Engaged to Die

by Carolyn Hart

  Max took the folder, slid it under his arm. “Annie, I knew we could count on you.” He pulled his car keys out of his pocket, handed them to her. “I’m going with Billy to talk to Chloe Martin. See you later.”

  Dorothy L., green eyes bright, paced along the back of the sofa.

  Annie reached out for the fluffy white cat, but Dorothy L. eluded her grasp, flowing to the floor. She landed with a thump and moved toward the hallway. She stopped, sat, stared.

  “Your hero isn’t here.” Annie tried not to sound peevish. After all, just because it was Annie who had rescued Dorothy L. when she was abandoned as a helpless kitten in the alleyway behind Death on Demand and Annie who brought her home to be queen of the Darling household (and free from the unrelenting hostility of Agatha, the sleek black cat who had no doubt as to the true ownership of the bookstore) was no reason for Annie to have her feelings hurt because Dorothy L. adored Max. “Your hero,” Annie’s voice was cool, “is an officious ass.”

  Dorothy L. flicked her tail.

  “Sorry to be the one to break it to you, Dorothy L. I know you think he’s quite perfect.” Annie felt her lips curve in a smile. “I have to admit he means well. He’s just trying to help Billy, but he’s taking himself very seriously. Oh, I know,” she said to the cat, as if hearing an unspoken rebuke, “I’m always exhorting him to be serious, and now when he’s serious, I’m critical. Sure, I’m in the wrong.” Annie pulled the afghan over her legs. Despite her toasty candy-cane-pattern flannel pajamas and the crackling fire, she felt cold. Usually she and Max ended their winter evenings together on the sofa with thick, sweet, dark hot chocolate and half-finished sentences and gurgles of laughter, then arm in arm, still laughing, climbed the stairs to bed and the love poets dream about. Annie enjoyed the study, the beauty of the golden tan cypress panels, the bright jackets of books, the comfort of the downy blue sofa. But tonight the study was cheerless and the cocoa tasteless. She set the mug on a side table. She wanted to pop up and hurry into the kitchen. She’d dropped the book bag on a counter near the garage door, handy for her to pick up on her way to Death on Demand in the morning. She knew she’d better wait until tomorrow to read the copies of the statements. Tonight she could honestly meet Max’s questioning gaze. Of course she hadn’t read the statements. How could he even think it?

  Dorothy L. tilted her head, then rose, stretched, and trotted toward Annie. She jumped onto the sofa and plopped in Annie’s lap.

  Annie looked down. “Don’t think you’re fooling me. I know it’s just the afghan. If Max walked in—” She broke off. She knew and Dorothy L. knew that Max was Da Man. Annie smiled, even though the room was chilly and her thoughts grim.

  Her smile faded. Were Billy and Max talking now to Chloe? Poor Chloe, who had fallen in love with love only to discover that her knight of the night was a sham. Annie picked up Dorothy L., burrowed her face into the thick ruff. “I don’t care how mad she was at him”—Annie knew Chloe well enough to expect that her volatile clerk had erupted like a pent-up volcano when she realized her lover’s perfidy—“but she’ll be devastated to know he’s dead.” To know the lips she had tasted were forever stilled. To know the body that had been so warm was now forever cold. “Dorothy L., I feel awful. I should have called her. Well, no, I couldn’t. But I should have insisted on going with Max. She’s my friend and I’m not there. She doesn’t have anybody—”

  The phone rang.

  Annie grabbed up the portable phone, punched it on. “Hello.”

  “Annie.” His voice was pleased.

  All right, Max was an officious ass. But he was her officious ass. He must have realized she was desperately worried about Chloe. Annie was suffused with forgiving warmth. “Oh, Max, I’m so glad you called. How is Chloe? Is there anyone with her? Was Billy—”

  Max cut in quickly. “We need some help. This is an official call—”

  She sat bolt upright. Dorothy L. gave a startled mew and leaped to the floor. “Is Chloe all right? Max, what’s happened?”

  “…information as to her whereabouts.”

  “Max”—Annie popped to her feet, tossing the afghan aside—“what are you talking about?”

