Laughed 'Til He Died

by Carolyn Hart

  “The fifth is a piece of cake. But that second one! No wonder she didn’t get the fourth one. I haven’t either.” Henny sounded relieved. “You know, fair’s fair.”

  Annie prepared to do battle. “Everyone has equal opportunity—”

  “If a reader of my sophistication is baffled, that strongly suggests the painting doesn’t accurately reflect the book. There is a fair solution. Exclude the fourth painting.”

  “You have the other four.” It wasn’t a question.

  “On the money.”

  Annie was firm. “Takes five.”

  “Fair’s fair.” Henny was emphatic. “Think about it. See you and Max tomorrow night at the program.” The line clicked off.

  Annie glared at the phone. “We’ll see what’s fair.”

  The phone rang. Annie glanced at Caller ID. “Hi, Laurel.”

  “Annie, my sweet.” Her mother-in-law’s husky voice brimmed with concern. “Your message sounded strained.”

  Laurel had empathy to the tips of her toes. Annie wasn’t surprised that her mother-in-law had detected stress. Jean Hughes was dominating their evening. Moreover, it looked increasingly likely that tomorrow night she and Max were going to be in the thick of the Haven’s annual summer talent show, but enjoying the fun would not be their priority.

  Annie looked at Max, intent and intense as he sent e-mails. Short of slapping a gag on Booth Wagner, Annie didn’t see anything but trouble ahead at the Haven. But she wouldn’t have it any other way. Jean had come to Death on Demand seeking a kind man. That was what she found.

  “Maybe a little stressed. Max and I are trying to round up people to come to the talent show at the Haven tomorrow night to lobby the board members for the director’s reappointment.”

  “Really? From what I’ve heard, there’s some question about Ms. Hughes’s suitability.”

  Annie knew how to approach her mother-in-law. “Some people oppose anyone who is fresh and different.” Annie pushed away a memory of Jean’s too-tight clothes and abundant makeup. Tastes differed. “More kids are coming to the Haven than ever before. She’s been a little disorganized, but she’s going to take some classes over the Internet, some basic accounting. Frank Saulter’s promised to help with the books.” The retired police chief, Frank was highly regarded on the island. “A bunch of the boys are making posters for tomorrow night.”

  Laurel’s laughter was throaty but delighted. “I have a soft spot for the unconventional. That may surprise you—”

  Annie squashed her immediate inward hoot. Conventionality and Laurel were mutually exclusive concepts.

  “—but I’ll be glad to come on board. Tell me what I need to do.”

  ANNIE KNEW THAT Emma Clyde, the island’s gruff mystery writer, was enjoying the euphoria attendant upon completing a manuscript and sending the e-files to her editor. During this happy time Emma could likely be persuaded to do almost anything short of dancing on top of the piano. However, protocol—and Emma’s ego—required a thorough discussion of the just-completed manuscript, the huge difficulties Emma had faced, and her brilliant solution to an intractable plot problem. Only then had Annie segued into the reason for her call. She almost had her spiel memorized. “…Please call these five names and urge them to come to—” A little whiffy beep signaled another call on the line. Annie glanced at Caller ID. “Oh, hey, Emma, I’ve got a call I should take. Anyway, please persuade them to come to the Haven talent show tomorrow night and seek out board members in support of the director Jean Hughes.” A second beep. “Lay it on thick about the island coming together behind her because of her rapport with the teenagers.” Not to mention, and Annie wouldn’t, Jean’s undeniable sexual appeal for horny teenage boys. “I’ll let you go. Billy Cameron’s on the other line.” She clicked. “Hey, Billy.” Her voice was warm. Police Chief Billy Cameron was not only a good steward of his island, he was Annie and Max’s dear friend.

  “Hi, Annie. Is Max there?”

  Billy’s voice told her this call was official. “Yes.” Her reply was swift and breathless and she was on her feet and holding out the phone to Max. “It’s for you. Billy Cameron.”

  SHADOWS GREW AS the summer sun slipped behind huge loblolly pines that bordered the lake. Though spears of rosy light still touched the center of the lake, dusk cloaked the woods. Birds chittered as they settled for the night. An owl hooted. A light breeze rustled magnolia leaves. A faint scent of fragrant magnolia blossoms overlay the danker smell of the lake. Nearby pines threw dark shadows across the wooden viewing platform.

