by Carolyn Hart
Max looked stunned, but rallied quickly. “I’m sure she meant it as the highest compliment. Anhingas—” even Max was occasionally at a loss for words, “—anhingas,” he said manfully, “have spectacular orange beaks.” He eased the Jeep to a stop near the old school building that held the main office.
Annie nodded encouragement, waited expectantly.
“Anhingas, well, they swim like fish. So do you,” he concluded triumphantly. He popped out of the car with the air of a man who had surmounted a difficult challenge. At the front steps, he looked up in admiration at the glistening black bird. “After all, anhingas were Professor Frost’s favorite birds.”
Annie gave the carving a jaundiced glance and followed him inside.
Children worked on crafts in one room. Two burly teenage boys sweated in a vigorous Ping-Pong game. In the wi-fi nook, most of the worn beanbag chairs were occupied.
Jean’s office door was open. A ceiling fan stirred hot air. The old building didn’t run to air-conditioning. The room was small, perhaps twelve feet by fourteen, space enough for a worn wooden desk, two metal filing cabinets, and a couple of straight chairs. She held the phone, her face anxious. “…Everybody’s welcome this evening. The reception begins at seven thirty and the program will start about eight thirty. We’ll have free popcorn and Kool-Aid. Yes. Please come. Thank you.” She put down the phone and looked at Max with wide, staring eyes. “Have you heard about Click?”
Annie had felt sorry for Jean yesterday. Now, she felt a quick liking. The director faced the loss of her job, but her first thought when she saw Max, whom she had begged to help her, was about the dead boy, not her own plight.
Max nodded. “Yes. I want to talk to you about him. May we come in?”
“Of course.” She glanced wearily around the room, tried ineffectually to straighten some papers.
They stepped inside, and Max closed the door.
“Everything’s kind of a mess.” Jean looked overwhelmed. “I’ve got to get things tidied up. Larry Gilbert—he’s one of the directors—called to say he was doing an inspection this morning. He said it’s his responsibility to report on the buildings and grounds at the board meeting next week. We’ve got a leak in the boys’ bathroom and I can’t help it that the plumber didn’t do a good job. And somebody broke the padlock on the prop shop near the outdoor stage.” She glanced at Annie. “Nothing’s messed up, thank God. Everything is where it should be for the show tonight. That would’ve been the last straw. Of all mornings for him to come—” She broke off. “Anyway this morning’s bad. And now the awful news about Click. Please sit down. I know those chairs aren’t very comfortable.”
The wooden chairs were rickety. Annie felt a splinter snag her skirt.
“Click was a nice boy. I don’t know why it’s always the nicest people who die young.” Jean choked back a sob, looked embarrassed. “It’s just…everything’s too much.” She took a deep breath. “Anyway, it’s awful about Click. We’re going to gather down at the lake at ten thirty—everyone who wants to come—and say good-bye to him. Anybody can speak out, say what they remember or why he was special. I brought roses from home,” she pointed at a vase thick with pale white blooms, “and everyone can throw a rose in the water for him. You’re welcome to join us.”
Max’s reply was swift. “We would like to come.”
Jean’s eyes were bleak. “I have trouble believing he’s gone. Why, he was going to check out some things on my computer this morning. And the police say he died in the nature preserve. I can’t imagine why he went there. He never much liked being outdoors. I tried to get him to play some sports, but he was always too busy with video games or his laptop.”
Max asked quickly, “Why do you suppose he went to the nature preserve?”
The director shrugged. “I guess there had to be a reason. But he hated to be hot.”
Max looked somber. “Maybe he was meeting someone and he didn’t want anyone else to know.”
The director’s expression was puzzled. “Why would he do that?”
Max was blunt. “Drugs.”
“No.” Her reply was swift and certain. “Not Click.” A sudden smile touched her face. “A girl maybe. He was really starting to be interested in girls.” The smile fled. “But he wasn’t into drugs. I can tell. Great big eyes.”
Annie knew what Jean meant: dilated pupils. She might not have the vocabulary, but she had street smarts.
