Engaged to Die

by Carolyn Hart

  Billy’s matter-of-fact demeanor wavered for an instant. He looked at Virginia, his eyes dark with pity, his lips compressed. He cleared his throat. “Sorry, Mrs. Neville. I know this is hard for you. If you don’t want to remain, I’ll understand.”

  Virginia’s hand dropped to her necklace. Her fingers curled tightly around the silver butterfly. “No.” Her voice was faint but determined. “I have to know what happened.”

  “I’ll be as brief as I can.” Billy lifted a hand, gestured in the general direction of the point. “Martin and O’Neill made plans to meet at the point—”

  Rusty’s hands clamped on the side of his chair.

  Billy’s eyes slid over Rusty, moved to Susan. “—and we know that Elaine Hasty was looking out the window of the gallery kitchen. She saw Martin walk down that path. She saw O’Neill. She didn’t realize the significance of this until Mrs. Darling spoke with her on Saturday. At that time, Hasty refused to say whether she observed anyone else on the path. As it turns out—”

  Rusty’s shoulders bunched.

  “—two other persons are known to have visited the point. However, these individuals have been cleared of any connection to the crime. There has been some suggestion that there was yet another person at the scene, but I find that very unlikely.” Billy’s face hardened. “The prosecution will contend that Martin became enraged, that O’Neill gave up trying to reason with her and was leaving the point, and that Martin grabbed up a thick branch and ran up behind him and struck him down. She then fled the scene and was observed leaving the premises.”

  Annie jumped to her feet. She strode across the carpet, fetched up face-to-face with Billy. Her reflection joined his in the mirrors. Annie glared at him. Inside, she was focused on what she had to do and how she had to do it. There must be no suspicion that this had been prearranged. “I can’t sit here and listen to you make Chloe out to be a murderer. You aren’t telling the whole story. You know full well that she’s been drifting in and out of consciousness and everything she says makes it clear that Jake O’Neill was alive when she ran away and that someone else came toward him. She turned to go back and she caught a glimpse of something. I was sitting with her last night and I heard it myself.”

  Billy folded his arms, bent his big head forward. His face was set in a furious glower. The frown and his hulking stance made him look huge and overbearing in the mirrors. “Like you said, she comes and goes. But she damn sure knows she’s wanted for murder, so of course she’s going to spin a tale when she’s conscious. Anyway, none of what she said makes sense. No, she’s going to jail as soon as she’s well enough to be moved. As far as I’m concerned that will be tomorrow afternoon.”

  The thick canopy of the trees lessened the rain, but great dollops of water splashed down from the laden leaves. The bike tires turned the puddles on the asphalt path into geysers, but Annie felt warm and comfortable in her poncho and rubber boots. She tried to ignore the hard cold knot of fear deep within. Everything was going to be all right. Max and Billy would be hidden in an empty room next door.

  “Annie.” Max’s shout was urgent, imperative.

  She braked and her bike slewed.

  Max was past her, his bike blocking the path. He flung it down and was at her side. Two strong hands came out, gripped her arms through the plastic of the poncho. “Annie, for God’s sake, that other gun.” His voice was shaking.

  Despite the rain-smeared gloom in the forest preserve, Annie saw the fear that turned his eyes dark with pain.

  “What if the door opens and the gun goes off and there you are—” He broke off, swallowed, found it hard to breathe.

  “That would be stupid.” Annie didn’t think this murderer was stupid. “Think of the noise. People would be out in the hall in an instant. How could there be an escape? No, this will be quiet. We can count on that.” A pillow held over the face of an unconscious woman or medicine dropped into a glass and the glass held near with a soft murmur, “Drink this…” Not the gun.

  Surely not the gun.

  Max reached out, gently touched her cheek. “Have I ever”—his voice seemed to come from far away—“told you that I love you?”

  The rain-drenched trees pressed close to the earth. The air was heavy with moisture, dark as evening, though there were hours yet before night. But they stood in a circle of love, bright and warm and joyful as a summer sun.

  Annie took a deep breath. Her lips quivered, but her words were quick. “And I love you.” She reached up, clasped his hand, gave it a squeeze, then tugged. “Come on. Race you.” She nosed her bike past his, swung up to the seat, and pedaled fast, then faster. She’d made an appointment she had to keep.

