Laughed 'Til He Died

by Carolyn Hart

  ANNIE NEVER TIRED of the beach. The sturdy blue canvas umbrella offered plenty of shade. The breeze off the water made the beach ten degrees cooler than inland. They usually spent Annie’s free Sunday afternoons on the beach. Annie and Ingrid alternated Sundays at Death on Demand. Annie insisted that she and Max keep to their schedule. They had done what they could do to help Jean Hughes. They—and the Intrepid Trio—had unearthed information that Billy was sure to consider. Yes, Jean was high on his suspect list, but Billy had made careful notes about Tim Talbot and Meredith Wagner. In the morning, Max would meet Handler Jones at the early ferry and Jean would have a lawyer present during her interview with Billy.

  Annie contentedly smoothed on sunscreen, her nose wrinkling in appreciation of the coconut smell. She felt pleasantly soporific in the hazy heat, lulled by the recurring rumble of waves, the chirp of sea birds, and the occasional drone of a Coast Guard helicopter. She gazed through droopy eyelids at Max, wished he would relax. “TGIS,” she encouraged, offering her own riff on TGIF. Actually, she loved each and every day, finding joy in godly Sunday, first-great-day-of-the-week Monday, infinite-possibilities Tuesday, organize-and-catch-up Wednesday, beginning-to-slow Thursday, think-about-it-next-week Friday, and have-a-party Saturday.

  Max looked wry. “KISS.”

  Annie tried to sound alert, though she wanted to slip into a light nap. “Billy’s got a point.”

  Max looked out at the green water. “I don’t think so. I think everything’s more complicated than Billy realizes.” Abruptly, he sat up and pulled their beach carryall closer. “KISS is his mantra. I’ve got one, too. ‘Never give up.’” He wiped his hand on a beach towel, pulled out his cell, punched a number. He waited, ended the call, punched another number, looked relieved. “May I speak to Darren, please?” He frowned. “No. I haven’t seen him.” Max listened, frowning. “If you’ll give me directions, we’ll be right there.”

  DUST ROSE IN a cloud behind the car. “Maybe there’s nothing wrong. His mother sounded upset, but guys get busy and forget to call home. It won’t hurt to talk to her. If he shows up, maybe she’ll push him to tell us what he knows.”

  Annie felt sticky in the T and shorts she’d pulled on. Max looked beach-scruffy as well.

  The sandy road curved around a stand of pines. Max slowed as a dusky red white-tailed deer and her fawn crossed in front of the car. Occasional small frame houses, many well-kept, some dilapidated, sat at the end of rutted drives. They passed hunting cabins and a derelict apartment house with boarded-over windows.

  Annie glanced at a sketchy map Max had drawn. They passed Whooping Crane Pond. On the map, a stick-figure bird was in the center of a wavy oblong. Oleanders bloomed near a mailbox with DUBOIS lettered in red paint.

  A tall, slim blonde stood on the front porch of the neat gray shingle house. She hurried down the steps as they got out of the car. “Darren was going to be home in time for us to catch the two o’clock ferry. He didn’t come. His cell didn’t answer. Everybody I called said you kept trying to get in touch with him about Click Silvester. I thought he might be with you. You kept calling for him and now he’s disappeared.” Her tone was accusing.

  The front door was open. Through the screen door came the faint sound of a telephone.

  She whirled and ran, the screen door slamming behind her.

  Annie and Max stopped on the porch, looked into the small living room at wicker furniture with cushions, a braided oval rug, a maple coffee table, a laptop computer on a card table.

  She held the phone with a hand that shook. “This is Darren’s mother. Have you seen him anywhere? Do you know where he is?…Please ask everyone to look for him. Call me if you hear anything at all.” She put down the phone, darted to the screen door, held it open. She brushed back a strand of long, straight blond hair. She had wide-set blue eyes, aquiline features, and, for now, a somber gaze. “My name’s Mickey. Why did you want to talk to Darren about Click? Click’s dead.”

  Lines grooved Max’s face. “He was Click Silvester’s friend. Yesterday morning I asked Darren if he knew why Click went to the nature preserve.”

  She stared at him, her gaze never wavering.

