Engaged to Die

by Carolyn Hart

  Annie sipped her coffee, turned back to the manager’s bio.

  Stephanie Hammond, 24, a native of Charleston. Master’s degree in sociology. Single. Worked for the state in nursing home inspections division until accepting the assistant to the manager position at Snug Harbor. Was named interim manager when Leah Carew, an army reservist, was called to active duty….

  The dangling bells at the front door jangled.

  “Annie, I’m here.” Chloe came down the central aisle, moving as if every muscle ached. Her auburn hair was unevenly brushed. She wore no makeup. Freckles stood out against pale skin. Her eyes were tired and mournful. A violet turtleneck clashed with orange slacks.

  Annie took a last gulp of coffee, closed the file. She was on her feet, heading for the door, car keys in hand. It wouldn’t hurt to get to Snug Harbor a little before her appointment. “Chloe, I’m not sure when I’ll be back. I doubt we’ll have many customers today unless there’s a business conference at the Buccaneer.” The resort hotel offered guests a map of the island that included a thumbnail description of the businesses on the boardwalk by the marina.

  She was almost to the door when Chloe called out. “Annie…”

  Annie wanted to dash out the door, but she couldn’t ignore the appeal in Chloe’s voice. Annie paused, looked back.

  Chloe’s mournful face drooped like an iris beaten down by heavy rain. “I can’t work the whole day.” Chloe squeezed her hands into fists, pressed them against her cheeks. Her lips quivered.

  Annie moved toward her. “What’s wrong?” There was no doubt that Chloe was upset. But of all mornings…

  “I stayed on the pier all night.” She choked back a sob. “He didn’t come.” Her hands dropped. Her fists opened.

  Annie’s first instinct was to ask what Chloe had expected. After all, if the guy wouldn’t even give his name…The pain in Chloe’s face stilled the words. Annie remembered her so clearly as a bouncy happy teenager talking about Harrison Ford and how someday she’d find a man like him. Maybe Chloe’s hunger for romance had begun so long ago, was so deep that nothing Annie said would help. “I’m sorry, honey. Maybe…” Car trouble? Not on an island. No matter where he lived, it wouldn’t take long to walk to the pier. Sick? Oh, sure. Struck down by a mysterious pox known as cold feet. The fact was that Chloe’s mystery romance had ended in a whimper, not a bang. Annie looked at the grandfather clock near the fireplace. Fifteen to eleven. Okay, she could be at Snug Harbor in five minutes. But she wanted time to look around during visiting hours.

  Chloe burst into frantic speech. “Annie, I didn’t tell you before. He said he loved me, that he knew we would always be together, that we were perfect for each other. We made love there on the pier”—her gaze was defiant—“and it wasn’t just any old one-night stand. I know it wasn’t. It didn’t matter that it was cold and damp. Nothing mattered but being together. I have to find him.” Her breathing was quick and shallow. “I’ve been thinking. He has to work somewhere. It can’t be here on the boardwalk or I would have seen him. I’m going to make a list of all the businesses on the island and go to each one. Annie, will you help me?”

  Annie gripped her car keys. “Chloe, give it up. If he wants to find you—”

  “He doesn’t know my name.” It was a stricken wail.

  “Annie, I have to find him. I’ve never met anyone like him. Never. If you’d ever seen him, you’d remember him. His face is kind of uneven. High cheekbones and a long jaw and sharp chin. He looks like one of those courtiers you see in fifteenth-century French paintings. I told him he should wear a ruffled shirt and brandish a sword and he laughed. But he was pleased. Annie, he was different.” His voice quivered with eagerness.

  “I’ve got to find him.”

  A sword? Annie wasn’t impressed. “Chloe, I’ve got to go.” She dashed toward the front door, paused only long enough to call, “I’ll keep on the lookout.”

  Chloe touched the top of her dark red head. “He always wears a cap, one of those round tweedy kind that are soft. Like golfers wear. And an argyle sweater.”

  The door closed and Annie broke into a run. How could Chloe be such a passionate idiot? Annie had a sudden cold thought of how she would have felt if Max had walked out of her life without a word. Funny, when she thought about it. She’d tried to run away from Max, but Max had come to the island, looking for her. That was different. He darn sure knew her name and she his. Well, she didn’t have time to worry about Chloe. She had to do something about Denise’s grandmother.