  Billy Cameron held a flashlight trained on a body at the base of the ladder. The young black teenager’s face was slack in death. He’d had a chubby face. “Held him until you got here. Doc Burford’s been and gone.” Billy pointed at the braided green-and-black friendship band around the right wrist. “Most of the guys at the Haven wear those. Kevin’s got one.”

  Max nodded. Billy’s teenage stepson was a regular at the Haven. Kevin was the driving force behind the Haven’s first rock band. A memory bobbed in the back of Max’s mind: Jean Hughes patiently teaching chords to an aspiring guitarist.

  Billy looked expectant. “I figured you might be able to ID him.”

  Max felt a wash of melancholy. This lovely summer day, a day when living should have been easy, had ended in the much-too-soon death of a kid who’d had great promise. Max’s voice was heavy. “Click Silvester. Hubert, actually. A really good guy. Worked part-time at José’s Computer Repair. Click was a whiz with anything electronic. He could do a paintball gun faster than anybody. That’s why they called him Click. No parents. He and his little brother live with an uncle, Arlen Garvey. The little guy, he’s maybe seven or eight, hangs out at the Haven, too. I don’t think they had much of a home life. What happened?”

  “Accident, maybe.” Billy nodded at the ladder. “He could have been up there, looking at birds, and when he started down the ladder, he could have lost his grip, fallen backward. Doc said massive hematoma on the back of his head. Or maybe somebody whacked him with something firm, but not sharp-edged since there’s no cut or scrape, lugged him to the edge, and pushed him over. Whatever happened, somebody was here when he fell or found him later.” The police chief’s quiet voice was taut with anger. Billy Cameron was a gentle giant, but he had zero tolerance for lawbreakers. He was imposing in his crisp khaki uniform, a big man with short-cut blond hair, a broad face, and bright blue eyes.

  “How do you know that?” Max looked around. The only figures he saw were Billy’s officers, Lou Pirelli and Hyla Harrison. Obviously summoned from off-duty, Lou wore a Braves T-shirt, baggy sweat shorts, and running shoes. He moved step by careful step around the perimeter of the crime scene, set off by yellow crime-scene tape. Lou’s flashlight beamed at the gray dusty ground. Hyla held a notebook, her reserved face preoccupied as she made quick notations. As always, Hyla’s uniform was fresh and crisp.

  “Look.” Billy pointed at the pockets of the dead boy’s blue jean cutoffs. Both pockets were pulled out, the white interior lining distinct despite the gathering gloom. “Empty pockets. Same thing in back when we turned him over. Did somebody accost him, make him hand over everything in his pockets? I don’t think so. If he took everything out himself, why would he pull out the lining? That looks more like he was robbed after he died. Somebody pulled out the pockets, took everything he had.”

  Max frowned. “He wouldn’t have had much. Anybody going to the trouble to kill someone to take their stuff would pick a victim with a better payoff. I’d be surprised if Click had ten bucks on him.”

  Billy’s eyes narrowed. “Whatever he had, it was taken. The guy who found him, a tourist on a bike, said the pockets were pulled out. He buzzed 911. I called you when I saw the friendship band from the Haven. No ID on him. No cell phone. So maybe he had something that linked him to somebody. You say he wouldn’t have had much money. How about drugs?”

  “Not Click.” Even as he spoke, Max knew drugs were always a possibility. He di
dn’t believe that Click, who had been cheerful and eager to please and good-natured, had used drugs. He would have been shocked if Click sold drugs. But he had been shocked before.

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” Billy’s voice reflected years of battling the deadly scourge found everywhere from the loveliest sea islands to New York penthouses to Iowa farm towns to L.A. slums. “Doc will run the tests. If he’s clean, then maybe he had an accident and some scum wandered by and cleaned him out. Anyway,” he clapped Max on the shoulder, “sorry to screw up your evening. Thanks for helping us out.”

