Engaged to Die

by Carolyn Hart

  J. J. whirled toward them, his brown eyes feral. His glance moved past Stephanie, settled on Annie.

  Annie hated the look. It was as nasty as flipping over a flagstone and seeing slugs.

  “Your keys.” Stephanie held out her hand, her face set and determined.

  Slowly, like a snake easing over a bank, his hand went into his pocket. He pulled out the ring of keys. Snakes can jump, fast. His arm flashed and the keys flew toward Annie.

  Her hand rose. The keys, sharp and hard and painful, struck her arm.

  Brown took a step toward the connecting office, his big hands clamped into fists.

  “Get out. Or I’ll call the police.” Stephanie strode to her desk, grabbed up the phone.

  Brown rocked back and forth on his feet and stared toward the open door to the connecting office, the open door and Annie standing there. His moon face was heavy with fury. The words to Annie were a high silky whisper. “You’re going to pay, lady.”

  Three

  ANNIE TOOK A DEEP BREATH, delighting in the swirl of fumes from beer on tap, sawdust-sprinkled wooden floors, live bait bobbing in salt-crusted barrels, chicken necks in battered coolers, and hot grease. Annie loved Parotti’s, the island’s oldest restaurant and bait shop, a combination unsettling to squeamish tourists. Since Ben Parotti’s marriage, the restaurant wasn’t quite as down home as it used to be, though live bait was still available. The menu now included quiche as well as chitterlings, the decor chintz curtains as well as sawdust. Ben was close-shaven and natty in a blue blazer and flannel slacks, a far cry from his former bristly cheeks, long underwear top, and stained corduroy trousers. Annie never ceased to marvel at the power of a woman. Or maybe it was more accurate to applaud the power of love. In the earlier days, Ben might have looked like a grouchy leprechaun, but actually he was a man waiting to fall in love with the right woman. In a moment, Ben himself would serve their table, bringing Annie a superdeluxe bowl of chili and Max an equally big bowl of catfish stew. Jalapeños and corn kernels studded the faintly sweet corn muffins. Annie picked up a muffin, warm from the oven, slathered it with real butter, and took a big bite. “Hmmm.” Sparks danced among the logs burning in the huge stone fireplace. Only a few tables were taken, and all the customers were islanders. Not many vacationers came to Broward’s Rock in January, and the windswept beaches and chill mornings were a time of peace and renewal.

  Max sat across the initial-scarred wooden plank table, his eyes soft when he looked at her. Dear Max. His wavy blond hair curled a little more tightly in the winter mist. She thought him the handsomest man she’d ever known. And yes, he had strong and regular features and a stalwart chin and fjord blue eyes, but what made him handsome in her view was the character that shaped his face, the honor and steadfastness and courage and goodness.

  He grinned. “Love you, too.”

  She grinned in return. How wonderful to be able to look across a table without guile or caution or reserve. How wonderful to be loved. Annie reached out, grabbed his hand. “Oh, Max.” And she burst into tears.

  In an instant, he was around the table and beside her in the booth, his arm warm on her shoulders. “It’s okay, honey. Mrs. Foster’s okay now.”

  “Max,” tears edged down her cheeks, “it was hideous. She was terrified, sick with fear. It was awful.”

  Max’s arm tightened. “You got rid of Brown. He’s out of there. The locks are being changed right now. Stephanie Hammond’s not taking any chances. And all because of you.” He pulled out his handkerchief, gently wiped away the tears. “Come on, Annie”—he looked to his right—“Ben’s here and he’s got the best chili in the world.”

  She sniffed, took the handkerchief, scrubbed her eyes. “Outside of Texas.”

  As Max returned to his place, Ben slid the bowls across the planks, murmured to Max, “The missus under the weather?”

  Annie scooted out of the booth, hugged a startled Ben. “I’m fine, Ben. Coming here is the best tonic in the world.”

  “Always glad to have you.” Ben refilled Annie’s iced tea, which southerners drink all year round, and looked at Max’s tall frosted glass. “Another Bud Light?”

  “Sure.” Max added a dollop of hot sauce to the stew.

  Annie slid back into her seat and stirred the topping of grated cheese and steamed corn kernels into her chili.