  Max Darling flicked off his computer. Amazing what could be found when a name was typed into a search engine on the Internet: charitable donations, bank accounts, work records, real estate transactions, and on and on. Max tilted his red leather chair, punching on the heater and massage unit. Annie had been pleased at the effort he’d made to gather information about the retirement center. Dear Annie, his serious, intense, hardworking, and, bless her, genuinely kind wife. He gazed at the silver-framed photograph on the corner of his desk, flyaway blond hair, steady gray eyes, kissable lips curved in an irresistible smile. He smiled in return. “Go get ’em,” he murmured. Annie would set everything right for Mrs. Foster.

  Max poked the chair upright, got to his feet. The appointment at Snug Harbor shouldn’t take long. He’d call Annie in a little while, see if she wanted to have lunch at Parotti’s. In winter, Annie loved the mungy old restaurant’s homemade chili topped with grated cheese, steamed corn kernels, and sliced Vidalia onions. After lunch, they might take a long walk on the winter beach, maybe catch a flight of cormorants, check out the flotsam that had washed in from the nor’easter just before Christmas. Tonight the Boston Mackey exhibition opened at the Neville Gallery. Max grinned. A fun day. Most fun of all, there would surely be time enough this afternoon for him and Annie to go home. Ah, a winter afternoon and the woman he loved. Omar could keep the wine and verse. First things first.

  Stephanie Hammond bounced toward the door, hand outstretched. A candy cane appliqué sparkled against the thick red fuzz of her pullover sweater. “Mrs. Darling, I’m delighted to welcome you to Snug Harbor.” She waved Annie toward a chintz-upholstered overstuffed chair. Instead of taking her place behind the walnut desk, the manager took an armchair opposite Annie and leaned forward, her gaze eager. “What can I do for you?” She appeared genuinely delighted to greet her visitor. “Do you have an elderly family member who might be interested in living with us? I’d love to show you everything.” She gestured toward the community area. “Perhaps you can join us for lunch. We have our larger meal at noon and sandwiches and soup in the evening. I think I can say that no one on the island has better food than we do. Today we’re having meat loaf and mashed potatoes and green beans and lemon meringue pie.”

  Her words evoked a sense of ease and comfort, warming as a soft shawl or a crackling fire.

  Patricia Wentworth’s Miss Silver always espoused the truth. Miss Silver often quoted Alfred Lord Tennyson. There was a verse from The Idylls of the King: Live pure, speak true, right wrong…. And Alice Tilton’s Leonidas Witherall was fond of exhorting Meredith schoolboys to tell the truth and fear no man. However, Leonidas (aka Bill Shakespeare) was wont to fudge a bit when enmeshed in the long tentacles of the octopus of fate.

  Because truth once offered could not be retracted. Burning in Annie’s memory was the quavery voice of an old and dreadfully frightened woman. Annie temporized. “Miss Hammond, I—”

  “Oh, please, call me Stephanie. We’re on a first-name basis here.” The manager smoothed back a glossy curl. Her gaze was earnest. “I want everyone to feel that we are all friends. Buddies. Calling people mister and missus is rather off-putting, don’t you think?”

  Annie’s home state was free and easy Texas, where first names were almost invariable, except when addressing the elderly. Formal address offered a certain dignity. You didn’t call someone’s grandfather Al unless invited to do so. “I’m glad you care about the residents.”

  Thos
e wide blue eyes blinked. “Care? Of course we care.” Her well-modulated voice held a hint of surprise.

  Annie wished she knew Stephanie Hammond. If only they’d played tennis together (Would she call the lines right? Did she drill an opponent at the net?) or gone to an oyster roast (Would she complain about the no-see-ums? Did she get easily frustrated trying to gouge open the shells?) or worked on a committee (Did she do her part? Was she dependable or all show and no substance?). The manager appeared good-humored and cheerful and committed to her job. Did she know what was happening on her watch?

  “A good deal depends upon your staff, I would assume.” Did Joseph J. Brown present one face to his boss, another to the residents?

