by Carolyn Hart
“Yeah. What’s the problem?” He used the back of his hand to rub a heavy jowl. “She was crying. I asked her—just like you—if something was wrong.” He tugged at the bunched front of a stained apron. “She kept on running and didn’t say a word.”
Annie swung toward the path to the front of the house. “Did she go that way?”
“Yeah. What’s the deal?” He looked ready for action.
Annie didn’t want to embarrass Chloe. Besides, she was probably long gone. She must have parked along the road leading to the gallery. “Oh,” she said vaguely, “a lovers’ quarrel, I’m afraid. We’ll find her and see what we can do.”
The tension eased out of his big body. “Okay. Let me know if you need any help.” He turned back to his cart, hefted a bin.
Annie walked toward the front of the house, calling out, “Chloe? Chloe, where are you?”
Max pulled out his car keys. “I’ll get a flashlight from the car.”
Annie was halfway down the front drive, calling Chloe’s name and pausing to listen, when Max caught up with her. They stopped at the foot of the drive.
Max swung the light back and forth, but silvery fog swathed the trees, turned the night to cotton. “Annie, if she’s out there, she doesn’t want to see us. She’s probably halfway home right now. I don’t think there’s anything you can do tonight.” The beam danced against cars, poked into low-hanging fog in the live oak branches, startled a raccoon who jerked his masked face toward them.
Annie felt stymied. But maybe this was best. Chloe obviously had discovered the perfidy of her romantic stranger. Let her run away and deal with her hurt in private. Annie turned back toward the house. “I’d like to punch him in the nose.”
“Oh, what goes around comes around.” Max’s voice was easy. “Hey, I hear trumpets.” He glanced at the luminous dial of his watch. “It’s ten after. I’ll bet the program’s started. Let’s put this”—he waggled the flashlight—“back in the car and go see.”
The sweet scent of evergreen filled the tent. The swags made a deep green contrast to the strings of red and pink and yellow lights. Almost every chair was taken. Despite the dim lighting, the contrast between black tuxedos and vivid gowns was dramatic. Sharp white spotlights threw the low stage at the far end of the tent into bright relief. A beaming Boston Mackey stood by an easel. The painting on display glowed with color, splashes of orange and lime and red. Carl Neville, his thin cheeks flushed with excitement, hurried toward the platform and up the steps. At a podium, he grabbed the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Neville Gallery’s celebration of the work of our wonderful Low Country artist Boston Mackey.”
Cheers and applause. Mackey puffed like a pleased pouter pigeon.
Carl’s pale face was tinged with pink. “This is an honor both to our island and to the Neville Gallery. Please welcome Boston Mackey.”
Applause boomed. Neville handed the microphone to the artist, then stood to one side, clapping vigorously. As Mackey moved forward, Neville joined his wife beside the platform.
The artist looked like a man who had enjoyed the party, hair mussed, tie undone, jacket hanging open.
Annie stood on tiptoe and whispered to Max. “Is that confetti in his beard? Or lipstick?”
Max laughed. “I doubt it’s confetti.”
Oblivious to the pink smudge in his close-cropped white beard, Mackey stood at the edge of the platform. His voice rolled out to the audience. “Ladies and gentlemen, it is a pleasure to be with you tonight….”
Ranged in a semicircle behind the platform were some members of the Neville family. Irene Neville, laughing, held a champagne glass aloft. Susan Brandt’s fair hair rippled as she pumped her fists in excitement. A thin, dark-haired woman nodded, her solemn face softened by a smile. Annie plucked a name from memory: Louise Neville, old Nathaniel’s sister. Louise’s smile slipped away as Virginia Neville hurried to her side and tugged on her sleeve. Virginia bent close, whispered. Louise shook her head, held a finger to her lips, and nodded toward the platform as if reminding Virginia that their guest was speaking and Virginia’s attention was required. Virginia clasped her hands, stared at Mackey, but every so often, as if she were a puppet jerked by a string, her head swung toward the back entrance to the tent. She looked forlorn, like a child invited to a party only to find the door barred.
