Dead Days of Summer

by Carolyn Hart

  Henny cut the connection. She was disconsolate as she walked slowly back to her car, her steps echoing on the wooden boardwalk. Who knows what difference it might have made, how much pressure it might have added, if Jon Dodd had answered the phone? Now the call was meaningless, a wrong number in the night.

  Annie wondered if Billy was sleeping. She wondered if Max slept or if he lay staring into a frightful future in his cell. She was as far from sleep as she would ever be. She sat rigid in the chair, hands clenched, listening, listening.

  The first sound, the creak of the front door, brought her to her feet, heart pounding, breathless and trembling. As they had expected, a beam of light moved swiftly, the brilliance shining for an instant in the hallway.

  Billy was at her side in two great strides, a hand warm on her elbow. They moved nearer the door.

  The second sound was startling, unexpected, a splashing and gurgle. A thump sounded. The stench of gasoline fumes flowed to them. Annie’s nose wrinkled. Billy muttered, “Oh hell.” He started for the door. Annie reached out, grabbed his arm.

  As the front door slammed, flames flared. Within seconds, fire danced and spread, tongues flickering around the doorway. Billy took her hand, shouted, “The window.” The force of the fire pushed the door open. The hallway was a maelstrom of fire. Smoke billowed into the bedroom, hot and choking. The noise was mind numbing, crackles and hisses, pops and creaks.

  Billy’s flashlight beam was lost in the smoke, but he pulled Annie forward, stumbling once against the chaise longue, and then they were at the window and he was pushing up the sash. He swept her up and over the sill, dropped down beside her onto the porch.

  Annie gasped, welcoming the sweet pine-scented air. They pounded down the stairs as the fire poked through the roof. The wooden shingles flamed and the roof glowed, golden swirls of fire, filigrees of destruction.

  Still coughing from the smoke, Billy was yelling into his cell phone. “Fire. Whitman residence. Two-eleven Tree Swallow Lane. Shore side. Rear cottage. Arson. Flames intense.” He punched off the phone, yelled at Annie, “Stay here. It’s probably too late but…” He plunged away from her, running hard toward the drive to the house.

  Annie’s stride was no match for his. She kept him in sight, forced her legs to pump and pump. Lungs aching, she caught up with him at the edge of the terrace. He’d stopped in the shadow of a live oak.

  Billy’s chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath. “No…sign…of…him.”

  Annie was too drained to answer. He’d outwitted them. Behind them, the cottage was ablaze. Ahead of them lights flickered on upstairs in the Whitman house.

  “He’ll be down here in a minute. Shocked. Upset. A homeowner with a great loss.” Annie’s voice was breathless, bitter. “Billy, we were so close. Now there’s nothing we can do.”

  Billy sucked in air. “He doesn’t know how close we are.”

  Faraway there was a sound of sirens.

  Billy gestured toward her cottage. “Run like hell. Put on your pajamas. Start toward the house. The Dodds should be coming outside pretty soon. Tell them the fire woke you up and you ran to the front porch. Say you saw someone running toward the house. A dark figure.” He took another deep breath. “Tell them you called nine-one-one. That will explain the fire trucks getting here so quick. We don’t want him to know we’re onto him, so I’ll get out of here now. I parked a couple of blocks away. I’ll get my car and come. We’ll see what we find.”

  “He won’t have left a trace.” She heard defeat in her voice. She’d promised Max, told him they were going to find out the truth. Her hopes, her life were disappearing in the smoke that coiled, darker than the night, above the burning cottage.

  “Get moving.” Billy gestured toward the cottages. “Remember, you saw someone running toward the house.” Billy ducked away into the shadows. She heard his thudding feet and then he was gone.

  Annie didn’t have the breath to run, but she walked fast. She didn’t worry about the oyster shells beneath her feet. No one would hear that crackle in the hiss and roar of the fire. She stayed as far away from the blaze as she could and wondered if the embers swirling in the breeze would ignite the trees. Just as she reached the porch of her cottage, the sirens rose to a crescendo, and two fire trucks, lights whirling, jolted to a stop not far from Vanessa’s cottage. The remnants of Vanessa’s cottage.