  “Chloe’s not here.” In the background, a car door slammed. “Apparently she came home around ten-thirty. Her aunt heard Chloe in her room and thought she was in for the night. Later, oh maybe a half hour or so, her aunt heard Chloe’s car leave. Mrs. Schmidt got worried and checked Chloe’s room. The bed was still made. A drawer or two were pulled open. Her high heels were kicked into a corner. Her slip was on a chair. Mrs. Schmidt was willing to let Billy and me take a look. We didn’t find that green dress anywhere. You said Edith described it as bright green?”

  Annie felt numb, but she replied, “That’s right. Kelly green.”

  “Yeah, well there wasn’t a green evening dress of any kind in her closet. Billy didn’t touch anything, but he looked around. Her aunt’s pretty sure Chloe changed clothes before she went out again. She says Chloe’s heavy pea jacket is gone from the coat tree in the front hall. She doesn’t have any idea where Chloe may have gone. She says Chloe doesn’t have any friends on the island. Billy wondered if you had any idea where she could be.”

  The Aztec blue pottery clock on the mantel chimed. Midnight. Midnight…Annie shivered. “Maybe…”

  Max spoke away from the receiver. “Yeah, Billy. Annie’s thinking.” He boomed in her ear. “Where do you think?”

  Annie remembered the gleam in Chloe’s green eyes and the eager words tumbling out so fast: “I go to the pier at midnight every night and he comes.”

  “Annie?”

  The clock finished chiming.

  “I have an idea. I’ll meet you and Billy at the police station in ten minutes.” She snapped off the phone. It was ringing by the time she reached the stairs. This time she didn’t answer. She ignored the peals while she dressed. In less than five minutes, she was out the door and on her way.

  Annie drove with the cell phone turned off. She had no doubt it would ring if she turned it on. She drove as fast as she dared on the dark, foggy roads, alert for deer and raccoons. She slowed as she passed the gate of the residential preserve and waved at the retired marine who was on duty at night.

  The island’s small downtown was dark. Even Parotti’s was closed, the facade dark, the red neon turned off. Annie pulled up behind the police car parked in front of the station. The one-story station overlooked the harbor. Tonight the fog hid the water. As she turned off her lights, Billy and Max piled out of the cruiser and strode toward her.

  Annie rolled down her window and folded her arms.

  “Now look, Annie”—Billy was tired, irritable, and peremptory—“if you know where she is, tell me. You didn’t need to come down here.”

  “Yes, I did.” Annie looked up at him. “I may be wrong, but I have an idea where she might be. Billy, let me come with you. I won’t say a word until you’ve told her. But she has a right to have somebody there when she finds out he’s dead. Billy, she thought she was in love with him.”

  Billy moved his head around on his neck, trying to ease tight muscles. “Annie, she may be a murder suspect.”

  Annie reached out, turned the key. The motor roared. “You and Max look for her. And so will I. If I find her…”

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute.” He gave an exasperated sigh. “Okay. But you have to keep your mouth shut.”

  The headlights diffused into a glow that was swallowed up by the fog. There was nothing ahead or behind but thick grayness. Annie nosed her car up to the concrete stanchion at the edge of the harbor. She grabbed her flashlight. When she got out of the car, it was as though nothing existed but impenetrable grayness.

  Annie heard the slam of car doors. In a moment, Max and Billy were there beside her.

  Billy was puzzled. “Why would she come here?” And suspicious. “Annie, this better not be some kind of joke. Nobody’s around. Everything’s closed down.”

  “The pier.”
She led the way. They missed it once, going too far and ending up on the ferry boat dock. They backtracked.

  Annie stepped onto the old wooden planks. She kept close to the railing, moving slowly. She swept the flashlight back and forth into cottony grayness that absorbed all light. The pier seemed endless in the fog. The hollow echo of their footsteps, the warning cry of the foghorn and the slap of water against the pilings merged into a mournful dirge. Annie shivered and knew the cold went deeper than the sodden January night. They came burdened by death to the place where life and blood had exulted in joy. At the end of the pier, Annie’s light touched a huddled figure.