  Stephanie leaned forward, eyes glowing. “I have the world’s best staff. I can promise you that. We have a registered nurse on the premises—Bonita Esperanza—and everyone loves her. Mary Harris is our program director and she’s always coming up with something fun for everyone. Harry Thomas is our dietician. Jane Crandall is our chef. And we have—”

  Annie flung out his name. “Joseph J. Brown?”

  The manager’s smile faded at Annie’s crisp tone. “Why do you ask?”

  Annie met her gaze. “Have you ever received any complaints about him?”

  Stephanie frowned, her effervescence gone. She gave a sigh. “I suppose you mean old General Priddy. You have to understand”—she was reassuring and patient—“that when you deal with old people, they can get strange fancies. They can confuse the present and the past and imagine”—a tinkling laugh—“the most bizarre situations. One old lady is sure that Martians have a pipeline to Snug Harbor and listen to every word we say. And”—her eyes glinted—“a general is used to being in charge. I told his daughter that the general was reliving those war years, shouting in the night. But she wasn’t at all reasonable and she moved him out.” Stephanie snapped her fingers. “She talked to me that morning, and that afternoon he was gone.”

  Annie smoothed a wrinkle from her cream wool slacks. She said pleasantly, “Didn’t that make you wonder a little?”

  “Wonder?” The director sounded puzzled.

  “About the validity of the general’s complaint.” Into the sudden, resistant silence, Annie demanded, “What was his complaint?”

  The manager fingered a candy cane earring. “Oh, it was just crazy. He didn’t like J. J., that’s what it came down to. He told his daughter—and I swear, she should have been a general—”

  Annie kept her expression pleasant and welcoming and mentally applauded the combative general’s daughter.

  “—that he—the general—had accidentally bumped J. J. from behind with his wheelchair, and then, according to the general, J. J. took his wheelchair and swung him around and rolled him to his room and—” She broke off, shook her head impatiently, her tawny hair rippling. “It’s too absurd.” Her eyes flashed. “I need to know why you are asking these questions.”

  “Because another resident has been abused by Mr. Brown. That resident”—Annie spoke carefully—

  “lives in terror of him. And I’m here to see about it.”

  The manager clamped her hands on the chair arms. There was no smile now. “That is a very serious accusation, Mrs. Darling. Who is making this claim?”

  “An old woman.” Annie remembered the shuddering voice: he makes you listen. “A helpless old woman who is terrified for darkness to come. He has a key that opens every door. Once he came to her room in the middle of the night and was standing at the foot of her bed when she awakened. She screamed. The next day everyone told her she’d had a nightmare.”

  The manager was indignant. “Old people often have nightmares!”

  Annie folded her arms. “Miss Hammond”—no, they weren’t buddies, not now—“you don’t stay here at night, do you?”

  Her silence answered.

  “Then please listen to me. The man you’ve hired is cruel. He delights in frightening old people. I don’t doubt there are many who’ve had no problem with him. He would seek out those who are vulnerable.”

  Stephanie Hammond surged to her feet, her face ridged. “You must give me the name of the person involved. And the circumstances.”

  Annie remembered Twila Foster’s soft uncertain eyes and thin face and the clawlike fingers plucking at her lace collar and the fear, the demeaning, dreadful, terrible fear. Annie rose and the two women faced each other, wary antagonists. “What will you do?”

  The manager gestured toward the door. “Why, I’ll talk to J. J. and see—”

  “What he has to say? What do you think he will say?” Annie spread out her hands. “Of course he’ll deny everything. A nightmare.” She was sardonic. “Or she’s imagining persecution. Or confused. It’s easy to say an old person is imagining things. If you tell him her name, he’ll whisper to her late at night in that soft high voice. He’ll tell her she will have to pay. He told her once that she’d been nothing but trouble ever since she came.”

  “This is all unsubstantiated. You can’t expect me to take action against an employee without some kind of proof.” A flush stained her smooth cheeks.

  Annie remembered the wrinkled parchment face of Twila Foster and the tremor in her old voice. “There is one way to get proof.” Annie’s throat ached. Please, God, help us now. She spoke fast.

  When she was done, Stephanie Hammond paced back and forth across the small room, her face furrowed in thought. Finally, she stopped, stared hard at Annie. “All right. I’ll do it.”