  The bike rack behind the hospital was empty on this sodden January afternoon. They shoved their bikes into place and walked swiftly, unidentifiable and unremarkable in their sleek ponchos, toward the basement door. It was, as arranged, unlocked. They slipped inside.

  Billy was waiting, face grim, arms folded. As they shed their ponchos, slipped out of their boots, he said quietly, “Everything’s ready. Chloe Martin’s been moved to a room across the hall. At the desk she’s still listed in 224. Bob Winslow’s with her. He refuses to leave her, and he was damn suspicious about the switch. I finally had to explain.” Billy cleared his throat. “He asked me to tell you thanks. He’s offered to hide in the room with you. I told him we had everything taken care of.” A deep-drawn breath. “Annie, I’ve been thinking about it. The hell of it is, you could be right. I don’t think so. But if you are—”

  She smiled at him. “We’ll catch a murderer.”

  The IV taped to her arm, thankfully sans needle, felt odd, the bandage that masked one side of her face even more so, the fake cast on her leg cumbersome. The hospital gown offered little warmth in the clammy sheets. The room was quiet. Max was in the bathroom with the door ajar. He’d refused at the last minute to budge from the room, insisted he could hide in the bath or closet. She’d pointed out that there might be a quick search of the room. He’d pointed out he didn’t give a damn. Now, as the minutes ticked by in silence, the quiet of the hospital oppressive, she was grateful for his presence.

  The room was shadowy and dim, the only illumination a soft golden glow from the recessed light above the washbasin. The television screen, mounted on the wall opposite the bed, was quiet and dark. Annie tried to relax, but she felt stiff as a starched shirt. Max abhorred starch in his shirts, said no gentleman ever wore a starched shirt. Last week when she’d picked up the laundry and brought it to their room, he’d plucked the shirt from its plastic and stood the shirt up, pointing at it in horror. She’d returned the shirt to the laundry, but she’d kept the memory of that crisp shirt, standing on its own. Now she felt like that shirt, stiff and empty. She stared at the clock. The minute hand inched ahead with agonizing slowness. It had a little hitch. Instead of moving smoothly, the hand halted, quivered, then jerked. Slowly, so slowly, time passed. Annie strained to hear. Afternoon turned to evening. In the hallway there was the rumble of the food cart. No dinner for them. With night, the window gave onto blackness dark as asphalt. The rain pelted against the panes. The tick of the clock, the whoosh of rain gurgling down drainpipes, the rustle of the sheets when she moved, she heard these sounds, such homely, familiar, comfortable sounds. But not now, not in this dreadful time of waiting. She tried to turn her face toward the door. They shouldn’t have put the bandage on this side. It was hard to see, the gauze puckering up near her eye. Of course, the bandage was makeshift, not intended for good vision….

  The door swung briskly in. A figure in white stepped inside, carrying a small plastic tray with a hypodermic syringe. As the door closed behind the nurse, Annie frowned. Damn. No wonder hospitals were always being sued for mistakes—the wrong foot amputated, the wrong medicine dispensed. This room was clearly marked empty at the nurses’ station. Probably the nurse’s patient was in room 222.

  The nurse stood at the bedside. A competent hand firmly gripped Annie’s ar
m. “Time for our pain medication. I’ll be quick.” The pleasant, well-modulated voice was the prototype of professional cheer. Despite the fringe of gauze in her line of vision, despite the dim light of the room, Annie recognized a familiar face, a face set and hard and desperate and deadly. She had time to think how easily Chloe could have been killed, and then she yanked her arm free, grabbed the wrist of the hand holding the syringe, and screamed.

  For an instant the arm poised to kill was utterly still. Then abruptly the attacker pulled away, scrambling to get free. Annie’s grip was broken. The door from the bathroom banged. The light flashed on. Max thudded across the room. The hall door burst in. “Stop. I’ve got you covered.” Billy stood in the doorway, huge black gun held in both hands.

  Virginia Neville’s thin voice was sharp, commanding. “Drop that gun. Drop it. Stay where you are, both of you. Unless you want her to die.”

  Slowly loosening his grip, Billy dropped the gun. The crack of metal on the hard floor signaled Virginia’s triumph.