“Acting funny. Talking like your tongue is thick. Too much money.” She hesitated, then said, “Booth has plenty to say now about how unqualified I am for my job, but I can keep my mouth shut. We had a problem a few months ago. Nobody but the board knows. There was one of our kids, I tried hard to reach him, get him to go into treatment, but I didn’t have any luck. The police set up a sting. He’s gone now. Nobody’s on drugs here. Whatever gave you that idea about Click?”
“He was found dead—maybe an accident, maybe not—in an isolated place where nobody goes on a hot July afternoon, except maybe a stray tourist. It was a tourist who found the body and called 911.” Max looked somber. “The police asked me to come and see if I could ID the body because he was wearing a Haven friendship bracelet. The police may not have released this information. Click’s pockets were pulled out. No ID, no billfold, no cell phone. Somebody took that stuff. So, my first thought is what could bring a kid to an isolated spot and get him killed. There’s one easy answer: drugs.”
“Not Click.” Jean spoke with finality. “As for his pockets, somebody came by, somebody who didn’t mind robbing a dead boy. Not that he would have had much. Anyway, Click wasn’t into drugs. You may think I don’t know what’s going on. Why don’t you talk to Click’s friends. They can tell you what’s what. Click hung out with Darren Dubois and Freddy Baker. You are welcome to talk to any of the kids. Eden Conway likes everybody. She pretty much knows everything that’s happening.”
OUTSIDE IN THE sunshine, Max looked thoughtful. “Sometimes three’s a crowd. Why don’t you wander around, talk to some of the girls. I’ll take care of Darren and Freddy.”
Annie grinned. “I get it. Guys talk to guys. That’s okay with me. It might even be a couple of degrees cooler inside.” She walked back up the steps and reentered the building.
Max strolled around the grounds. He heard a boy’s raucous shout. “Hey, Darren, bet you can’t make it over the hump.”
Max turned and headed for a stand of willows.
A new thirty-foot climbing wall, also a gift from Booth Wagner, was near the site of the new gym. Simulated concrete bulged like a granite overhang on a mountain peak. A half-dozen kids watched as Darren, almost six feet of lean and muscular strength, moved crabwise toward the steepest part of the overhang. Stringy blond hair waved in a brisk breeze. He was shirtless. Muscles rippled across his tanned back. He clung to one projection, then another.
Max opened his mouth to yell, closed it. This was no time to startle him.
Darren’s right hand edged higher, seeking a hold. Maybe he was sweating. Maybe he misjudged. His hand gripped, then slipped. For an instant, he flailed with that hand, wavered against the rocklike surface, then his fingers closed on a prong.
The boys below were silent, staring upward. One of them clutched the nearest boy’s arm in a tight grasp.
Darren’s breathing was labored.
Max moved forward. Maybe he could get up there, help him…
In a rapid ascent, as if propelling himself with determination, Darren went fast, hand over hand. He surmounted the bulge, and, in a moment, stood shakily on top. He was breathing fast, his face red. He called out in ragged bursts, “I did it, dudes. You got to pay up. Five bucks each. I made it up without the—” He saw Max, broke off.
Now Max yelled. “You signed the contract like everybody else.” Max’s voice was hard. “No climbing without the safety harness. What do you think you’re doing, Dubois?”
“I guess I forgot.” Darren’s tone was insolent. He moved a few steps, grabbed
a thick line, and dropped safely to the ground.
Max strode toward him, ready to lay down the law. Then he saw Darren’s red-rimmed eyes. Beneath the bravado was misery. What do you do when your best friend is dead? Maybe you fling yourself up a wall, make it tough, make it hard, make it where you can’t think.
“You heard about Click?”
Anguish burned in those red-rimmed blue eyes. “Yeah.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah.” Darren started to turn away.
“Darren, has everything been okay with Click lately?”
Darren stopped, frowning. “Okay? Yeah. Same old Click. All he did was work. He was always telling me I needed to shape up, follow the rules. What good did following the rules do him? He’s dead.” Darren’s voice was angry.
Max knew he couldn’t hold him, mustn’t hold him. He shot out one last quick question. “Why did he go to the nature preserve?”