  ANNIE LOVED MANY aspects of their old-new home. Since she and Max had moved into their restored antebellum house, she’d especially enjoyed the golden pool of sunlight that flooded through the east windows of their master bedroom, especially in summer. They slept with the windows open, even though Texas-bred Annie was quick to hike up the air-conditioning in the daytime to combat the sticky, humid heat. The house had been designed to capture the night’s offshore breeze. Since Franklin House had ample surrounding land and no neighbor near enough to glance through their windows, the shutters were flung wide with nothing to impede the rosy early-morning sunshine.

  Usually, Annie woke to the distant sounds of Max in the kitchen downstairs. Yesterday he’d made pineapple coffee cake and an omelet with fresh spinach and Parmesan.

  This morning he stood on the balcony in his boxers, but there was no aura of a man joyfully greeting the day.

  Annie rolled up on an elbow. “Max?”

  Slowly, he turned and walked to the bed. He sat down on the edge, took one of her hands, his expression somber. His face softened. “Good morning, Mrs. Darling. Did you know you’re beautiful even with your hair tangled and no makeup? In fact,” he smiled, “you don’t need makeup.” His free hand smoothed back a lock of hair, traced her jawbone, lightly touched her lips. “Beautiful Annie. Sometimes that’s all I see. But then there are mornings like these,” the darkness in his eyes spoke of summer days when they had feared their life together was done, “and I know I can count on you. I have to go see Click’s family. You’ll come, too, won’t you?”

  BROWARD’S ROCK WAS always beautiful, even when marred by squalor. A breeze stirred Spanish moss in the live oak trees, some of the silky silver-gray tendrils brushing rusted hulks of old cars. Honeysuckle running amok half-hid a ramshackle shed, scenting the air as sweetly as expensive perfume. Two ruby-throated hummingbirds hovered over clusters of bright orange, trumpet-shaped creeper flowers twined in a drooping, barbed-wire fence.

  A wooden shack, weathered to dull gray, appeared deserted. The porch sagged. Two treads were missing from the front stoop. A porch swing dangled from one chain. Flies crawled on a discarded fast-food container. The only sounds were the caw of crows and the whirr of insects.

  Annie ducked from a cloud of flies. “Are you sure this is right?”

  Max gestured toward the rural mailbox at the edge of the rutted road they’d followed. “The numbers match.” He shifted the cooler on his hip and took a big stride to the porch that creaked beneath his weight. He reached the screen door. The front door was open to dimness within. “No bell.” He knocked, a firm bang that sounded overloud in the silence.

  Annie cautiously gripped a splintery railing and pulled herself past the missing steps and onto the porch. “Where is everybody?” When someone died, people came. Family. Friends. Church. Neighbors.

  Max banged again.

  Steps sounded. Heavy, slow, shuffling steps. “Yeah.” A big man, a very big man, perhaps three hundred pounds, stood on the other side of the screen door. He was shirtless. Blue shorts hung beneath a bulging belly. He brought with him a smell of beer. In the dimness of the interior, he was hard to see, but he looked unsteady. One hand gripped the doorjamb.

  “Mr. Garvey, I’m Max Darling. We met last year at the Haven summer program night.”

  There was no response and no change of expression in the drooping face.

  Max was somber. “I taught Hubert how to sail. I’m very sorry about his death. My wife and I brought some food.”

  Garvey was slow to answer. Finally, he gestured. “You can take it next door. Miz Peebles is looking after everything.” He pointed vaguely to his left. “I got the day off.” He blinked again. “Thank you.” It was as if he drew the words from a long-ago memory. He turned away.

  They walked in silence away from the house. “So much for that.” Max sounded resigned. “I wanted to ask him if everything had been the same lately with Click. I doubt he’d know or care.”

  Annie nodded. “Drunk.”

  “Yeah. Do you suppose Click’s little brother is in there? I’ll ask Billy to check.” They followed a dusty path that disappeared around the honeysuckle-shrouded shed. “I’ll talk to some of Click’s friends at the Haven, see what I can find out.”

  Annie hurried to keep up with his long strides. “Find out about what?”

  Max’s look was a mixture of uncertainty and determination. “His death appears to be accidental, but there has to be a reason why his pockets were emptied. I want to make sure there’s no drug connection at the Haven. He was a good kid. But even good kids make mistakes.”