“…hope all of you filled out a slip for the drawing. Before our gracious hostess”—Mackey waved the microphone toward Virginia—“pulls out the winner, I want to introduce Harrison Beaumont. Everyone on the island knows Dr. Beaumont, but I want to take this opportunity to let you show your appreciation for his generosity to the Broward’s Rock Art Museum. Dr. Beaumont…”
Virginia Neville took a final desperate look at the back entrance, then slowly turned back to the platform. Her face held no trace of the joy that had transformed the gentle features earlier in the evening, adding a saucy flush to her thin cheeks. She looked irresolute, uncertain. One hand plucked at the silver diamond-studded butterfly that hung from an ornate silver chain. She kept glancing toward the flap. Once, she shaded her eyes from the stark light on the platform and looked out at the crowd, her gaze searching.
“…know you want to give a rousing cheer for Dr. Beaumont in gratitude for his gift of my great blue heron mural to the museum.”
The response was thunderous—clapping, cheers, whistles.
Dr. Beaumont, an orthopedic surgeon with a cue ball head and a pianist’s hands, thudded on stage. “My pleasure. Now everyone on the island can enjoy your work….”
The flap to the back entrance moved. Virginia Neville’s face lighted. She bent forward eagerly when a tuxedo-clad arm appeared. The flap was thrust aside. Rusty Brandt stepped inside. He looked warily toward his wife and sister-in-law, but both seemed absorbed in Dr. Beaumont’s accolade to Boston Mackey. Brandt hurried toward the back of the platform. Virginia Neville’s face sagged in disappointment.
On stage the two big men clapped each other heartily on the shoulders, exchanged shouts, and Dr. Beaumont bounded off the stage.
Annie scarcely heard the huzzahs and hurrahs. She was still watching Virginia Neville. The older woman’s hands twined together, twisting, twisting.
“And now”—Boston’s cheerful face glistened with sweat and glowed with bonhomie—“it is a delight to me and to everyone here to call forth our lovely hostess—Virginia Neville. Virginia stands now at the helm of the good ship Neville Gallery and she is carrying on in the fine tradition….”
Annie was not, she always insisted, prone to presentiments, that convenient foreboding so beloved of gothic authors from Mary Roberts Rinehart to Mary Stewart, but she could read the writing on the wall as fast as anybody. In a flash she mixed it all together—the planned announcement of Virginia Neville’s engagement to Jake O’Neill, Chloe’s arrival at the gallery, her distraught departure from the gallery gardens, Virginia’s questing glances—and exclaimed, “Max, Jake O’Neill hasn’t shown up. He’s supposed to be here.” Annie flung out her hand. “I don’t see him anywhere.”
Annie continued to look, but every second that passed made her surer than ever that O’Neill was standing up Virginia Neville. How could he do such a cruel thing? But how could he make love to Chloe in the fog when he was engaged to another woman?
Annie’s heart went out to the slender woman walking up the platform steps, one hand holding the skirt of her lovely silver dress, the dress she’d bought to wear on the night her engagement was to be announced. Virginia moved as if her legs were heavy. She paused, gave one more sweeping glance the length of the tent. Her shoulders slumped, but she held her head high and came onto the stage. She tried to smile as she reached for the microphone. The effect was ghastly, the misery in her face only made more apparent.
“Thank you, Boston.” Her voice wavered. “I want to welcome everyone to the Neville Gallery’s celebration of Boston Mackey’s wonderful paintings. I want to thank Boston”—her voice steadied, grew a
little stronger—“for his generosity.” She bent her head toward the vivid painting on the easel.
Boston Mackey gave a modest aw-shucks shrug, tugged at an ear lobe. He never looked toward Virginia. Carl Neville hurried up the steps, holding a rounded fish bowl filled with pieces of paper. He bustled to Virginia. “Here are the slips.”
Virginia plunged one hand deep into the mound, brought up a pink slip. “Our winner tonight”—her voice was thin and stiff—“is Sally Morrison.” She held the slip high.
An excited squeal came from a row near the front and a heavyset woman in orange clambered to her feet. “I won. I won!”
Virginia handed the microphone to Carl. The gallery director’s face creased into a puzzled frown as his father’s widow walked away.