  “Darren said he didn’t know. It was later that another friend told me that Click had been excited about the Friday night program at the Haven, that he was part of a big secret. Click didn’t live long enough to come to the program. I wanted to know about that secret. I wanted to know if Click told Darren what was going to happen Friday night. When I talked to Darren late yesterday, I thought he was evasive.”

  She stared at him incredulously. “Are you crazy? Do you think Click knew somebody was going to shoot that man?”

  Max shook his head. “No. Click was excited, cheerful. Whatever he knew, he didn’t expect anything bad. Click said there was going to be a big joke played that night. The man who died was known for his jokes. My guess is that Click knew about a plan that Click thought was fine, but it wasn’t, and that’s why he had to die.”

  “Click had to die?” She lifted a hand to her throat.

  “I think Click was murdered.”

  Mickey Dubois walked to a wicker chair, slumped into it. Her face was pale and drawn. “I encouraged Darren to hang out with Click. Click was so steady. Darren can be,” she twisted her hands in her lap, “a wild man. He butts up against authority. I can’t tell you how many times he’s done crazy things just to see if he could or because somebody dared him. His dad,” she swallowed hard, “was a Green Beret. He was killed in Iraq. If he’d come home, he would have known how to handle Darren.”

  Annie felt the beginning of fear.

  Max took a deep breath. “Darren and Click were buddies. Darren’s a smart kid. Click died Thursday. Booth Wagner was murdered Friday night. Maybe Click told Darren something about Friday night and Darren was keeping an eye on somebody. Maybe he put things together after Wagner’s murder.”

  She stared at him in growing fear. “You think Darren knows something about that shooting?”

  “I’m afraid so. If Darren thought somebody killed Click, what would he do?”

  She scarcely managed to speak, her voice a whisper. “He’d do whatever he thought needed to be done.”

  “Do you think he’d try to go after the killer by himself?”

  “He might. Oh dear God, he might.”

  Max was brusque. “If Darren got in touch with the murderer, he put himself in great danger.”

  She lifted a trembling hand, pressed it against her lips. Her words were indistinct. “Something’s happened to Darren. He’d call me if he could. He was excited we were going into Savannah for a baseball game.” Mickey swallowed hard. “He’s been counting on the game for weeks. He rode his bike downtown to take a book back to the library. There’s a deposit bin there. But he hasn’t come home. Darren and Click. They were always together. And now…”

  A knock rattled the screen door. “Police.”

  Annie knew that voice. Officer Hyla Harrison was serious, purposeful, calm. She always spoke with deliberation. This afternoon her voice was essentially toneless, carefully without inflection. Annie drew in a wavering breath.

  Mickey Dubois rushed to the door, her dangly earrings jangling.

  Officer Harrison, freckles prominent on her pale face, stared forward. “Is this the home of Darren Dubois?”

  “Yes.” Darren’s mother barely managed the word.

  Officer Harrison’s eyelids flickered. She spoke in a rush. “Ma’am, if you’ll come with me. Your son needs you.”

  THE MEDUCARE AIR transport lifted up from the center of the harbor pavilion park. The whop-whop of its engines reverberated across the boardwalk and the harbor. The helicopter rose straight up, its yellow top and white undercarriage bright in the hot sunshine. Annie thought it looked too small to hold the gravely wounded boy and his mother and medical personnel. The helicopter banked and turned, its destination acute care in Savannah.

  Men in polo shirts and shorts were crowded on the
deck of a docked cabin cruiser in the marina at the harbor. Officer Lou Pirelli, notebook in hand, spoke to a hulking man in a white polo and white slacks. Several fishermen waited solemnly by their bait buckets and rods on the boardwalk. Billy Cameron spoke with a man in his sixties, who gestured at Fish Haul Pier.

  Marian Kenyon wrote furiously. “They ID’ed the kid as Darren Dubois.”

  Max watched the helicopter as it turned into a small speck in the western sky. “Yes.”

  “He’s the one you were trying to find.” Marian quivered with excitement. “Now he’s been shot. Just like Wagner. I picked up the call on the scanner. 911s in a flurry from the pier around one o’clock.”

  Annie felt cold. They’d arrived on the beach about a quarter after one, seeking solace in the sun. By that time, Darren already lay wounded.

