Engaged to Die

by Carolyn Hart

The family members ranged in a semicircle near the fireplace. Carl Neville rubbed his temple. Irene Neville’s lovely face was expressionless, but her golden eyes watched avidly. Susan Brandt, pale and grim, clutched at her throat. Rusty Brandt, reddish face strained, tugged at his collar, pulling his bow tie askew. Louise Neville, her black shawl trailing over one arm onto the floor, was as still and stiff as the Sèvres figurine of a soldier of Napoleon’s army on the white marble mantel.

  Tony Hasty, his caterer’s apron sagging, leaned against a wing chair. An unlit cigar stuck from the side of his mouth. It wobbled as he worked it with his teeth. Edith Cummings, her gamin face squeezed in commiseration, hunched forward on a settee. She looked solemnly toward Virginia, but she waggled her fingers in a clandestine greeting to Annie. Serious, intense, hardworking Pamela Potts sat primly in a Sheraton chair. Her blue brocade evening dress was high-necked, long, and generally shapeless. Pamela was active in almost every charitable endeavor on the island and quite often recruited Annie as a volunteer. Pamela made little bleating sounds and her huge blue eyes filled with tears. Henny Brawley, still carrying the book bag with the new titles, was as attentive as a raccoon and, Annie knew, just as inquisitive. Annie wondered cynically whether Henny, who claimed to read a mystery a day, actually knew anything that might be helpful to the police or whether she had been unable to resist the temptation to be in on a murder investigation.

  Carl stepped forward, his manner diffident, his gentle face pained. “Virginia, I’m terribly sorry. We’re shocked, all of us. If there’s anything we can do—anything I can do…” His voice trailed away.

  Virginia brushed back a drooping strand of hair. “No one knows what happened.” Her voice was dull. The blush on her cheeks stood out against her paleness. “Someone”—she looked vaguely toward Tony Hasty—“said some girl came running up from the ruins.” She pressed trembling fingers against her lips, struggled, managed to speak. “The police want us to help them.” She glanced at Annie. “If you will tell them…” She turned away, walked blindly to a chair near the fireplace, sank onto a hand-crocheted throw.

  Annie held up a clutch of pens in one hand and white sheets of printer paper in the other. “The police have requested that everyone describe their evening, what they did, who they talked to, and especially any contact with Jake O’Neill. Try to estimate the time when you saw or spoke to him. If there is any other information that might aid the investigation—any personal knowledge of Jake O’Neill—please include it in the statement.”

  Pamela Potts raised her hand, her eyes wide.

  Annie was not surprised that Pamela had a question. “Yes?”

  “Annie, I wish it to be clear that I am not aware of anything that pertains directly to Mr. O’Neill’s activities this evening. Oh, he was really so nice.” Pamela’s voice was soft. “He did a portrait of my dog, Whistler, and you can see that Whistler is smiling.”

  Annie moved from person to person, handing out pen and paper. Annie’s memory of Pamela’s dog was of a yapping terrier who seemed to be all eyes and teeth and had about as much charm as a piranha.

  Pamela gave a mournful sigh. “To see the end of so much talent…” She wiped away a tear. “But Max asked that anyone with information that might suggest something of Mr. O’Neill’s involvements with—”

  “Write it down, Pamela,” Annie said gently.

  Irene’s eyes narrowed. She glanced at the grandfather clock near the wide doorway to the hall. “Jake got here a few minutes after seven. I saw him with Virginia. Then, like a good boy”—her tone was sardonic—“he started schmoozing the guests. I expect Virginia had given him his orders.”

  Virginia’s face twisted in anguish. “I asked him to assume his proper role. After all, as my husband…” She lifted a handkerchief to her lips. “If only I’d kept him near me. But he loved talking with people. That’s the last I saw of him. He was smiling and laughing. Everyone liked Jake.”

  “Whatever anyone saw of him will be helpful,” Annie said quickly. “Or if anyone knows why he went down to the point…” She looked inquiringly from face to face. When no one spoke, she said firmly,

  “Let’s get started. The police should be up soon.”

