by Carolyn Hart
She made a second call, smiled when Vince Ellis answered. “Hi, Vince. Henny. You know more than you ever print. You know secrets and scandals and chicanery. If you don’t know, you know somebody who does.”
Vince laughed. “You make me sound like a combination of Ann Landers and Rupert Murdoch. Would it were so.” It was a disclaimer, but his voice was pleased.
Henny was abruptly solemn. “Vince, I want you to dig like you’ve never dug before. Here’s what I need to know….” When she finished, she waited for his answer. She pictured him at his beat-up old wooden desk—no modern, soulless gray metal desk for him—in the corner office of the Gazette newsroom. He had a habit of tugging at his curly red hair when he was working, so that he often looked like a Raggedy Andy by late in the afternoon. Now his freckled face would be drawn in a thoughtful frown.
“Pretty private stuff.” His voice was serious.
“If there’s nothing there, no harm done.” Henny looked out at the Sound, at the far reach of water and a porpoise arching in a dive,wild and free. “If you find something, it may be the start of getting Max out of jail.”
“A motive for murder.” Vince cleared his throat. “Oh hell, yes. I’ll try.”
Billy Cameron didn’t talk on a cell when he was driving. He heard the beep of his pager, unsnapped it from his belt. He glanced at the number, looked at the shoulder. Plenty of room to stop along here. He signaled, pulled off. The sun was slanting through the pines, dappling the hood with shade. He rolled down the windows, turned off the motor. In this kind of heat, he didn’t intend to let his car idle with the air-conditioning running.
“Yeah, Mavis.” He smiled. He felt like he’d learned how to smile the first time Mavis smiled at him. She’d been a battered wife, scared and hurt, running to safety with Kevin in her arms. One day not too long after they first met, she’d looked at him and the fear had left her face and she’d smiled.
“Annie Darling needs to talk to you.” Mavis sounded worried. “She says she’s a hundred yards from the man who killed Vanessa Taylor.”
He wrote down the number, his face somber. Annie might be exaggerating. She might not. “Okay. I’ll call her. Connect me to Lou.”
Lou was finishing his report. “Yo, Billy.” Quickly he outlined Henny’s visit and the photograph. “…but hey, you don’t go to jail for taking a woman out to dinner when your wife’s out of town.”
A ten-wheeler thundered by. Billy held the cell closer. “It’s a start, Lou. How did the molds turn out?”
“Perfect.” Lou was proud.
“Great.” The molds had to be matched to the Lexus. But they needed more. And Annie was waiting for him to call. “I’ll be there in about forty-five minutes. We’ll decide what to do. See you.” Billy ended the call, looked at his note, punched the number for Annie’s cell.
Emma Clyde’s voice was almost admiring. “Certainly a lucky guess on your part about Jon Dodd.”
Henny Brawley could afford to smile, since she didn’t have a cell that transmitted photos. It wouldn’t do for Emma to detect Henny’s amusement. Emma wasn’t quite able to bring herself to laud Henny. After all, as the island’s successful, indeed world-famous creator of tautly plotted mysteries, Emma prided herself on being the most perspicacious in divining motives. Henny picked up a handful of tropical-flavored jelly beans from the pottery bowl on her desk and relaxed in her chair, prepared to enjoy listening to Emma.
Emma cleared her throat. “Yes. Everything I’ve discovered confirms your theory. Jon Dodd’s ad agency would have gone down the drain except for a healthy infusion of capital by his wife. Moreover, she paid off the mortgage on his office building. The public perception is that he is quite well-to-do. Not so. The money all belongs to Lillian.”
“That’s what I figured.” Henny bit a piña colada jelly bean, but the burst of flavor couldn’t match the sweetness of Emma’s report. Henny glanced at a neatly printed sheet on her desk, all ready for Billy Cameron’s consumption. She’d add what she’d learned from Emma. “You did a great job, Emma. I’ll get the information to Billy along with”—she didn’t try to keep the satisfaction out of her voice—“the lowdown on Lillian Whitman Dodd. Someone I know”—there was no need to mention Vince Ellis, who had a reputation for keeping his nose out of people’s private lives unless there was a public impact—“found out her first husband was a womanizer. She stayed with him because of the daughter. A close friend said Lillian wished she’d left him and swore she’d never again tolerate an unfaithful husband.”