The artist picked up the painting, carried it forward. After helping the winner to her seat, the painting cradled in her arms, Boston returned to the platform. He stopped beside Carl. “Hey, it’s time for the big announcement. Where’s Virginia going?” He turned toward the audience, face cheery, voice booming. “Don’t go way, folks. The show’s just beginning.” He strode after Virginia. “Come on, Virginia. It’s no time to be shy. Everybody loves lovers. This is your big moment. Where’s Jake?” His big head swung around. “Come on, Jake. Get up here.”
Annie gripped Max’s arm. “Oh, God, he’s so full of himself. If he’d just look at her…” Mackey’s every word was a blow to Virginia Neville. She stood frozen at the platform steps.
Still smiling, self-absorbed, a sponge for attention, Boston grabbed Virginia and pulled her to the center of the stage. “Okay, now.” He looked out at the audience. “Where’s Jake?”
“Jake.” Virginia spoke his name in a whisper. She licked her lips. “He’s…he’ll be here in a few minutes. I know he will. And then we’ll—” She looked small and defenseless. “But for now, please, it’s time to dance. Come on, everyone.” She gestured toward the crowd. “If you’ll move toward the walls of the tent, the staff will pick up the chairs. The band is almost ready to play.” Behind her on the platform, the musicians were setting up. “Please, everyone have a good time.”
Annie grabbed Max’s hand and pulled him outside. She exploded. “Max, we’re going to find that jerk and drag him here by the scruff of his neck.”
“Annie.” Max combined warning, understanding, admiration, and exasperation.
Annie threw up her hands. She knew her threat was nonsense. She had no place in Virginia Neville’s heartbreak. She scarcely knew the woman. But she knew Chloe, who had gripped her hands and pulled her into a rollicking dance because she was in love. All right. O’Neill was a stranger to Annie, and there was no reason he should care a whit what Annie thought or said. So that was that. But the party was over as far as Annie was concerned. How could she and Max whirl around a dance floor (and, oh, how Max loved to dance, especially a slow foxtrot. Annie knew music wasn’t the attraction, but hey, it was nice to be wanted) having fun, happy and in love, always and ever in love, and know that within arm’s reach was a broken-hearted woman waiting for a man who wasn’t coming? Nope, Annie wanted to go home and leave behind the memory of Virginia Neville’s stricken face. “Come on, Max. Let’s go.” She swung away and headed out into the foggy night. Max caught up with her. “Stardust” lilted from the tent.
They were almost to the gallery when a siren wailed. The sound rose, increased, filled the night. Abruptly, the shrill shriek cut off. Whirling red lights flickered from the service area behind the pines.
Annie stared at the irregular pattern made by the lights. Okay, there’d been a siren. Sirens were designed to capture attention. They didn’t always signal disaster. Maybe it was too many shocks in one day, but Annie felt a sharp flicker of fear. She started to run.
Four
HEADLIGHTS FROM THE POLICE CRUISER illuminated the service area. In the harsh glare, the chunky tough-faced caterer gestured wildly to the island’s acting police chief. Billy Cameron leaned forward, one hand resting on the butt of his holstered gun, the other gripping a powerful flashlight. Billy had been part of the island police force ever since Annie moved to the island. He’d worked for Chief Saulter until Saulter’s retirement and served as a sergeant to the island’s new chief, Pete Garrett. When Pete’s reserve unit was called up, Billy was named interim chief. He was well liked, a hometown boy familiar to most islanders from school or sports or church. Big, athletic, energetic, and good-hearted, Billy took his new duties very seriously. He listened intently, though his eyes checked out the shadows, as the caterer talked fast and pointed toward the pines and the path leading to the gardens. The whirling red light atop the cruiser continued to flash.
“The body’s down by the old fort, Billy. I can show you the way.” Tony’s voice was high and excited and he gulped for breath. “Lots of blood. The back of his head’s bashed in. I may have seen the woman who did it. Come on.” He turned but came to a stop when he saw Annie and Max. He pointed at Annie. “Hey, Annie came running this way, too. Three women raced this way tonight. Annie said the first girl was running from some kind of lovers’ bust-up. I thought it sounded fishy.” His glance at Annie was questioning. “Anyway, the last one—Beth Kelly, she teaches at the middle school—ran past me a few minutes ago. I thought, what the hell, something’s going on out there. I decided to take a look. I grabbed a flashlight from the van”—he held up a large black flashlight, the beam pointed skyward—“and hustled.” He glared at Max. “Women running for help and nobody giving them the time of day. Yeah, Annie was one of them.”