  Annie lay still as an effigy, the pressure of Virginia’s gun against her temple hard and painful.

  “You trapped me.” Virginia’s eyes flickered to each of them. “And that girl isn’t even here.” She jabbed the gun against Annie. “I wanted to kill her. I wanted to. Even if she hadn’t seen me. I thought I heard someone on the path, but I couldn’t be sure in the fog. It was all her fault. She took Jake away from me. I saw him go down the path, and there was something about his expression…I think I knew. When I got there, they didn’t hear me. She was so angry. He told her I was—nice.” The word had an ugly sound. “Nice. He’d made love to me, told me—But it doesn’t matter what he said, does it? He lied to me. I hated him then, even when he sent her away, told her he’d promised me. But she wasn’t even out of sight when he called after her and started to follow her. That’s when I ran after him. I hit him as hard as I could. He fell down without a sound. I took the path into the garden and went to the tent. Everyone thought she’d done it, and it served her right. It was all her fault. Tonight she was going to die. Insulin can kill.” Her voice was matter-of-fact.

  The rain splashed against the windows. Annie wondered if Virginia had left a raincoat and hat in one of the women’s restrooms, if she’d changed there into a nurse’s uniform, fixed her hypodermic of death taken from Carl’s supply of insulin. Annie had pushed away the hypodermic, but the gun was hard against her head. She wondered how many minutes—or seconds—remained in her life. The thrust of the gun barrel was un-yielding.

  “Get up.” The pressure increased. “Ease to a sitting position. Yes, that’s right.” The voice was hideously reminiscent of a nurse instructing a patient. “On your feet.”

  Annie eased to the floor, stood a little crookedly with one bare foot and the other covered by the cast.

  Virginia stood close behind Annie, poking the barrel into Annie’s neck, and talked fast. “Do exactly as I say or I’ll shoot. The two of you”—clearly she meant Billy and Max—“move over by the window and face outside. Good. That’s very good. Stay where you are. Count to ten. Don’t forget, I’ll count, too. If the door opens before then, she dies.”

  An iron hand gripped Annie’s arm and in an instant they were in the hall. “This way.” She pulled Annie toward the red light at the end of the hallway, marking the stairs. “Don’t scream, don’t fight, don’t make a sound, or I’ll kill you.”

  The marble hallway was silent. The loosely applied cast flopped, keeping Annie off balance. The pressure of the gun barrel was steady and hard and terrifying. They moved quickly, despite Annie’s fake cast, their shadows odd against the wall, the one shadow so near the first. At the stairs, Virginia pulled open the door. They stepped onto the landing. The stairwell was well lighted but damp and chilly.

  Annie expected a command. The cold round circle of metal was withdrawn from the back of her neck. For an instant, she felt an exquisite relief and a surge of hope. She was turning to look when pain exploded in her head.

  As the door into the corridor closed, Max and Billy whirled, dashed across the room. Billy lunged for the knob, but Max reached out, gripped Billy’s arm. His face pale, sweat beading his skin, Max mouthed numbers—“…four…five…six…”

  Billy yanked free his cell phone, punched. “APB. Virginia Neville, wanted for murder, armed and dangerous, escaping from hospital. Annie Darling taken hostage. Suspect dressed as a nurse, approximately five foot six inches….”

  “…eight…”

  The sound of the gunshot was muffled by distance but unmistakable.

  With a yell that came from deep inside, his face twisted by anguish, Max flung open the door and plunged into the hall, looking up and down the corridor.

  At the end of the hall, the door to the stairwell was wide open. A deep voice shouted, “Help. Get help.”

  Max reached the doorway first. Bob Winslow, his tall, angular body bent into a tight crouch, held Annie’s limp wrist in his huge hand. “There’s a pulse. Oh, hey, she’s moving….”

  Max pushed past, was on his knees, slipping an arm around Annie as she struggled to sit.

  Billy stepped over them and thudded down the stairs.

  “You okay?” Bob asked Annie. “Here.” He dragged out a handkerchief, handed it to her.

  Max gently held it against the blood welling from the back of her scalp.

  Annie blinked. “Hurts.” She peered up at Bob. “What happened?”