  Annie dashed into her cottage, hurried to the bedroom, pulling off her top and slacks, dropping them as she ran. It took only seconds to pull on her short blue nightgown. She kicked off her shoes, slipped into a pair of huaraches. She hesitated, then grabbed up a white cotton cardigan, pulled it on. Outside again, she shielded her eyes from the flames, started toward the house. She skirted to the far side of the fire trucks. Men in heavy yellow coats yelled, worked hoses. Water spewed in huge arcs to strike the disintegrating roof with a shocking hiss and turn to writhing curls of steam.

  Another siren shrilled, cut. A Broward’s Rock Police cruiser slewed to a stop near the trucks. Annie saw Billy climb out, move toward the fire chief’s car.

  Annie found Lillian and Jon and Heather on the terrace, watching the firefighters attack the blaze. Light flooded the back of the house and the terrace as well. Lillian wore an ankle-length cotton piqué robe. She brushed back tousled hair. Without makeup, her face was sallow, older. Deep lines flared from her lips. Jon was shirtless, barefoot. Cotton chinos sagged from his hips, revealing the band of red and green boxer shorts. He stepped toward Annie. “Thank God you’re all right. We saw the flames and called nine-one-one.” He sounded shocked and concerned. Heather looked young and vulnerable in a scanty pink gown. Her voice was high and shaky. “How can it burn so fast? What started it?”

  Annie remembered, would never forget, the unmistakable odor of gasoline. “I heard something.” There had been a pop and whoosh when the fire began. Was it loud enough to have carried to her cottage? Annie didn’t care. She wanted to shout the truth. What if she faced Jon, accused him? You threw gasoline on the boxes. You lit the fire. You killed Vanessa. She knew the truth but she and Billy hadn’t seen Jon. Damn him, they hadn’t seen him. “When I came out on the porch, I saw someone running toward the house.”

  Jon’s bland face stiffened. Light eyes watched Annie.

  Lillian’s head jerked toward Annie. “Who?” Lillian’s voice was sharp.

  Annie lifted a hand to her face. “I didn’t have my glasses on. I only know there was someone running.”

  “Odd,” Jon murmured. “I don’t like the sound of that—”

  Annie’s hands clenched. Her nails gouged her palms. He wasn’t worried. He was complacent, a surfeited lion at a bloodied carcass.

  “—but it might have been a deer. Or you may have been mistaken.” His voice was smooth, his glance at Annie dismissive. “In any event, I doubt there’s anything we can do to help. It looks”—he gazed across the lagoon—“like the firefighters have everything under control. We’re fortunate the pines didn’t catch. Maybe I should go down…. Look, here comes somebody.”

  Billy Cameron strode toward them. Annie thought he had the look of an avenging Norseman, fair haired, strong, stern.

  “It’s the police chief.” Lillian looked startled. “Why would he be here?”

  Jon’s shrug was relaxed. “I suppose a big fire brings out the police as well.”

  Billy reached the terrace. “Good evening. Mrs. Dodd. Mr. Dodd.” He looked inquiringly at Heather and Annie.

  Lillian quickly introduced them. “My daughter, Heather Whitman. Our guest, Georgia Lance. Chief Cameron.”

  Annie took this as her cue. She faced Billy. “I was in the next cottage. Something woke me up. When I went out on the porch, I saw someone running toward the house.”

  “Or the street.” Jon pointed. “Anyone coming from the cottages would have to use our drive to reach the street. But I imagine Georgia saw a deer, something moving in the shadows. It’s unlikely anyone would have been here. I would think even a trespa
sser would have the grace to report a fire.”

  “Not if they set it.” Billy’s stare was challenging. “The fire was started with gasoline.”

  Lillian gasped. She lifted a shaking hand to her throat. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” Billy looked at Lillian. “I’d like your permission to search the grounds, look in your garage.”

  Heather’s eyes were huge. “Why the garage? Do you think the person who set the fire is hiding there?”

  Jon lifted an eyebrow. “That would be a fairly mentally challenged arsonist, Heather.” He sounded amused. “I imagine Chief Cameron will be looking for our gasoline tin. Tomorrow William can tell him where it is.”

  Billy was brusque. “There appears to be a burned gasoline tin in the living room area.”