Billy strode up to Annie and Max. They blinked against the glare of his flashlight. Billy’s thatch of blond hair looked hastily combed. He’d dressed hurriedly and his uniform shirt was misbuttoned. “What’s going on here?” He lowered the flashlight so they weren’t blinded, but he had a good look at them. His glance at Max was puzzled. “Somebody bother Annie?”
“No.” Max’s answer was crisp. “We heard the siren and came to see what was happening. Earlier, Annie saw a girl coming this way and we tried to catch her.”
Billy’s face furrowed. “You don’t know anything about a body?”
Behind them came a sharp gasp. “A body? Dear God, what has happened?” Virginia Neville’s voice was sharp and worried. She looked anxiously at Billy. “Officer, I came to the house and someone told me they’d heard a siren. We looked out and I saw the flashing light.” She gave a trembling sigh. “What else can go wrong tonight? This is the most dreadful night I’ve ever…” Her voice trailed away. She folded her thin hands into tight fists. “I hope it’s not a fire. But there’s no smoke….” She glanced toward the police car. “You said there’s a body. Has someone been hurt? Has an ambulance been called? Please, what is the matter?”
Billy looked harried. “Ma’am, I’m responding to a nine-one-one. If you and these folks”—he jerked his head toward Annie and Max—“will wait inside, I’ll investigate.”
“Where is the person? Who is it?” Virginia Neville swung toward the front of the house. “Is it a car accident? Oh, dear heaven, was someone struck by a car?” She pressed her hands against her cheeks. “Nathaniel always worried about evening events. People don’t see well at night, and they drive too fast.”
The caterer moved heavily toward her. “Mrs. Neville, you better go inside like Captain Cameron said. I’ll take him down to the point. That’s where the body is. And an ambulance won’t do no good. He’s dead as can be. His head’s bashed in. And there’s been women,” he said darkly, “running here and there all night.”
Virginia said uncertainly, “Tony, are you sure there’s been a death? Maybe someone’s hurt. Strange things happen at the point. We’ve heard that people buy drugs there late at night. I wish we could put up a fence, but it’s a historic site. I suppose someone had a fight down there. Anyway”—her relief was evident—“it can’t have anything to do with us.” Her mouth opened in a round O. “Oh, officer, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound callous. But none of ou
r guests would have any reason to go down there. The reception was in the house, and our program is in a tent in the north parking lot. It’s too chilly and foggy for a walk. I don’t mean to hold you up. I’ll go in the house and wait, as you suggested.” She tried to smile at Annie and Max.
“Would you like to come with me? We don’t want to delay the officer.” She turned toward the walkway, her voice faint and querulous. “I’m sure I don’t know what to do. If only Jake were here…I’d better find Carl. It’s always better to have a man.” She stumbled to a stop, flung out her hand toward several cars. “Oh, look, look!”
There was an instant of shocked silence. The caterer swung his big flashlight toward the cars. Billy bounded to her side, unsnapping his holster, flashlight beam bouncing. “What’s wrong, ma’am?”
Hands outstretched, Virginia walked toward a battered black VW, an old one with running boards. Her fingers tangled in a raccoon tail that hung from the radio antenna. “Jake’s car. I thought he’d left. How can his car be here and I can’t find him anywhere?” Slowly, she turned and walked toward the caterer. She reached out, gripped one massive forearm. “Tony,” her voice wobbled, “I know I’m being silly. It can’t be anyone I know. I’m just upset. You see”—her voice was high and thin—“I’ve looked everywhere for Jake. But not down there. There’d be no reason for him to go down there. Oh, God, Tony, it isn’t Jake, is it? You’d have said if it was Jake.” Her voice cracked. “It can’t be Jake. He got sick. That’s what happened. He got sick and went home and he’ll call me…. But his car’s here. Somebody could have taken him home. Tony, tell me!”
The caterer’s heavy brows knotted in a frown. “Mrs. Neville, I don’t know who it is. All I saw was a guy sprawled facedown, the back of his head cracked in. That’s all I saw.” He rubbed his cheek with his fist. “But he had on a tuxedo.”
“A tuxedo.” Virginia wavered on her feet. “Someone who was here tonight…”