  Chloe held up a hand to shield her eyes from the sharp white beam. Her freckled face was pale and strained, her eyes blurred by tears, her features flattened by fatigue, her dark red hair dampened by the mist. Suddenly her face lighted, disbelief warring with hope. She peered toward the lights. “Is it you?” She scrambled to her feet. The old navy pea coat looked heavy on her slim figure.

  “Miss Martin.” Billy’s voice was as somber as the night. He strode up to her, a big man who looked even bigger in contrast to the slender girl in the bulky coat.

  “I’m Billy Cameron, acting chief of police. You were at the Neville Gallery tonight. I have to ask you for an account of your evening.”

  “My evening?” Her voice was dull and tired, bewildered. She bent to look past him. “Annie? Is that you?”

  Annie stepped forward. “Chloe, I—”

  “Annie.” Billy’s tone was stern, unrelenting.

  Max slipped an arm around her shoulders, murmured, “Hold up. Billy’s got a job to do.”

  Annie took a deep breath, spread out her hands.

  Chloe smoothed back a tangle of damp red hair. She stared at Billy, her face puzzled and uneasy. “I don’t understand. The police? What do you want with me?”

  Billy was a foot from her. He lifted his flashlight and the beam struck Chloe squarely in the face. As she squinted against the glare, he threw out the words, sharp as knives cutting in a barroom brawl. “I am investigating the murder of Jacob Hendricks O’Neill.”

  Chloe looked utterly blank. “Jacob O’Neill?” Her tone was puzzled.

  Jacob Hendricks O’Neill…The name came from his driver’s license, no doubt. Billy would have checked the dead man’s pockets, taken his wallet.

  Annie stared at the girl and understood. “Oh, Chloe.” Annie tried to steel her voice. She had to tell Chloe, tell her the handsome young man in the golfer’s cap was dead. “Jake O’Neill, he’s the one you met here. On the pier.”

  Chloe’s pale face crumpled before their eyes.

  Annie tried to think about little facts, the smell of the ocean, the slap of water against the pilings, nonessential, unimportant information that didn’t stab her to the heart. Anything to avoid grappling with Chloe Martin’s pain.

  Chloe clutched at her throat, tried to speak, wavered unsteadily.

  Annie brushed past Billy, ignoring his call. She embraced Chloe, felt her tremble even through the heavy coat. “Chloe, oh, Chloe, I’m so sorry.”

  Chloe pulled free, lunged toward Billy. She grabbed his arm. “What did you say? You don’t mean him? You can’t. Not him. He can’t be dead.”

  Billy had on his cop face, suspicious, watchful, measuring. “You went down to the point with him tonight. You quarreled.”

  Chloe’s hand dropped. She stepped back until she pressed against the railing, her eyes wide and staring. She didn’t answer.

  “You were seen running away.” Billy kept the light on her face. “Why did you run?”

  “What happened to him?” Chloe’s voice was thin but steady.

  Billy hesitated, his face suspicious.

  “Tell me.” Her voice rose. “I have a right to know. What happened to him?” Her lips trembled. Tears spilled down her pale cheeks.

  Billy frowned. “The deceased died from blunt trauma. A blow to the head.”

  “Where was he…killed?” She pressed her fingers against her cheeks, bent forward to hear.

  “The body was found near the ruins of the old fort.” Billy was brisk, almost impatient. “Is that where you left him?”

  Her hands dropped. She lifted her head, stared at him.

  When she didn’t answer, Billy said sharply, “I want an accounting of your actions, Miss Martin, from the time you arrived at the Neville Gallery to the present moment.”

  “Why?” The word was a whisper of sound.

  Billy’s face was determined. “I understand you had”—there was a pause—“a romantic attachment—”

  Chloe looked at Annie. Her eyes accused. Her gaze held heartbreak and disappointment and recognition of betrayal.

  “—to Mr. O’Neill. I understand you did not know that his engagement to Mrs. Neville was to be announced at the party. I understand you came to the gallery and sought out Mr. O’Neill and that you and Mr. O’Neill left the gallery.” Billy looked grim. “You were next seen fleeing from the property. I must know what happened between you and Mr. O’Neill.”