  Bob’s eyes were huge. “I was watching out the door of Chloe’s room. After what you told us, I wanted to see what happened. I saw a nurse go into Annie’s room, and then in a minute she and Annie came out, but she had a gun to the back of Annie’s head. A nurse! I waited until they got to the exit and then I came after them. I got here just as that nurse”—his voice rose in astonishment—“hit Annie over the head. She had the gun by the barrel. She was getting ready to hit Annie again when I grabbed her arm. We struggled and the gun went off and she”—he looked toward the stairwell—“got away from me.” His young narrow face looked stricken. “She flung herself—I don’t know if she knew what she was doing—over the railing.”

  Thirteen

  WHAT A DIFFERENCE a few weeks made. January began with heavy fog and days of drizzle and occasional heavy downpours. Now the sunny sea isle once again lived up to its balmy reputation with innocent blue skies and highs in the seventies. Golfers swung, tennis players served, and booksellers (actually Annie was the only one on the island) sold. Of course, winter might reassert its chilly dominance any day in a final February fling, but for now all was well, hey diddle diddle, and the party at Death on Demand eddied through the open front door, the overhead fans whirled, and the vigorous chatter of the guests rivaled the squawks of a migratory flock heading north.

  Henny was perhaps pushing the season in her white-and-blue striped blazer and white cotton skirt. She looked the epitome of spring with a scarlet hibiscus bloom in her silver-streaked black hair. She held high the tray with the fluted glasses of champagne, caroling, “Libations for the literati,” and flashing Annie a quirky, perhaps wine-induced, certainly ebullient grin. She paused, swerved toward Annie, bent close to her ear, hissed, “Who finally charmed Sergeant Ernest Heath?” Her eyes glistened and there was a distinct scent of champagne.

  Annie’s eyes narrowed, she gave a quick nod, hissed in return, “Philo Vance, of course.” S. S. Van Dine’s clever detective had eventually gained the respect of the honest but inept New York homicide officer.

  Henny said, “I’m miffed. Squiffed? No, miffed. Hmm, maybe I’d better not have any more. You know, champagne is deceptive. Dyspeptic? Possibly. But definitely not déclassé. Oh, hey, as long as I can say literati and not lisp, I’m still the cat’s meow.” Her smile was beatific. “Isn’t that the cat’s pajamas? To be the cat’s meow.” She grinned, uttered a piercing and very creditable meow, then gaily swung back into the crowd, the tray at a slight tilt.

  Atop the Agatha Christie stacks, the elegant black
cat named in her honor lifted a sleek head and stared unwinkingly at Henny, green eyes glowing.

  Annie was laughing, though she wondered if perhaps she should send Max to rescue the tray and tactfully offer Henny a comfortable chair and a cup of coffee. She almost called out to him—he was listening pleasantly to the imposing president of the Garden Club—but there was too much hubbub. Guests surged back and forth, most trying to get a glimpse of the Boston Mackey watercolors soon to be auctioned for the island literacy project.

  Boston Mackey boomed, “Make way. Make way.” And, of course, everyone did.

  Annie grinned and climbed on a stool, the better to see. As she surveyed her kingdom, she felt a sudden rush of delight. Coming through the door, just a little hesitantly, Bob Winslow’s big hand firmly on her elbow, was Chloe Martin. Though she was still pale, her glossy dark red hair shone, her narrow face looked eager. She saw Annie, gave a whoop, and held up her left hand to display a golden ring with a lovely diamond in a filigree setting.

  Annie clapped her hands above her head, hopped down from the footstool, and wormed toward the front door. Behind her she heard Boston exclaim, “Ladies and gentlemen, tonight’s event to benefit…”

  Annie reached the doorway and flung her arms around Chloe. “I’m so happy for you.” She turned, looked up and up and up, at Bob Winslow’s long face, now a vivid cherry red. “Congratulations! I’m so happy for both of you.”

  Bob’s big hands settled on her shoulders, gripped them tightly. “Thanks to you. And that woman almost got you….”

  Annie pushed away the memory of the pressure of the gun against her skin, Virginia Neville’s desperate face, and her fatal plunge into the hospital stairwell.

  “But she didn’t.” Annie was brisk.