  “Peace and quiet,” she said indistinctly through a big mouthful of chili. “That’s what I need. And happy faces. I’ve had enough drama to last me all year.” She brightened. “Rachel will be home pretty soon. I can’t believe how much I’ve missed her.” Annie’s teenage stepsister was in Florida with a friend and her family. “And Pudge gets back next week.” Annie’s father was making the island his home but he was often off island for a pleasure trip. His latest was a jaunt to Rio. “We’ll have a party. As far as I’m concerned, no more winter blahs.”

  Max laughed. “Annie, it’s only January.”

  “I’m not kidding.” Her tone was determined. “No more misery. When we get home, I’m going to read the latest Mary Daheim and laugh my head off and take a hot bath—”

  “And sundry other pleasures,” he murmured. He nodded thanks to Ben for the cold beer. Ben started to turn away.

  “—and I’m not going to let anything upset me. Or anybody.” She banged the table for emphasis and Ben swung back.

  “But if someone called, like Denise—” Max suddenly frowned, broke off.

  “No way, José. I’m going to have a happy afternoon and go to a champagne gala tonight in a beautiful new dress—oh, Max, you’ll love it—it doesn’t have a back—and I am going to have fun, fun, fun. No more angst.” Annie held up both hands, palms forward.

  Ben peered at them, shrugged, moved away.

  Annie picked up another muffin. “Poor Ben. I have him thoroughly confused.”

  “Calls,” Max muttered. He began to pat his pockets.

  “Damn, where’d I put it?”

  Annie’s knife was poised above the butter. “What’s wrong?”

  Max found a crumpled note in the inner pocket of his jacket, pulled it out. “I forgot to tell you about the phone calls from Chloe.”

  “Chloe? Speaking of angst”—Annie said wearily—

  “what now?”

  Max unfolded the sheet. “Three calls. In the first one, she apologizes for shutting down the store—”

  Annie’s head jerked up. On Friday afternoon? She looked around the big, sparsely occupied café. Okay, it was January. No big deal. Henny Brawley wouldn’t be pleased to find the store closed. Henny had planned to drop by this afternoon to pick up her latest order, Kathy Lynn Emerson’s Face Down Beneath the Eleanor Cross, Marlys Millhiser’s Killer Commute, and Katherine Hall Page’s The Body in the Cast. She’d call Henny and promise to bring the titles to the art exhibition tonight. Henny never missed a good party.

  “—but she said she had to hunt for him.” Max raised a blond brow. “She didn’t give a name, just said ‘him.’”

  Annie welcomed a jolt of the strong iced tea. “She doesn’t know his name.”

  “No name, but apparently she has a description. In her second call, she was excited, saying somebody told her they’d seen a guy in a golfer’s cap and argyle sweater out on Black Duck Road. I’m sorry to report”—Max’s tone was amused—“that the sighting apparently did not lead to her quarry. In the last call, she was discouraged, lots of sighs and sniffs and sad laments. She perked up at the end and said she’d see you tonight. She said she’d decided to come to the reception at the gallery because Mr. Mackey was so nice and besides you’d said most everybody on the island came to a free party and maybe he—with hopeful insistence on the pronoun—would be there, and besides the gallery was on Black Duck Road. She asked you to call her if you had any idea what she should do.”

  “Lordy,” Annie murmured.

  “What’s so special about this guy?” Max poured the Bud Light.

  “Oh, he’s some mysterious Lothario she met in
the fog on the harbor pier at midnight. She fell for him and thought they were having a great love affair. Most romantic of all”—Annie’s tone was dry—“they never gave each other their names. What price he’s married?” Annie spooned more chili. “Anyway, he didn’t show up last night and she’s trying to find him. I’d call and tell her to give it up, but she’s pretty determined. You’d think she would realize he can’t really be interested in her or he’d tell her who he is! Maybe she’ll be a little savvier the next time she meets a romantic stranger.” Annie pushed away the memory of Chloe’s young, unhappy face. Chloe might have fallen in love with the idea of falling in love, but that didn’t lessen the hurt. Annie almost reached for her cell phone, then steeled her resolve. She simply wasn’t going to listen to Chloe moan. The episode at Snug Harbor had definitely exceeded Annie’s daily quota for misery. If it weren’t for that, she’d almost certainly look for Chloe, help her in her search. But, darn it, it was time Chloe grew up a little bit. Mr. No-Name was clearly bad news. Besides, she’d see Chloe tonight at the gallery. Annie would make a special point to introduce her around. It would be an elegant party. Surely that would lift Chloe’s spirits.