  “Really. Clever of the firemen to find it. But”—a casual shrug—“it could be anyone’s tin. If ours is missing, William will know. However, I should warn you, Chief, we never lock the garage.” Jon was rueful, hands outspread, palms up. “I suppose that’s regrettable, but we’ve never thought it was necessary. Until now. In the future, we’ll be more careful.” He turned toward Annie. “Georgia, it’s a damn shame about the fire, whatever caused it. You’ve made your long journey to no avail.” His frown looked genuine. “Chief, is it safe enough for our guest to return to her cottage?”

  Billy looked toward the charred remains of Vanessa’s cottage. Occasional tongues of fire erupted but the steady stream from the hoses were reducing the remnants of the fire to a smoldering mass. “Sure. The fire’s almost out and there will be men here until it’s completely extinguished. There’s no longer any possibility it will spread. I’ll be happy to escort Miss Lance to her cottage.”

  Jon smothered a yawn. “It’s very late, Chief. Since there isn’t anything we can do to help, we’d better try to get some sleep.” His voice was firm. “We’re leaving for the Cape in the morning and we have a long drive ahead of us.”

  Annie waited for Billy to announce that they weren’t free to leave, that the arson investigation required their presence. He had to stop them. Surely there had to be a way to keep Jon Dodd from driving away in the silver Lexus.

  Billy merely nodded, his face stolid. “If you’ll leave us a phone number, we’ll keep you apprised of the investigation.”

  Annie drew her breath in sharply. Was it going to end like this, Jon Dodd triumphant, Max branded a murderer?

  Billy flicked a glance toward her.

  “Certainly we’ll do that. I’ll leave the information with William.” Jon was lord of the manor, distancing himself from an investigation that had no relevance to him. He touched his wife’s elbow, glanced at Heather. “We’ll say good night then, Chief. Thank you for your good efforts.”

  As they entered the house, Annie glared at Billy. “Are you going to let him get away?”

  “He isn’t gone yet. Come on, Annie, let’s head toward your cottage. I’ve got some ideas.” Billy led the way. He talked fast. When he left her at the cottage door, he had a final word. “Try to get some sleep. Mavis will call you at six. I’ll have everything arranged by then. Alert me when the Dodds are ready to leave.”

  Max watched the window as moonlight gave way to the lighter dimness that preceded sunrise. Gray was followed by pink, then gold. Lights flared brighter in the corridor. A buzzer sounded. He rose and dressed. It wasn’t until the cell doors were clicking open and prisoners assembling two by two to walk to the dining hall for breakfast that he gave up hope. Annie had said the murderer would be trapped during the night. If that had happened, if she and Billy had succeeded, they would have come for him by now. They had not come.

  The line moved, the sound of shuffling feet a dirge in his mind. Max walked, head down, face bleak, hands balled into fists, disappointment and despair bitter companions.

  Henny Brawley was a good actress. She had every confidence she could play any role demanded. She wasn’t given to stage fright. Yet her hands felt damp as she punched the number. She had to succeed here. The phone rang.

  A sleepy voice answered on the fifth ring. “Hello.”

  “Rita, Henny Brawley. I have some exciting news about your reward.” Henny had no qualms about dangling bait. Moreover, she was sure the reward would be forthcoming. “Just a minor matter of making the identification. I’ll pick you up in forty-five minutes. We’ll have breakfast and then take a drive. I’ll see you soon.”

  Esther Riggs finished reading the chapter in her Bible. Faithful unto life or death, she read a chapter to end her day and begin her day. The verse from Ezekiel echoed in her mind: “As it were a wheel in the middle of a wheel.” She’d ruminated into the night about the policeman’s request. He’d had a long talk with William after the fire was put out and he’d looked through the garage. She’d come down the steps of their garage apartment, been there when he came out of the garage with William. Esther wasn’t surprised to learn the gasoline tin was gone and one had been found blackened into a heap in the burned cottage. That was when the policeman asked her to call Maybelle this morning, tell her to come. Esther told him she didn’t hold with black magic, that it was an abomination in the sight of the Lord. “‘Can two walk together, except they be agreed?’” The big young policeman had looked at her respectfully, said he understood what she meant. Then he said that even if the magic was wrong, Maybelle could make a difference in whether a good man went to prison and an evil man stayed free. Esther pursed her lips. The verse made it clear to her. One life touched another. Duty was duty. “‘Pay to all what was due them.’” Stiffly, Esther pushed up from her knees. She reached for the telephone.

