vanessa’s sister? Or was he, in an artful dance of words and emotions, making it clear he wasn’t the unknown man in Vanessa’s life and death?
Annie almost tossed the folder onto the front seat of the car, then decided to take it inside. The pictures might be very precious to Vanessa’s sister. Annie hadn’t thought beyond gaining access to the Whitman house. Now she was committed to gathering up all of Vanessa’s belongings. Ultimately the boxes must be shipped to Genevieve Willet. The folder of pictures must be sent too. How that would be done or should be done remained in the future, a future that had no reality to her at this moment. The only reality was her determination to find out who was responsible for entrapping Max.
Annie dropped the folder onto the coffee table. The flap opened and photographs slid across the glass surface. Annie bent forward, gathered them up, intending to return them to the folder. Instead, she was caught by the quality and brilliance of the glossy color print
s. Sam Golden was a superb photographer. There were a half dozen shots: Vanessa lounging on a low pool chair, one hand dangling in the bright blue water; Vanessa playing the piano, face absorbed, dark hair curling on bare shoulders; Vanessa silhouetted against the darkening sky, lithe and lovely as a dream; Vanessa bending over a croquet mallet, her white blouse and shorts a striking foil for her sultry beauty; Vanessa at a cocktail party on the terrace of the Whitman house, her face utterly triumphant; Vanessa smiling directly into the camera, lips parted in a seductive, enticing, sensual smile.
Slowly Annie dropped onto the sofa, staring at the fifth photograph. That look of Vanessa’s…Yes, it was definitely triumph. She was staring at someone or something that she felt to be within her power. Annie was sure of it. It was a cat-with-creamy-whiskers look, a football player’s spike-in-the-end-zone look, a winning politician’s arrogant clenched fist. The picture had been made in early evening, obviously during a party. Japanese lanterns glowed; the women were in swirling summer dresses, the men in blazers and slacks. There was the width of the pool between Vanessa and the men at whom she looked. She was staring, her lips curved in satisfaction, at Kyle Curtis and Jon Dodd.
Billy Cameron tossed his bag into the trunk of his car. He’d driven his own car, a five-year-old green Jeep, to Columbia. Broward’s Rock didn’t have enough cruisers for him to use one for a trip. He slid into the front seat, started the air-conditioning, put down the windows. His cell rang.
“Billy Cameron.”
“Hey, Billy.” Lou sounded like he’d won the lottery. “I got four great tire prints. I’m waiting for the casts to dry.”
Billy thought fast. “As soon as they’re done, get over to that cabin where Max stayed. Go over the road inch by inch.”