  Chloe turned up the collar of the pea coat, held the rough wool against her cheek. “We went down to the point. I couldn’t believe it when he told me he was going to marry that woman. Why, she’s a lot older. I don’t know what I said. I was so angry, I turned and ran away. He called after me.” Her voice could scarcely be heard. “I heard him call, but it was too late.” The tears came fast now. “It was me he cared for. I knew it. But I couldn’t go back. He’d ruined everything. It was all over. I went home and took off my dress. I realized he had my stole but I didn’t care, not anymore.”

  “O’Neill had the stole.” Billy’s voice was gruff.

  “How come?”

  Annie knew the bloodstained taffeta was nestling inside a plastic bag and by now had been locked in the evidence room of the police station.

  Chloe struggled not to sob. “What difference does it make? Oh, who hit him? I don’t understand. He was fine when I left. I was so mad….”

  “Why were you mad?” Billy held up his notebook, his pen poised.

  Chloe pressed her fingers against her cheeks. “Maybe if I’d stayed…But he was going to marry her. How could he? That’s what I asked him. He said he had to, he’d promised. He said she was nice and they had fun together and he couldn’t just not show up. He said if he married her, he’d be set for life with a place for his paintings and lots of money. That’s when I turned and ran away. He grabbed at me, caught hold of my stole. I heard him call my name. But I kept on running.”

  The beam of Billy’s flashlight didn’t waver on her face. “Where’s the dress?”

  She stared at him blankly, coming back from her memory of the moment when her romantic dream had turned to ashes. Her lips trembled. “It was my happy dress. My best dress. I wore it because I had a feeling—oh, I was so sure—that I was going to find him at the party and that everything would be wonderful and he would be excited to see me. And then I found out.” She rocked back and forth, her face empty. “I ran away and went home. I took off my dress and I knew I’d never wear it again. I came here and I threw it into the water. I never wanted to see it again. Never, never, never.”

  “You threw it in the water.” Billy slapped shut his notebook. “Miss Martin, I’m taking you into custody as a material witness—”

  “Custody?” Her voice rose. Both hands gripped the lapels of her coat. “Do you mean you’ll put me in jail? Lock me up?” Terror twisted her face, bubbled in her voice. “I haven’t done anything.”

  Billy shoved his notebook into his pocket. “You were in the company of the deceased shortly before his death. The stole to your dress was found beneath his body, stained with his blood. You have admitted throwing the dress into the ocean. A thorough search will be made at daylight for the dress. A microscopic examination of fibers will determine if it is stained. You admit quarreling with O’Neill. There is sufficient evidence to hold you as a material witness. You will be permitted to make one telephone call.
Tomorrow, when you are represented by counsel, I will formally interview you.”

  “No. Oh, no.” She backed up, pressed against the railing. “Don’t lock me up. I can’t bear to be locked up.” Hysteria lifted her voice, made it shrill. Her thin face looked like old pudding.

  “Billy, please don’t do this.” Annie’s voice shook.

  “There isn’t any need. She can’t leave the island.”

  “Chief”—Max stepped close to Billy—“there’s no ferry until morning. The fog’s too thick for a boat.”

  Annie wanted to cry out. She knew Billy’s decision hung in the balance. But he couldn’t be pushed. Not Billy. Surely he saw how desperately upset Chloe was. How could Billy believe even for a moment that this distraught girl had battered a man to death?

  “Don’t lock me up.” Chloe shuddered. “Please.”

  Water slapped against the pilings, as insistent and unremitting as the thoughts Annie wished she could dismiss. Chloe admitted coming to the pier and throwing away her dress. No wonder Billy believed the worst. Yet Annie had no difficulty imagining how Chloe—dramatic, vulnerable, emotional Chloe—might focus her misery on a dress and determine to get rid of it. A woman would understand. But Billy would believe Chloe threw away the dress to hide bloodstains.

  As for the dress, had it been sucked away by the current or snagged on a boat or a log? Had it sunk to the harbor floor? Was it floating, a sodden mass of once beautiful taffeta, waiting for grappling hooks to haul it onto a boat and from there to a laboratory for testing? If there was blood on the dress…