  Lou Pirelli eased the crime van to a stop behind the cruiser, rolled down the windows, turned off the motor. They were around a bend in Tree Swallow Lane, maybe a hundred yards from the entrance to the circular drive at the Whitman house. Lou hoped Billy knew what he was doing. It seemed like a long shot to Lou. If Billy’s plan didn’t work, the mayor was going to be all over Billy, like an attack dog on a wounded stray cat. The mayor would fire Billy’s butt, sure as shooting.

  Lou tugged at his collar. It wasn’t even ten o’clock but he was hot as a hush puppy in sizzling grease. Maybe it was the waiting and the worry as much as the temperature. He looked over at the plaster-of-paris casts in the passenger seat. Last night Billy had spotted that little tomahawk scar when he’d checked out the Lexus in the garage. So that was all right.

  Lou moved restively in the seat. He glanced in the rearview mirror. There was Henny Brawley’s old black Dodge. They were ready, all of them. How much longer would it be?

  Billy Cameron’s stomach roiled like he was out in the Sound in a Sailfish on a stormy day. He wasn’t a damn fool. He didn’t ignore warning flags. Not when he sailed. But now…Well, he was gambling his life on the island, a job he loved, his family’s security, on the hope that successive shocks could crack a killer’s varnish-slick confidence.

  He knew the price if he failed. Max Darling would pay a grim penalty for a crime he hadn’t committed. Billy would no longer be acting chief of the Broward’s Rock Police Department. He stared grimly ahead, waiting for his cell to ring.

  A bumblebee hovered near the pittosporum bush on the north side of the circular driveway. Annie smelled the sweet banana scent, ignored the threatening drone of the bee. She held a cell phone in one hand. She patted her pocket. Yes, the clothbound book was there. She was at one end of the shrub, out of sight but with an excellent view of the curving driveway and the front of the house. She saw the wide sweep of the front steps, the ornate wooden front door. The Whitman house drowsed in the morning sun, the stucco a soft gold. The silver Lexus was parked near the steps. Luggage was ranged in the drive near the trunk. The scene might have been a gay painting entitled Ready to Go.

  The front door opened. Lillian Dodd was slim and elegant in a pale blue chambray slacks outfit. An oversize straw purse hung from her shoulder. She didn’t look like a woman embarking on a holiday. Her face was pale and drawn. A
tight frown might have reflected a dull headache or a persistent worry. She carried some magazines and a compact disc player.

  Jon came down the steps after her, tennis rackets under one arm. He wore a soft slouch hat, white polo, khaki shorts, and running shoes. “I’ll put the luggage in the trunk. Go ahead and get in, Lillian.” He moved quickly, exuding a barely contained impatience. He looked over his shoulder, called sharply, “Heather?”

  Lillian was nearing the passenger door. “She’s coming, Jon. Let’s not start off with any unpleasantness. It doesn’t matter what time we leave.”

  Heather came through the door. Her blouse was a crisp white. Summer daisies were embroidered on her short cropped linen pants.

  She could have been in a fashion shoot for a vacation getaway if her pale, unhappy face hadn’t been twisted in a scowl.

  Annie lifted the cell phone, punched the number.

  The answer was swift. “Cameron.”

  Her mouth felt dry as she spoke. “Now.” She ended the connection, dropped the cell phone into her pocket.

  Annie waited in the shadow of the sweet-smelling shrub. The police cruiser came first. Billy turned into the drive, angled the car to block any exit. He stopped, turned off the motor. He stepped out, crisp and commanding in his khaki uniform, his captain insignia glinting in the sunlight, and walked toward the silver Lexus. The crime van rolled into the other end of the drive and stopped, blocking that exit. Lou swung down from the van. His uniform, too, was immaculate. He walked forward, his pace deliberate, a hand on the butt of the pistol in his holster, a plaster cast tucked under the other arm. The old black Dodge pulled up behind the cruiser. In an instant, the motor stilled and the doors swung out. Henny led the way, a woman in her thirties lagging behind her. The front door opened. Esther Riggs shepherded her niece outside. They stood on the top step, Esther staring down, face grim, arms folded, and beside her a wide-eyed Maybelle, twisting her hands around and around. William was a pace behind them, his face somber.