  Annie leaned against the cool plastered wall. The interior door between the manager’s office and the adjacent room was open a sliver, just enough to permit a line of light. This space had been Stephanie’s office before she was named interim manager. Now the office was unused. It was chilly and smelled faintly dusty. The drapes were drawn, shutting out the thin winter light. Annie wondered if the heating vents were closed. She felt cold as ice. She folded her arms tight across her front, suppressed a shiver. If her scheme was unsuccessful…

  A door squeaked. “I’ll just take a moment of your time, Mrs. Foster. Here, please take this chair. It’s the most comfortable.”

  Annie edged to the line of light. She could see very little, a portion of Mrs. Foster’s aluminum cane and worn black shoes that laced. But she could hear every word.

  Mrs. Foster’s voice was uncertain. “Stephanie, I’m sure Denise paid my rent—”

  “Oh, everything’s fine. Well”—the manager paused—“actually, I do have a concern. But I’ll wait until J. J. gets here before—”

  The cane quivered as the old woman’s hand shook. “J. J.?” Twila Foster drew her breath in sharply. The cane poked forward and her thin arm came in sight. “No, I don’t want to—” She broke off.

  “Stephanie.” The high soft voice rolled across the room, thick as spreading oil.

  “Yes. Come in, J. J. Close the door, please.” Stephanie was brisk.

  The door clicked shut. He walked across the room, briefly in Annie’s sight, greasy black hair curling on the shoulders of the red-and-black plaid shirt, fat hands hanging loose at his sides, dark moccasins noiseless on the parquet floor.

  There was not a breath of sound from the old woman.

  “Thanks, J. J. Now, I’ve had a complaint that you have spoken sharply to Mrs. Foster.” Stephanie cleared her throat. “Twila, I’d like to hear what you have to say.”

  “No. I didn’t say anything.” Her thin voice rose and cracked. “I swear I didn’t. Please, I want to go back to my room.”

  Annie gripped the door jamb, rested her head against the wood. Oh, God. Anyone could hear the terror in Mrs. Foster’s voice. Annie blinked back tears. This was dreadful, dreadful….

  “Twila,” Stephanie was impatient, “I have to—”

  The door opened. “Stephanie”—a woman’s voice was urgent—“we’ve got a problem outside. Somebody’s blocking the drive and I can’t get them to move. Can you please come?”

  “Oh. I’m busy right now.” An e
xasperated breath.

  “But all right. J. J., stay here. I want to see about this.” There were brisk steps. “I’ll be right back.” The door closed.

  There was silence.

  To Annie it was a hideous silence, heavy with menace. She stood there rigid, sick with apprehension. A faint squeak sounded. Annie’s head jerked toward the hall. The door opened and Stephanie slipped inside. She pulled the door slowly shut behind her and tiptoed across the cold room. Annie pulled back to give Stephanie room to see through the sliver of space.

  Twila’s quavering voice rose. “I didn’t say anything to Stephanie. I swear I didn’t.”

  “Oh, but you must have, Twila.” There was no sound from the moccasins, but he moved closer and closer until he stood over the seated woman. “You made a mistake. Now, you’ll have to tell Stephanie you were having a bad dream. If you don’t—”

  Annie hated his high soft voice. It threatened menace deadly as the pinch of poison in a Borgia ring.

  Stephanie bent nearer to the line of light. Annie smelled her gingery perfume.

  “—it will be too bad. Do you like bats, Twila? Perhaps there will be bats in your room at night. That might happen. It might even happen tonight. You can dream about it when you go to sleep. Bats have tiny sharp teeth. Sometimes they’re rabid. I wonder what will happen when a bat is dropped into your bed? It takes almost a year for rabies to develop, and all the while you can wonder if that’s how you’ll die, rigid as a corpse, frothing at the mouth.”

  “I won’t tell her. I won’t.” Twila was sobbing now, hiccuping and crying.

  “Or a spider might get into one of your drawers. It could be a daddy longlegs. But it might be a brown recluse.”

  Her hand shaking, Stephanie reached out, banged against the door, yanked it open. She strode into her office, thrusting out her hand. “Give me your keys, J. J. You’re fired.”