  “I got here pronto. I’ve already talked to some of the guys who were fishing on the pier. Everything was cool. They had their lines out and the catch had been good, lots of yellowfin croakers and spottail bass. One guy had his boom box, said it was playing ‘Sitting on the Dock of the Bay,’ another day in paradise and everybody having fun. Nobody paid any attention when the kid walked out on the pier about one o’clock. He didn’t have any fishing gear but hey, people walk out on the pier just to look. Paul Tucker—you know him, Max, the high school math teacher—barely noticed him, not to recognize at that point. He was just a teenage guy slouching along on the pier, but Tucker said he knew something was odd when the kid stopped and pulled some scruffy old gardening gloves out of his pocket and pulled them on. I mean, he didn’t have any equipment with him, so why the gloves? Paul kept watching. The kid knelt on the south side of the pier and bent over the side like he was looking for something. In a minute he stood. He had an envelope in his hand. He was holding it real carefully on the edges. He looked real serious. That’s when the shot came. One shot from the woods.” She pointed at the trees opposite the pier. “Paul said everything was in slow motion. Guys yelled. Somebody shouted for everybody to get down. Paul hit the boards and his rod flipped into the water. The kid’s shirt turned bloody. He fell forward into the middle rail. He banged his head hard, then flopped into the water. People started calling 911. When no more shots came, Paul rolled to his feet and ran and dived in. He found him pretty quick and pulled him up and swam to shore. Everybody helped them out of the water. He was still breathing, but he kept bleeding and the side of his head was swelling. When Doc Burford got here, he immediately had them call Meducare. Doc said the only hope was to get him quick to the acute trauma center. Paul identified him. He’d had Darren in class. Meantime, the cops arrived and searched the woods. They didn’t find anybody.”

  Annie pictured the teenager walking to the edge of the pier, leaning down…“Darren must have told the murderer to put the envelope there. An envelope…that sounds like blackmail.” What price friendship?

  Max shook his head. “Click was his buddy. I don’t believe Darren would protect his murderer.”

  Annie felt sad. “His mom said he was wild and crazy. Funny he’d wear gloves.” Annie’s face changed. “Why do people wear gloves?”

  He looked blank. “Because they’re cold or protecting their hands.”

  Annie looked solemn. “Or to keep from leaving fingerprints. Don’t you see? Darren didn’t want his fingerprints on that envelope. What if he saw something, knew something, but didn’t think anyone would believe him? What if he decided to test out his idea, pretend to blackmail someone? An envelope stuffed with money and with someone’s fingerprints on it would be enough to take to the police. He wore gloves because he didn’t want to mess up the evidence.”

  Max remembered the daredevil climber and the misery in his eyes. “Wild and crazy. And brave.” The gloves might well indicate Darren was trying to set a trap. He didn’t want his fingerprints on the envelope. He figured anybody who paid blackmail wouldn’t be thinking the envelope would ever be fingerprinted. Blackmailers don’t run to the cops. But Darren was no blackmailer. He was a kid on a mission. “I suppose he thought he’d be safe if he set up the drop spot and came to get the envelope when there were plenty of people around. A sweet idea, but the killer had a sweeter one. I expect Darren made his approach yesterday. The killer probably visited the pier late last night and put out the bait. Today the killer was in the woods at one, waiting. Darren retrieved the envelope, and that’s when the shot came.”

  THE TALL, SLENDER black woman stood behind the screen door of the small house, stiff and straight as a sentinel. “You don’t need to come here. My boy doesn’t know anything about Darren Dubois.” Fear held her rigid, fear and an angry determination to protect her son. She still wore a lovely rose silk dress from church, but there was no peace in her face.

  Max was amazed that word of Darren’s shooting had already spread. Obviously, his efforts to speak to Darren were part of a wildfire of speculation.

  A German shepherd lying on the porch came to his feet and growled softly in his throat, his hackles rising.

  “Thunder.” Her command was crisp.

  The dog stopped. He watched Max with dark brown, unblinking eyes.