“So”—Emma sounded as pleased as her celebrated detective Marigold Rembrandt when announcing the solution to a particularly knotty case—“he wasn’t about to trade his cushy life as Lillian Dodd’s husband for a girl without a sou. Goodbye, sex; hello, murder.”
Annie answered immediately. “Yes?” Her voice was guarded.
“Where are you?” Billy Cameron was gruff. From what Mavis had said, Handler Jones was damn worried about Annie, which meant Max thought she was in over her head.
Annie took a deep breath and told him.
Billy managed to keep his voice even. “Let me see if I got it. You’re staying in a guest cottage at the Whitman house under a false name. You have misrepresented your identity, assumed a disguise, gained access to property to which you have no claim, meddled in an ongoing criminal investigation, and possibly contaminated evidence. You could be charged with interfering with a criminal investigation, impersonation for purposes of fraud—”
Annie bristled. “I’m not trying to steal anything.”
“Vanessa Taylor’s belongings?” He’d made only a cursory inspection of the dead woman’s living quarters. There had been nothing to tie her death to the place where she lived. Even if he’d looked, likely he wouldn’t have found anything helpful. Still, Annie had no business there.
“All I’ve done is pack everything up. I’m not going to take the stuff anywhere. Billy, please. Let me tell you what I’ve learned….”
Sweat beaded Billy’s face, felt squishy under his collar. His shirt and pants clung to him. Billy assorted new facts in his mind. Heather Whitman had broken her engagement because of Vanessa. Kyle Curtis claimed he wasn’t interested, but he had a history with women.
Sam Golden’s wife was suspicious of Vanessa and her husband. One of Sam’s photographs revealed Vanessa glorying in triumph. Was she looking at Jon Dodd or Kyle Curtis? Just how angry would Lillian Dodd be if her husband were proven to be unfaithful? He fitted these pieces to the picture of a silver Lexus following the red Jaguar.
“…and I know Jon Dodd is behind everything. You should have seen his face when they were talking about Kyle and Vanessa. He was pleased. Oh my God, he was pleased. He set it up. He told Vanessa to make a play for Kyle, knowing he was going to kill her. Vanessa must have thought Jon was going to dump Lillian and marry her. That’s why she agreed to everything he suggested. Vanessa thought helping him fool Max would put Jon in her power even more. He convinced her to string Max along, drug him, then while Max was helpless, that’s when he killed her. He took Max to the other cabin, knowing his disappearance would convince everyone Max was the killer. Everything was designed to make Max look guilty, but just in case, Kyle was the backup. Billy, he’s terrible.”
Billy wiped his face. Annie probably had it right. The pieces fit neatly along with the molds of the tire prints. “He’s smart as hell, Annie.” His voice was grave. He felt grave. Annie was a hundred yards from a murderer. “I want you out of there. We’re making progress—”
“I’ve set it up to catch him tonight.”
10
The cell wasn’t dark even though it was night. Dim lights shone every fifteen feet down the central corridor. Max stood to one side of the window, looking up and out. Through the bars, he saw a portion of the moon. The moon hung in a star-spangled sky. The moon had never before looked so lovely to him. At home, he and Annie often lay together in their hammock, watching the moon rise above the pines. Sometimes the
y talked. Sometimes they were silent, content with the night and each other.
Would he ever be with Annie again?
His mouth felt dry and his chest tight. Handler Jones tried to put a good face on everything. He’d insisted Annie couldn’t be in danger, not if she and Billy Cameron were working together. Max wanted to know where she was. It was as if she’d walked away, her figure growing smaller as he watched, and disappeared into a swirl of fog and he couldn’t find her. He wanted her with him, tight in his arms, safe.
He couldn’t keep her safe. Instead, she was trying to help him, prove he was caught in a monstrous construct of lies. That search certainly could put her in danger and there was nothing Max could do to protect her.
Surely everything was all right if she was working with Billy.
He looked out at the moon, but he saw Annie’s face, serious gray eyes and kissable lips, her flyaway blond hair. Annie—he breathed a prayer into the night—be careful, be careful, be careful….