  There was the scratching of pens on paper, an occasional cough or rustle. Annie stared at her sheet. Ultimately she would have to tell Billy Cameron about Chloe and Jake. But there was so much more to Chloe than her romantic interlude with a stranger on the pier. How could Annie make Billy see the vibrant girl who loved to laugh, who held children spellbound when she read aloud at the Saturday morning children’s mystery program? Annie was certain that the Chloe she knew, the Chloe with whom she’d laughed and talked and worked, would no more strike down a living person than would Annie herself. Annie sighed. There was not space enough on the sheet of paper or time enough to tell Billy what she knew about Chloe. She was tempted to write down how Chloe helped at the Christmas party at The Haven, the island’s recreation center for children and teenagers. When a little girl came late and hesitated in the hall, not wanting to come in because she didn’t have a present to put under the tree, Chloe had slipped off a turquoise bracelet and insisted the girl take it and wrap it in Chloe’s scarf and come in to the party. But if she told about that Chloe, wasn’t she duty bound to tell about the Chloe who had fallen in love with a stranger in the fog?

  Annie decided to stick to a brief description of what she had seen tonight. That wasn’t much, a briefly glimpsed running figure that may have come from the point. Annie’s hand tightened on the pen. Why had Chloe run? If only she knew the answer. To run implies urgency or fear or—undeniably—an effort to escape. Chloe. Where was she? Annie took a deep breath, laid down her paper and pen. She quietly stepped toward Virginia Neville, bent down and whispered, “I’ll be right back.”

  On shore, Frank Saulter played the beam from his heavy-duty flashlight over the edge of the bluff, illuminating the big chunks of reddish rock that littered the coast.

  Max shielded his eyes from the light and balanced atop a wide concrete barrier, now crusted with oyster shells. The barrier had been put in place in hopes of preventing further erosion, but the cliffs continued to crumble, a foot or so every year. Seawater lapped near the top of the barrier, surged around boulders, splashed against the base of the fifteen-foot bluff. Max yelled over the sound of the incoming tide, “If somebody threw the weapon down here, we’ll have a hell of a time finding it.”

  Above him, Frank picked up a chunky stick. He lifted his arm, threw. A geyser of foam lifted as the branch struck the dark water and disappeared.

  Max looked, didn’t even see a ripple marking the spot where the stick had disappeared. He walked back along the barrier, reached up, and climbed back onto the observation platform to join Frank. Max glanced toward the body. Lou was slow and careful. He hadn’t found anything that appeared to have been used as a weapon. A search of the gardens in daylight might turn up something, but Dr. Burford had probably made a good guess. After striking O’Neill, the killer could easily have tossed the weapon into the water. With the tide coming in, the stick would be washed clean.

  Max jammed his hands in his trousers. “A thick branch.” His tone was thoughtful. “There are plenty of them left over from the last storm. Lots of them a foot or a foot and a half in length. Like staves. Perfectly good weapons right here at hand. But hey”—his voice was eager—“grabbing up a branch and striking out means the murder wasn’t planned.”

  Frank swung the beam of light back to the body. “So we have to find out what the guy could have said or done that made somebody grab a branch and smash him in the back of the head.”

  Footsteps scuffed pine needles, clattered down the steps to the deck. Billy reached them, notebook in hand. “Okay, Max, fill me in on this girl Annie saw. A friend of Annie’s?”

  In the library, Annie found the telephone directory. Chloe was staying with her aunt and uncle. Smith? Smithers? Smitt? No, Schmidt. Annie flipped to the Ss. There it was: Harold
and Frances Schmidt. Annie glanced at the Dresden clock on a side table near the sofa. Almost eleven. Was it too late to call? Perhaps so, if it were an ordinary evening. This was not an ordinary evening. She reached for the receiver, paused. Slowly, her hand dropped. She couldn’t pretend ignorance. Billy Cameron may not have deputized her as he had Max, but Annie knew police procedure. Billy would want to talk to Chloe without warning. It was important for him to do so.

  Annie traced a finger across the top of the telephone receiver. She couldn’t call Chloe. If Chloe was innocent, as Annie felt certain she was, it would be better that she learn of O’Neill’s murder from the police. In fact, if Chloe was forewarned, her reaction as an innocent person would be lost. But Annie hated thinking of the terrible shock that awaited Chloe. It was dreadful to know that she would soon receive devastating news and not to be able to help her.

  Billy Cameron or perhaps Lou Pirelli might be on the way right this minute to speak to Chloe. There wasn’t anything Annie could do about that. Okay. Morning would come. She’d call Chloe first thing, let her know that Annie was her champion.