  The house was almost two hundred years old. The two-story tabby structure, with wide verandahs on both the first and second floors, sat high on stuccoed brick arches. Nathaniel Neville had transformed it into an elegant art gallery. As his fortunes prospered in the heyday of the nineties, when the rich got infinitely richer and many of them chose to invest great sums in art works, Neville had built a huge and elegant Italian villa that was less than a five-minute walk through a live oak forest from the gallery.

  Max curved into the circular drive. “There probably isn’t a spot this close, but we’ll give it a try.”

  Japanese lanterns decorated both verandahs and dangled from the live oak trees. The lanterns were soft smudges of color in the fog. Through the uncurtained bay windows, Annie glimpsed men in tuxedos and women in winter gowns of silver lamé or black velvet or sparkling sequins on silk. The lighted windows were brilliant in the winter night, a welcome contrast to the patches of fog that hovered like dimly seen ghosts.

  Annie wriggled in anticipation. “Oh, Max, it looks like a great party. Mr. Mackey will be pleased.” She doubted the artist would be surprised at the success of the exhibition. Mackey had an air of confidence.

  Max eased his crimson Maserati around a parked SUV that bulged into the narrow road. Some people thought they could park any damn place they wanted. Max prided himself upon his live-and-let-live, equable manner—except for hogs who didn’t care whether their tasteless monstrosities of vehicles posed a hazard to others. He winced as his right fender cleared the back bumper of the SUV by perhaps a thousandth of an inch.

  Without a word, Annie patted the tensed back of his hand soothingly.

  He took a deep breath as the car eased past. “I’ll drop you off and go back and park.”

  “Golly, everybody on the island must have come if the big lot over that way”—she gestured to her left—

  “is already full. Let’s go back to the main road. There was a side entrance just before we got to the circular driveway.” Annie peered out into the fog.

  Max regained the main road and retraced their path.

  Annie held up a hand. “Slow down a little. Okay, turn here.”

  Max swung to the left behind a grove of pines. The serpentine lane angled away from the massive trees. Abruptly, they left behind the sound and glow of the party. He drove slowly. “Are you sure?” The road meandered, curving back in the direction of the gallery.

  “This comes out near the kitchen of the gallery. The Friends of the Library had a luncheon here over Christmas, and I helped set up the tables.” She pointed ahead.

  “There. We can park by the catering van.” There were only a few cars parked in the lot, and they probably belonged to the caterer’s wait staff.

  Annie popped out of the car and pointed at a flag-stone path. “That goes along the side of the house to the sidewalk in front.” She led the way. Max carried the book bag with the titles for Henny. They passed windows blazing with light, and once again there were the sounds of a party, voices and music. They reached the front yard and turned to their right, hurried up the moist wooden steps of the front porch, and stepped inside to noise and movement and color. A huge Christmas tree still glittered in the center of the spacious hallway. Great ropes of evergreen with huge red bows scalloped the cornices. Light cascaded from two magnificent chandeliers, one in the entry hall, one beyond a keystone arch that separated the entryway from the stair hall. A string quartet on the landing of the mahogany staircase played Pachelbel’s Canon in D. Rush matting was laid to protect the heart pine floors. Paintings hung in the hallway and in the rooms that opened to either side.

  Carl Neville stood just inside the door. Smiling, he welcomed guests with a quick handshake and an expansive wave toward the exhibition rooms and the stairway leading upstairs. He wasn’t as imposing a man as his late father. Nathaniel Neville, hawk-faced and pencil thin, had dominated almost all gatherings. Slightly built Carl, his features pleasant but indeterminate, his manner diffident, scarcely made an impact on the guests sweeping inside. “Annie, Max. Good to see you. Great turnout tonight. Boston’s paintings are displayed down here and upstairs, too. And there’s a buffet….” He looked over Annie’s shoulder. “Hello, Vince. Great to see you….”

  Max turned to shake hands with Vince Ellis, editor and publisher of The Island Gazette.