Darren shook his head. “Man, I don’t get it. It’s the last place he’d go.” His face crumpled. “It’s the last place he went.” Tears glimmered in his eyes. He turned and ran.
“I LIKE YOUR drawing.” Annie smiled at Eden Conway, a sandy-haired teenager with big glasses, freckles, and a friendly expression.
Eden pushed back a stray curl from a mop of sun-bleached hair. She glanced at the sketch pad, added another dark circle to the raccoon’s tail, and smudged the dark mask around the eyes. “Thank you. I wish I could do better. See, I don’t have the paws right. They should look like they have little fingers.”
“Your raccoon’s face is perfect.”
Eden looked pleased. “I’ve worked on the mask all week.”
“Do you come to the Haven a lot?” Annie glanced around the art room. Kids of all ages drew, painted, modeled clay, and made posters. She expected some of the posters would be in evidence tonight at the talent show.
“Every day. I work in the kitchen at lunch and I make a little money. My brothers and sisters are here and I keep an eye on them.”
“Ms. Hughes said you know everything going on at the Haven.”
“Most things.” Eden was matter-of-fact. “I talk to everybody.”
“You knew Click Silvester.”
“Oh.” Eden’s voice was sad. “That’s awful. Click was kind of clumsy, but who’d think he’d fall off a platform?”
Clearly no one at the Haven suspected Click’s death to be anything other than accidental. Annie didn’t want to start a brush fire of gossip. “Eden, I’d like to ask you something on a confidential basis. Will you please not tell anyone?”
Eden looked wary. “How about my mom?”
“That would be fine. And the idea may be crazy. But Max and I are worried. Could Click have been mixed up in drugs?”
“Nope.” Eden was firm but understated, dealing politely with a grown-up’s foolishness. “Click’s dad died of a drug overdose and his uncle’s a drunk. Click was always warning the other kids about drinking and drugs.”
MOST OF THE intent faces in the video room belonged to boys. Max spotted Freddy Baker sitting cross-legged on the floor beneath a whirring ceiling fan.
“Hey, Freddy.”
Freddy looked up. He clicked off a DS and came to his feet. He was scruffy, scrawny, and usually hyper. His normally cheerful face was solemn. “Hi, Max. I talked another couple of guys into coming to the sailing class. Can I show them how to rig the sail?”
“That would be great.” Max knew Freddy, who was small for his age, was thrilled to find a sport where his agility paid off. A tenth-grader, Freddy was a head shorter than most of the guys his age. “Hey, Freddy, I hear you were one of Click’s buddies.”
“Yeah. I was.” He spoke as if the past-tense verb was strange.
“Had you talked to him lately?”
Freddy’s face was abruptly stricken. “Like yesterday. He was pumped. He was so excited about tonight I thought he’d bust.”
Max packed away his last worry about drugs. Kids into drugs didn’t get excited about talent shows.
Freddy’s lips quivered. “He told me he was going to have a special part that nobody knew about. He said it was a big secret. Now he’s not going to be here.” Brown eyes stared at Max, seeking help. “He’s not anywhere.”
MAX SHADED HIS eyes as he walked outside, seeking Annie. The mid-morning July heat washed over him. He glanced at his watch. If it was this hot a little after ten, the air would be baking by afternoon. He waved at several kids he knew. Encouraged by his talk with Freddy, he felt more confident the Haven remained a good and safe place for young people.
Max surveyed the grounds. Kids played soccer. A half-dozen fished from the pier. Max was suddenly alert. Larry Gilbert, who looked summer-comfortable in a blue polo, white slacks, and dark sandals, stood near the tennis court, taking a photo with a digital camera. The net slacked in the middle and had a hole at one end.
According to Henny’s report to Annie, Larry’s vote might be ripe for the picking. Larry sold insurance and dabbled in various businesses. A first-rate tennis player, he was active on the social scene as a divorced bachelor. Several single moms had made a real effort to snag him, but he avoided commitments. He once told Max, as they cooled off with a Tom Collins after a tournament, women with kids were damned expensive and he’d rather spend money on stamps. He proudly described his collection, which included a three-cent Hawaiian missionary stamp and a 1918 Inverted Jenny. When Max failed to indicate the proper awe, Larry turned to Dale Swenson, who regularly took first in the club championship, and they plunged into a discussion of rare stamps and auctions.