  Annie cast a final regretful look at the telephone, then turned away and opened the door into the hall. Her footsteps seemed inordinately loud on the heart pine floor of the foyer, but no one gave her any notice when she stepped into the drawing room.

  She picked up her sheet of paper from the end table near Virginia. She stared at the paper, then wrote quickly. She’d barely finished when Max came in. As always, Annie thought him the most attractive man in the room, even though his hair was mussed by the ocean breeze and his tuxedo trousers damp and mud-smeared. He carried a plastic bag in his hand and scanned the room until he found Rusty Brandt. He hesitated, then veered toward Annie.

  Max glanced around, spoke softly. “What are they doing?”

  “Statements. Where they were, what they saw, any information about O’Neill.” Annie spoke with quiet pride.

  “That’s a good idea.” His tone was admiring. “When they finish, gather them up for Billy. He’s going to be up here pretty soon. He’s in a hurry to track down Chloe. Do you have a number for her?” He listened as she gave him the name of the aunt and uncle and repeated them to be certain. “Okay. I’ll tell him.” He looked around again. “I’d stay and take up the statements, but you can handle this.”

  Annie pressed her lips together. Why yes, she thought she could, even though she wasn’t a deputy, thank you very much.

  Max wasn’t through. “I’ve got a little job to take care of, then I have to get back to the crime van.” He patted her on the shoulder.

  In her heart Annie knew Max didn’t intend to be condescending, but to Annie’s sensibility his comment had a definite aura of the old-timer commending the neophyte. As he turned away, Annie drew the rear end of a donkey on her sheet of paper. Above it, she neatly printed in all caps: OFFICIOUS.

  Max walked across the room to Rusty Brandt.

  Brandt looked up. Abruptly, his face went rigid, his hand folded in a fist around his pen.

  Max looked at him somberly. “As part of the investigation into the death of Jake O’Neill, Chief Cameron is requesting your jacket so that it may undergo forensic tests.”

  Brandt stumbled to his feet. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Your tuxedo jacket.” Max’s face was hard and un-yielding. “I’ll give you a receipt for it.” Max held up the plastic bag. “The coat goes in here. I seal the bag.” He pulled a roll of tape from his pocket. “I tag it and deliver it to the crime lab.”

  “Rusty…” His wife was at his side. She clutched at his arm, then jerked her hand away.

  “Dammit, Susan, I spilled champagne on it.” His voice was deep and husky. “That’s all. Champagne.”

  “Then it won’t be a problem, will it?” Max spread open the bag.

  Dragging footsteps sounded. Virginia stopped beside Susan. “I don’t understand. Why do they want Rusty’s jacket?”

  Susan wrapped her arms tightly across the front of her crimson dress. “I don’t know.” Her voice was thin.

  “Or you can come with me, Brandt.” Max was brisk.

  “I am authorized to take you into custody as a material witness. Once you’re in jail, Chief Cameron can contact the judge for a search warrant and the jacket can be impounded.”

  Slowly, his face grim, Rusty shrugged out of the tuxedo coat. He pulled a slender wallet from an interior pocket before handing the jacket to Max. He frowned at the billfold, stuffed it in a back pocket of his trousers.

  Max folded the jacket and slid it into the plastic bag. He filled out a label, slipped it inside, sealed the bag, and taped it shut. He handed a receipt to Brandt, who crumpled it in his hand.

  “As you can see”—Max addressed the room at large—“the investigation into the murder of Jake O’Neill is progressing. The chief has requested that there be no public discussion of the evening’s events. Please complete your statements as to your whereabouts this evening and your contact with the victim as well as any information about O’Neill’s friends or enemies or any known quarrels or disagreements and turn them in to my wife. Chief Cameron will be here shortly to receive the statements and speak with you. Thank you.”

  On his way out, Max hesitated, then whispered to Annie, “The statements are a great idea, Annie. I’ll tell Billy you’re responsible.” Max looked at her searchingly. “I’m sure you realize the statements will be part of the official investigation.” It wasn’t quite a question.

  Annie resisted the impulse to reply that she’d had no idea such was the case and had believed them to be destined for recitation on the local news station. She made an indeterminate sound. It might have been a breathy oh yes. It might have been a more earthy expletive.

  He held her gaze. “Annie, promise me you won’t read them.”

  “Who, me?” Definitely breathy.