  Annie gave a happy sigh. “I’ll take the books, Max, and see if I can find Henny.” She grabbed the book bag and plunged into the crowd. Everywhere, there was color—the women’s dresses, the paintings, the richness of crimson draperies. Annie caught a glimpse of herself in a long silver-framed mirror. Her black velvet dress with a plunging V neck and no back and cutout sides was surely one of the more dramatic dresses at the party. Was it too much? She straightened a rhinestone strap and smiled. Max liked it. She wandered from room to room where the paintings were displayed, greeting old friends, keeping an eye out for Henny, and admiring Boston Mackey’s bold talent. The paintings were superb, sunflowers that were outbursts of gold, a shadowy lagoon bounded by cypress, a time-blackened tombstone in an abandoned graveyard, old women plaiting baskets in the shade of live oaks, children laughing as sea foam swirled around a crumbling sand castle, a beautiful woman with an enigmatic smile, an oyster roast in high summer, geese in a magnificent V against a lowering fall sky, murky water swirling around a rotting pier.

  It was hard to hear over the roar of conversation. Annie had lost track of Max when he appeared at her elbow with a glass of wine. “Henny’s upstairs. I’ll take the books to her, then we’ll do the buffet. There’s chicken liver mousse and curried lamb balls. Be right back,” he shouted. Annie found a peaceful spot in an alcove and sipped the fruity chardonnay as she scanned the crowd. Carl Neville was still near the front door, welcoming guests. Boston Mackey, brown eyes gleaming, plump cheeks flaming, silver ponytail draped over one shoulder of his tuxedo, bent close to a beautiful young woman. Annie raised an amused eyebrow. Ah, the power of sex—

  A sardonic voice hissed in her ear. “You can sure spot the sore losers.”

  Annie jerked to face Edith Cummings. The island’s canny research librarian, who had a sharp eye for human foibles and a tongue to match, waggled a shrimp toward the cluster of people near the painting of a woman in white kneeling by a bed of crimson poppies. “Talk about looking daggers!” Edith’s dark eyes glinted with mischief.

  Annie knew that Edith wasn’t describing the figure in the painting, whose cool gaze was pensive and remote. A shaft of light from a wall sconce cast a bright swath over Irene Neville, elegant in a white lace jacket and white satin trousers, and her sister-in-law, Susan Neville Brandt, equally striking in an off-the-shoulder full-skirted dazzling red georgette. Irene’s compelling oval face made her husband, Carl, look even more ineffectual in comparison. At the moment, her
beauty was marred by narrowed eyes and a scowl that drew her black brows into a straight line. Susan, her fine-boned face uneasy, watched her sister-in-law. Susan looked much like Carl, smooth fair hair, severe features, weedy frame, but she held her head high. No one would term her ineffectual.

  Edith munched a celery stick. “Irene’s forgotten that pretty is as pretty does. Susan’s afraid Irene may dash the family’s hopes by telling Virginia to her face what a fool she is. It may happen,” Edith said hopefully. “Irene may let loose right here and now. Susan knows they’d better handle Virginia carefully. If they really offend her, she may spend all the money on her new husband.” Edith chortled. “What if Irene’s face freezes like that! Hmm. Maybe that would wake Carl up to the dangers of cuddling with an adder. Adders, yes. Also known as common vipers, though harboring a viper has always seemed highly uncommon to me….”

  Annie half listened to Edith’s malicious nonsense. She felt a chill. Not so much from Edith’s chatter, but from the reality of the repressed anger emanating from Irene Neville and Susan Brandt. Poor Virginia Neville. Annie didn’t know the woman, but she felt sorry for her.

  “…and Susan’s husband looks like a boiled pig about to explode….”

  Annie pressed her lips together to suppress a giggle. Edith didn’t need any encouragement, but her image certainly described Rusty Brandt’s choleric appearance, faded red hair, flushed cheeks, heavy frown. Either Rusty had drunk too much champagne, had rampant hypertension, or was teetering on the verge of a temper tantrum.

  “…Rusty’s a real jerk. I’ve always liked Susan. You have to wonder”—Edith bent closer to Annie, dropping her voice—“if she knows he’s screwing around on her. I’ve seen him out with Beth Kelly. She teaches at the middle school. She’s really pretty, a creamy complexion and a sweet smile. Divorced. You’d think Beth would have better sense. But hey, women are always fools for men, and who knows that better than I? Speaking of fools, here’s Virginia now. Fur’s going to fly.”