Billy Cameron occasionally whistled for an imaginary dog as he strolled along the beach. Who ever suspected a man with a dog of anything nefarious? He knew he was clearly visible in the white-gold radiance of the full moon. A half mile ahead he saw the pier Annie had described.
Billy looked beyond the sand dunes toward the houses. Lights burned in the second stories. It was just past ten. Too early for most people to retire, too early for a stealthy approach to be made to Vanessa Taylor’s cottage. Not too late for a man to walk with his dog on the beach. The Spanish Mediterranean house with a tiled roof and stucco walls that looked like rich cream in the moonlight belonged to Sam and Martha Golden. Billy knew all about them, just as he knew all about Jon and Lillian Dodd. The Whitman house was next.
Billy ambled nearer the dunes. He reached the boardwalk leading over the dunes to the Whitman house. He looked back at the beach. A small form hunched near a tidal pool. Billy squinted. A faint splashing reached his ears. A raccoon scavenged for clams. Billy eased onto the boardwalk, scanning the dunes and the stand of pines beyond. Sea oats rustled in the offshore breeze. Frogs barked and yodeled in a lagoon. An owl swooped past, likely scooping up a cotton rat. The night was full of movement, the raccoon loping up the beach, a startled deer crashing away from Billy’s presence, and sound, the boom of the surf, the sough of the pines and rustle of the sea oats, but no one else moved on the long ribbon of beach. Billy nodded to himself. He moved fast, running low just as he’d crouched when he’d carried the football long years ago, and with the same exhilaration. He reached the cover of the pines, walked to one side of the oyster-shell path. The pine straw was slick underfoot but he drifted forward, silent as a shadow. When he reached the path that led to the cottages—Annie’s directions had been clear: the beach path went straight to the house, and the route to the cottage angled left—he moved even more cautiously.
When the path reached a spur from the main drive, he followed that, curling back toward the dunes, ending up behind the cottages. The parking place behind the second cottage was empty. Now he stepped from shadow to shadow, impossible to see in a long-sleeved loose navy shirt and black trousers with carpenter’s pockets and dark sneakers. He wore a shoulder holster with his automatic beneath the loose shirt. His pager was attached to his belt, as well as a sturdy flashlight. A side pocket held his cell phone, turned off, and a small diary. The pager was set to vibrate, not ring.
When he was even with the second cottage, he waited for five minutes, eyes searching the shadows, ears straining to hear. Finally he crossed the parking place, visible for only seconds in the stark splash of moonlight. He slipped soft-footed up the wooden steps. On the porch, he darted to the second window, pulled out the unlatched screen, ducked beneath it, pushed against the sash. It slid up easily. Billy swung his legs over the sill, turned, shut the screen, closed the window.
Annie’s whisper floated in the silence. “Thank you, Billy.”
He waited until his eyes adjusted to the darkness. Enough moonlight spilled through the windows to illuminate a double bed, chest, vanity, an easy chair, and a chaise longue. Annie was curled in the easy chair, her face a pale blob in the darkness.
He walked around the end of the bed, sank onto the chaise longue. The room had a faint fragrance of violets. “How did you leave it?” His whisper was as light as hers, impossible to hear beyond the room.
Annie understood the question. “I called the house about nine, left a message on their voice mail, said I’d found the diary. I said I’d finished packing and had the boxes stacked in Vanessa’s living room, ready to put in my car. I told them I’d put the diary in one of the boxes because Ginny had asked me to bring it to her. She wanted to read it before she gave it to the police. If it didn’t have anything helpful to the police, she would keep it to herself. I thanked them for their help and said I hoped to say good-bye to them in the morning.”
Billy looked across the room. “Does the bedroom door open directly into the living room?”
“There’s a short hall. The bath is on the other side.” As the night wore on, they’d crack open the door so they could hear Jon Dodd’s entrance.
Billy thought about logistics. “Are the boxes stacked near the front door?”
“Yes. He’ll probably step inside, use a flashlight.” Annie shifted in her chair. “We should give him time to rip into the boxes.
“You don’t have to be here.” His whisper was firm.