  “Annie.” His blue eyes were stern.

  She held up her right hand. “I do solemnly promise that I shall gather them up—and I shall not read them…”

  He grinned. “Good girl.”

  As he turned away, she added in her mind a qualifying phrase, “…right now.”

  Billy reached out for the plastic bag containing the tuxedo jacket. “Good work, Max.” He swung around. “Mavis?”

  His wife poked her head from the back of the crime van. “Yo.”

  Billy took the bag to her. “Mark this jacket to be tested for bloodstains and cross-checked with the victim’s blood.” He kneaded the side of his face with his knuckles. “That wraps up the physical evidence.” He glanced at the techs easing the body onto a gurney. “Frank, anything else you can think of?”

  The former chief carefully surveyed the scene. “Nope. You’ve done everything you can until tomorrow. I’ll come out and get some daytime photos, free you up to question witnesses.”

  “Good.” Billy looked toward his wife. “Mavis, you and Lou can leave now. Take the van back to the station.” He frowned. “I know it’s late, but you better take the exhibits inside, lock ’em up.”

  Max knew he was remembering an episode when the island’s crime van was torched.

  “I’ll take care of everything, Billy.” Lou clapped shut his notebook. “Mavis can go on home.”

  Mavis touched her husband’s arm. “Are you coming?”

  Billy shook his head. “Not for a while. Got to check out that girl. Chloe Martin.”

  Edith, of course, finished first. She looked up, flapped her sheet of paper at Annie.

  Annie sped across the drawing room. “Thanks, Edith.” Annie spoke loudly, hoping to prod the others. It reminded Annie of finals and the proctor eager to grab up the blue books. Sure enough, as soon as she took Edith’s statement, the others began to finish. In a moment, she had a full stack except for Virginia Neville, who huddled in a wing chair, staring blindly at the sheet of paper.

  Annie spoke gently. “Mrs. Neville, the chief will especially appreciate your help. If you could tr
y…”

  Virginia opened her hands, palms up. “I can’t. I’m sorry. I can’t think. All I can do is remember….” She shuddered.

  Carl rubbed his fingers over his bristly mustache. “Listen, Annie, Virginia shouldn’t have to be here, waiting to talk to the police.” He began with a mumble, then his voice strengthened. “Look at her. She’s devastated. She needs to be in bed. I’m going to call our doctor, get her a sedative. After all, what more can be done tonight? The police can talk to her tomorrow.”

  Henny Brawley rose, picked up her book bag. “Carl’s right. I for one am going home. I’ll talk to Billy tomorrow. You can explain, Annie. Everyone’s too tired to do any more tonight. Billy will understand. And obviously, no one here”—she glanced briefly at Rusty Brandt—“knows anything critical.”

  There was a flurry of movement toward the door.

  Annie didn’t try to stop them. It was after eleven. And she had their statements. But she angled across the room to intercept Henny. Annie whispered, “May I have the book bag. You can carry the books.”

  Henny gave her a sharp, inquiring glance. “Sure.” She slipped the books free, handed the bag to Annie, but held on to it for an instant. “Providing you tell me why tomorrow. I’ll give you a ring.”

  As soon as the front door slammed and there was quiet, except for the heavy steps of the caterer as he strode toward the back of the gallery, Annie whirled about, the book bag in one hand and the statements in the other. She darted across the hall and into the library. It took only a moment to feed the sheets into the fax machine. The fax paper, soft and limp and silent, oozed out. Annie took the copies, slipped them into the book bag.

  “Annie? Where are you? Where is everybody?” Max’s voice boomed in the hallway.

  Annie tossed the book bag onto a Louis XIV chair. Moving fast, she reached the desk just as the door opened. She held up the statements. “I was looking for a folder to put them in. When they were done, everyone wanted to go home. I hope that’s okay with Billy. But he’ll have these.” She waggled the sheets. “He’ll be prepared when he sees everyone tomorrow. Oh, Max, I feel so sorry for Virginia Neville. She looked like a wax doll that had been left out in the sun. Carl took her home. Anyway, I don’t know where they keep things.” She opened a cupboard behind the desk. “Here they are.” She picked up a bright orange folder from a stack and slid the sheets inside. “All present and accounted for. Except for Virginia. She wasn’t up to it.” Annie held out the folder to Max. “Unread, as promised.”