Max had intended to drop by Larry’s office this afternoon, but approaching Larry here made their contact more casual. He called out, “Hey, Larry,” and walked swiftly across the hummocky ground to the tennis court.
Perspiring, his bony face flushed from the heat, Larry Gilbert looked up. Deep-set brown eyes were sharp as a hawk’s. “Hey, Max, hotter than a griddle out here.” Dark hair curling from sweat, Gilbert jerked a disdainful thumb at the court. “I know they don’t play much when it’s this hot, but that net’s a mess. I’m out to look things over before the board meeting next week. I have to say there’s a lot that needs improvement.”
This wasn’t exactly the conversation Max had hoped for. “It’s a big property, Larry. Hard to keep on top of everything. On the positive side, we’re flooded with kids. Enrollment’s up by about a third this summer. Considering there’s no air-conditioning, that shows how popular the programs are.”
“In a bad economy, a bunch of them are probably just here for the free lunch.” The board member’s frown was dark. “May be getting some undesirable elements with that.” He jerked his head to the west. “Somebody broke into the prop shop near the stage. The hasp holding the padlock had been pried loose, and the door was wide-open. I had Jean check things out. She said the door was fine yesterday. I looked it over and nothing seems to have been touched, but she was pretty vague about what’s kept in the shed. I told her we need to have records of everything. I can see why Booth’s ready to fire her.”
Max felt a sharp disappointment. There was no hint in Larry’s voice of any strain between him and Booth Wagner.
“The kids like her.” Max tried to sound casual.
“Yeah.” Larry wasn’t impressed. He eyed Max with curiosity. “I hear she’s buttered up to you. I wouldn’t have thought she would impress you. I’d think you’d want somebody more high-class for the job.”
“I like a director who cares about kids. Like Jean. And naturally, she’s concerned about her job. As you know—” (word gets around in a small town) “—I’m lining up support for her. A lot of folks are impressed with the pleasant atmosphere she’s fostered. She had no idea that Booth fabricated a résumé for her. She had given him her actual résumé and that will be presented to the board.”
Larry raised a questioning eyebrow. “A day late and a dollar short, I’d say. It will all get sorted out next week. Now, I need to check out t
he kitchen.” He looked unhappy. “Damn, it’s going to be hot in there. Oh well, the sooner I get in there, the sooner I’m out of here. Good to see you, Max.” And he turned away.
Max looked after him. Should he gamble, make a direct appeal for Jean?
He almost took a step after Larry.
A bell-like tone rang.
Jean Hughes stood on the front steps of the main building, striking a triangle chime. She called out in her strong voice: “Come to the lake. For Click.”
ANNIE OPENED A box of Jan Burke’s new title in the storeroom. Annie was grateful to be back in her happy bookstore. Everything was as it should be at Death on Demand: sunburned readers, the occasional careening toddler with a tired mother in full chase, her intrepid clerk Ingrid Webb calm and cheerful. The bookstore’s normalcy helped distance her from the memory of long-stemmed white roses floating on green water and a good life cut much too short.
Ingrid stood in the doorway, looking at a sheet of paper. “A book club from Bluffton wants to make this a mystery year and has asked for a list of suggested reading.”
Agatha rubbed against the cardboard box. Annie petted the silky fur, evaded sharp teeth. “Has Agatha eaten?”
Ingrid eyed Agatha with wary amusement. “Of course.”
Annie sighed. Keeping Agatha slim was an ongoing battle. “Maybe a little more salmon.” She picked up the cat and carried her, green eyes gleaming, to the coffee bar. She spooned out additional food. “Did they say what kind of mysteries?”
Behind the counter, Ingrid expertly whipped out two cappuccinos with an extra dollop of whipped cream for Annie. The coffee bar featured mugs decorated with mystery titles. “Famous.” Her tone was laconic. She handed Annie a mug emblazoned with Rehearsals for Murder by E. X. Ferrars. For herself, she chose Peril Ahead by John Creasey.
“No more said than done. I assume they are buying the books from us?”