“I think I do. I’ve had plenty of time to figure it out.” She sounded determined. “Just catching him coming after the diary won’t be enough. He could claim he was getting it to find out about Kyle. I’ll have to face him.” She took a deep breath. “Accuse him.” She patted the pocket of her smocklike shirt. “I’ve got a tape recorder. I used it this morning when I talked to Kyle Curtis.”
Billy frowned. He wanted to disagree. But he knew Annie was right. Yes, they had evidence, concrete evidence, in the casts of the tire tracks. If they were a match, the Dodds’ silver Lexus would be tied to a parking place not far from the murder cabin and definitely linked to the cabin where Max was left. The real estate agent’s claim that she’d seen Vanessa with Jon Dodd on Saturday night was simply a pointer, a break in Dodd’s careful avoidance of public contact with Vanessa. Billy felt confident, thanks to Henny and her roundup of information, that Dodd had murdered Vanessa because he knew his wife wouldn’t tolerate an affair and Dodd’s business and lifestyle depended upon Lillian Dodd’s money. But there was no proof. If only a diary actually existed, describing Jon and an affair and his collusion with Vanessa to engage Max on a fake search. If there was a diary, maybe someday it would be found. Maybe it would never be found. In any event, they had to move now.
Billy heaved to his feet. He looked at the luminous dial of his watch. “He won’t come for another hour or so. He’ll give his wife plenty of time to get into a deep sleep. I’m going to check out the living room.”
Henny Brawley watched the moon rise higher, pouring creamy light over the dark Sound, emphasizing the black clumps of hummocks. The lights of jetliner made a steady path across the sky. She felt too restless to sleep. Billy Cameron had thanked her. That was all. Did he understand the importance of what she’d learned? Did he recognize Jon Dodd’s unseen stage management? What was Billy doing?
Henny shifted in the canvas chair. She’d called Annie, left a message on her cell, but she’d had no response. In the morning, Jon Dodd would drive away with his wife, and Max would still be in jail. Max and Annie…Henny treasured them. She took joy from their joy. Whenever she saw the special bond between them, she remembered Bob and the happiness they’d known if only for so short a while. He’d not come back from a bombing raid over Berlin, but she’d held his love close for a lifetime. That kind of love should not be cut short.
Henny pushed up from the chair. She’d not yet undressed for the night. It took only a minute to hurry inside, look up a number, and grab her car keys and purse.
Annie’s eyes felt gritty an
d strained. She tried to relax, but her body was as tense as a coiled spring. How much longer would it be? What if he didn’t come? That would be the worst, to wait and wait and wait until there was no hope and know that her trap had failed. But he’d sat so still when she mentioned the diary. He’d been shocked, she was sure of it. How could he afford to take the chance that Vanessa had mentioned him in her diary?
She almost asked Billy, but they had been silent for the past half hour as midnight neared. The door to the hall was slightly open so that they could hear Dodd’s entrance. Billy’s instructions had been firm. They would wait until Dodd came inside. Likely there would be the flicker of a flashlight as he checked out the living room. Would he be careful enough to search the entire cottage? As Billy warned, they had to take it as it happened. If Dodd discovered them, Annie would pull the diary Billy had brought from her patch pocket, tell him she’d found it. If he didn’t search the cottage, they would give him time to open the boxes, then Annie would enter from the hall, turn on the light, hold up the diary. Billy would be hidden in the hallway, waiting.
What would Jon Dodd do?
Henny waited until the tower clock stopped chiming, then dropped the coins in the outdoor pay phone near the marina office. The breeze was freshening, sending water slapping against the pilings. Far out on the pier a couple walked arm in arm, enjoying the moonlit beauty of the August night. Otherwise, the boardwalk was deserted, the shops closed.
Henny punched the numbers, her thin face determined and intent. The phone rang. And rang. Four times. Five…
“Hello.” It was a woman’s sleep-befuddled voice. Lillian Dodd had answered the phone, not her husband.
Henny had been poised to speak a short quick sentence, “I saw you with Vanessa Taylor,” then hang up. Her lips parted. She almost said, “Tell your husband I saw him with Vanessa.” Her lips closed. Some risks cannot be taken. Jon Dodd was a dangerous killer. If Lillian confronted him, she would be in great peril.