  On the other side of the shed, the difference in properties was the difference between despair and joy. They faced the backyard. A vegetable garden groaned with plenty, snap peas, corn, cucumbers, squash, and watermelons. Four boys knelt in the heat, digging out weeds between rows. They looked dusty and sweaty.

  A tall, thin black woman stood on the back porch of a recently painted white frame house. She held a tray with big glasses of lemonade and a plate of cookies. “Snack time, boys.” She came down the steps and carried the tray to a trestle table beneath the shade of a live oak tree.

  Three of the boys scrambled up and ran, pushing one another, laughing, though they were careful not to trample any of the vegetables. Lagging behind was a little boy who shot them an anxious look as he climbed up on the bench.

  The woman, crisp in a starched housedress, walked toward Annie and Max, her expression polite but reserved.

  Max looked at her inquiringly. “Mrs. Peebles?”

  She nodded, folded her hands, and waited.

  “Mr. Garvey sent us over. He said you are taking care of everything for Hubert.”

  Her lips folded for an instant into a thin line. “Somebody has to. I spoke to the preacher. The neighborhood’s taking up a collection. We’ll manage.”

  “We brought some food.” Max held up the cooler.

  Her face softened. “That’s mighty nice. People have been real kind. Ms. Hughes came this morning from the Haven. She thought a lot of Hubert. How did you know Hubert?”

  “I volunteer at the Haven. I’m Max Darling. This is my wife, Annie.”

  She smiled, her face softening. “I’ve heard about you, Mr. Darling. My granddaughter Samantha’s told me about you.”

  Max looked eager. “Were Samantha and Hubert friends?”

  She gestured toward the picnic table. “Hubert was older. Samantha’s the same age as Hubert’s brother Willie. He’s the little one. The one not laughing. Arlen sent him over this morning. He knows I’ll take care of Willie. Like I did Hubert. Their mother was my friend.”

  Max looked toward the dejected little boy who slumped against the table, his face tight with misery. “Mrs. Peebles, I’d like to talk to Willie for a minute.”

  Her smile disappeared. “Why?”

  “He might know why his brother went to the nature preserve yesterday.”

  She folded her arms. “Any rule on this island a black boy can’t go to the nature preserve?”

  “It seems a funny place for him to go.”

  Her face folded into stern lines. “I don’t need you to paint me a picture, Mr. Darling. You got it in your head Hubert was mixed up with something wrong, something hidden. I can tell you that isn’t true. I know boys. I’ve had a passel and raised them. One of mine went bad, sold drugs. He’s in prison now. You know when they’re younger than Hu
bert if that’s the way they’re headed. I’m tired of a young black man dying and everybody thinking he had to have done something to deserve it. Arlen told me Hubert fell from the ladder on the viewing platform. Anybody can have an accident. As for talking to Willie, asking him about Hubert, that would just upset him more. I got Willie helping my boys in the garden. I’m going to get him good and tired and let them play in water from the sprinkler after supper and then Willie can sleep in with my Sam. As for Hubert, I can tell you Hubert was the same yesterday as every day I ever saw him, smiling at me and asking if he could help carry anything into the house. Willie sat on my back porch all yesterday afternoon, waiting for Hubert to come home. Hubert had told him he was going to take him on a shopping trip. But Hubert never came.”

  Chapter 3

  The Haven building had once served as a small school on the north end of the island. The school had been closed and abandoned after World War II. James Frost, an ornithologist, retired to Broward’s Rock in the 1960s and bought the dilapidated structure along with a nearby home and barn. He restored the building for use as a studio. He began an informal association with the island high school, teaching summer classes on local birds. His favorite was the anhinga, and a carved black anhinga with its distinctive webbed feet perched atop the gable. He was a widower, his only son killed in the Battle of the Bulge. When Frost died in 1984, he bequeathed his home and property, including the studio, for use as a center for island youth. Under the leadership of two dynamic directors, the Haven had added several small structures, paved an outdoor basketball court, and graded a field for football and soccer. A pier poked out into a good-size lake rimmed with cattails. Construction was almost complete on a new gym provided by Booth Wagner.

  As Max’s Jeep curved around a stand of pines, Annie pointed at the anhinga, glistening with a coat of new black paint. “Laurel once said I reminded her of an anhinga.” She managed not to sound resentful. Almost.