  “Mrs. Baker, Freddy won’t be in any danger if I talk to him. Darren Dubois was shot because he threatened a killer. Darren didn’t tell what he knew. The safest thing for Freddy is to answer my questions. You and Freddy can tell everyone you know what he’s said. It will be obvious Freddy isn’t a threat to anyone.”

  She slapped her hands on her hips. “How is this killer going to know Freddy’s not a threat?”

  Max was blunt. “Freddy isn’t going to try and catch a murderer.”

  “Mama, please, it’s Max.” Freddy Baker tugged at his mother’s arm.

  “Frederick.”

  At her word, he dropped his hand and turned back into the living room.

  She opened the door, stepped onto the porch. Arms folded, she stared at Max, her gaze as watchful as the shepherd’s. “How can you be sure Darren contacted the murderer?”

  Max understood her terror. One teenage boy dead, another in intensive care, and, according to the latest word, not expected to recover. Both were regulars at the Haven. Both were her son’s close friends. She knew there was danger but to her the threat was formless, boundless, might at this moment be waiting to ensnare Freddy.

  Max spoke quietly but firmly. “Darren saw something Friday night. He tried to set a trap for the killer.” Max described the pier and the envelope and Darren’s gloves. “We think he intended to take the envelope to the police as proof of what he’d figured out. Instead, the murderer shot him.” Darren had been clever, but not quite clever enough.

  Mrs. Baker regarded him stonily. “Freddy doesn’t know anything about the shooting Friday night. I’ve been over it and over it with him. If he knew anything, he’d have told the police. I raised my kids to do what’s right. As for Darren, Freddy didn’t talk to him yesterday. Freddy heard about you hunting for Darren, but that’s all he knew.”

  “I’m sure Freddy doesn’t know about the murders. I want to talk to him about Click Silvester and what Click had been doing the last few days.” Max hoped the question sounded innocuous enough.

  “Mama.” Freddy edged open the front screen. “Click was my friend.” His eyes were shiny with tears. “Let me help find out what happened to him.”

  She took a deep breath, pressed a hand against one temple as if she had a headache. “All right. But we’re talking out here on the porch in front of God and everybody. Freddy doesn’t have anything to hide.”

  Freddy slipped through the door and stood beside his mother. Eyes huge, he stared solemnly up at Max.

  Max kept his tone easy. “This isn’t anything hard, Freddy. Tell me about a usual day for Click, as far as you know.”

  Freddy relaxed a little. “He got up and got his little brother ready to come to the Haven. They always got there in time for breakfast. Click helped his brother start his project. If Click was working, he went to the computer store
. Click loved working there. Mr. Ramirez was real nice to him.”

  Max felt that he was grabbing smoke. Somewhere in Click’s final days lay the answer to his death. Somehow, some way, Click had become privy to knowledge that he thought was innocent, but a killer knew otherwise. For some reason, Click had to die before Booth Wagner could be shot. “Did Click work Thursday?”

  “I don’t think he was at the shop.” Freddy spoke slowly, squinted in thought. “He said he’d been kind of scared to do a job, but he was going to get a big bonus, enough to buy a scooter, and he was going to give me the first ride on it.” Tears rolled down Freddy’s thin cheeks.

  Max scarcely dared to breathe. Maybe a tiny ray of light was beginning to shine from behind the black cloud that obscured Click’s death. “Was he getting the bonus for a computer job?” Max remembered the white cotton lining of Click’s pulled-out pockets.

  Freddy looked uncertain. “I think so. We’d been talking about his repair work and he said he’d been off on a private job. Click said he’d fixed everything in only a few minutes. Then he started talking about Friday night and there being a big secret at the program and how he was going to be recognized.”

  COCOA BROWN MUDFLATS steamed as the tide ebbed in the salt marsh. Fiddler crabs scurried, seeking algae and rotting marsh grass. Annie took a deep breath of the distinctive brackish smell. She looked out from the wooded path at the back of the lovely white cottage. This afternoon there was only the music of the low country, the chitter of birds, the rustle of cattails, the whirr of insects. The quiet figure on the back porch, again wrapped in the white-and-red quilt, sat with her chin on her hand, watching the marsh. Greenish-golden spartina grass rippled in the onshore breeze. Jean’s sister exuded an aura of peace.