by Carolyn Hart
Max had no interest in either the colonel or his car but decided to let the boy vent. Maybe recalling the drama of the evening would sharpen his memory.
They stood beneath the porte cochere at the front of the country club. The rain had ended for the moment. Soon the air would be steaming. There was still a freshness from the moisture. Big drops clung to the flaring petals of huge red blooms on six-foot-tall hibiscus shrubs on each side of the walkway.
Ross gestured toward the U-shaped drive in front of the porte cochere. “We park the valet cars over there in those first rows.”
Max looked obediently at perhaps a dozen cars in the big lot. A row of palmettos partially screened the cars.
“The lots on either side of the driveway hold about a hundred cars each. There’s more parking by the pool and by the golf course, and then there’s the overflow lot past the trees behind the swimming pool.” He looked to see if Max understood. “Okay. The MG rutted up the greens on eight and nine and the fairway between eight and nine, then crashed on the bridge over the lagoon right by the ninth green. Here’s the deal. Somebody took the car out of valet parking. For sure, they wouldn’t drive it right by the front of the club and over to the golf course. Too many people know that car. But there’s a back way to the golf cart path that leads to the eighth hole. You go”—he pivoted and pointed—“out the rear of the main lot onto a blacktop road that kind of circles the club. It passes the parking for the swimming pool, curves around by the overflow lot, and ends up on the far side of the golf course. There’s a stretch where the road goes through deep woods. At that point, the golf path isn’t close to any houses. All the guy had to do was drive off the road and onto the golf path right by the tee for the eighth hole. Whoever did it was counting on the fact that those two holes are really far away from the main club and nobody would be out there.” He looked stricken. “I can’t believe somebody deliberately slammed the MG into the bridge. Man, that was a beautiful car.”
“Do you like sports cars, Ross?”
“Oh yeah. Did you know Mrs. Carlisle has an Aston Martin V12 Zagato?” His voice was awed.
“Are you familiar with Mrs. Hurst’s Porsche Carrera?”
He nodded. “Cool. But that Zagato’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Did you park the Porsche the night of the Fourth?”
He shook his head. “She drove by right around eight. She must have been on her way to the overflow lot. By then everything else was full, even the lot by the pro shop.”
“Did you see her car leaving the club midway through the fireworks?”
Ross looked surprised. “No. Not many people went in or out until the fireworks ended. Then cars were everywhere.” He frowned. “Did something happen to that car, too?”
“No. We’re trying to figure out for sure which lot Mrs. Hurst used that night.”
Ross didn’t ponder why anyone would want to know. Instead, valet parking not under fire, he tried to be helpful. “Since she went that way, I’m pretty sure she must have ended up in the overflow lot because the swimming pool lot filled up early. You might ask Jed. Poor guy.”
“Poor guy?”
Ross abruptly looked uncomfortable. “I shouldn’t have said anything. He was kind of watching out for his dad, that’s all. I guess I thought maybe he knew where his stepmother was. He was looking for her earlier. I mean, he asked me if I’d seen her Porsche. I told him she probably parked in the overflow lot. But what people do isn’t my business.” His lips closed.
Max knew Ross wouldn’t say more. As for Jed… Max remembered Hayley Hurst’s plea for help in finding Shell and how Jed didn’t want to talk about her being gone. He heard her thin young voice, Jed gets this funny sick look whenever I talk about her and he tells me to shut up. Jed had threatened… What had he threatened?
Max kept his tone casual. “Any idea where I might find Jed?”
Ross looked out at puddles and a faint haze of sun behind thinning clouds. “He plays every day but they won’t open the course now ’cause it’s too wet. He’s probably on the driving range. He’s on the golf team. He usually spends the day here.”
• • •
Emma’s startlingly blue eyes were alive with interest. “Not seen since that night?”
“Not a trace.”
“She’s not a thoughtful person.”
Annie agreed. “Keeping quiet out of spite?”
Emma nodded. “A possibility. After all, the car is gone.” Emma tapped the stubby fingers of her right hand on the tabletop, a staccato accompaniment to rapid thoughts. “As Marigold always instructs Inspector Houlihan, the first task is to determine the parameters.”
Annie maintained a pleasant expression, though she quailed inside, knowing she’d brought this moment on herself. Emma taking charge was bad enough. Emma citing Marigold affected Annie like fingernails on a blackboard. Marigold was rude, obnoxious, and overbearing with the inspector, whom she treated as a cross between a lackey and a dunce.
Emma gave Annie a commanding look. “Take notes.”
Annie almost rebelled, but she had sought assistance. She picked up a pen, pulled a notepad close.
Emma sat across the table, arms folded, face creased in thought. “Shell Hurst was last seen at the Lady Luck dance at the country club. At various times during the evening, she was observed talking to her husband, to Edward Irwin, and to Dave Peterson. After Dave walked away, Shell apparently moved across the room as if with a specific purpose so we can reasonably conclude she saw someone with whom she intended to speak. Just before the end of the dance, she was in the hallway talking to an unidentified woman not in evening dress. Mark an asterisk there.”
Annie held the pen over the pad. “Asterisk?”
Emma gave a long-suffering sigh. “Marigold always finds it necessary to dot every i and cross every t with the inspector. To wit: It may be necessary to query those not connected to the dance club to discover the identity of the unknown woman in the hall. Tell me again what Max learned from the young waitress.”
Annie obediently described the waitress walking toward the kitchen. “She saw Shell talking to another woman. She must have been smaller because Shell blocked her from view. She wasn’t in evening dress and the waitress thought she might have been angry because one hand was clenched into a fist. She wore a heavy link gold bracelet.”
“Heavy link…” Emma murmured. Abruptly, her eyes glinted with mischief. She pulled her cell from a caftan pocket. “Henny, this is Emma. I thought you might be interested in our very own little mystery, i.e., Where, oh, where is the lovely Shell Hurst? I’m sure you’ve heard she’s nowhere to be found. Let me bring you up to date…” Emma succinctly summarized everything Annie had told her. “You can help by finding out who Shell talked to in the hall. We’re looking for a woman shorter than Shell who was not attending the dance. She wore a heavy link gold bracelet on her—” Emma paused.
Annie knew she was picturing the hallway and Shell standing with her back to the waitress.
“—left wrist… Oh, certainly.”
Emma thrust the phone at Annie.
“Henny, how are you?”
Henny’s tone was cool. “You enlisted Emma to search for Shell Hurst?” Implicit was the question of why Annie had chosen Emma and ignored Henny.
Across the table, Emma’s expression was angelic. Who could possibly accuse her of one-upping Henny?
Annie longed for the good old days when phones didn’t record missed calls, making it impossible to claim that contact had been sought earlier. “Emma happened to be in the store, trying”—said with emphasis—“to identify the watercolors.” That should please Henny. “I thought it might distr—interest her to know that Max and I are looking for Shell. If you could lend a hand, too, it would be wonderful.”
“So she can’t figure out the paintings.” Henny almost managed not to sound smug. “She was probably moping about and you took pity on her.”
Annie felt a swell of relief. Hen
ny was not only a brilliant mystery reader, she was insightful. “Exactly.” Annie’s tone was fervent.
A soft murmur of laughter. “Would you really like help?”
“Absolutely.” Annie knew there was one more base to cover. “Please ask Laurel to pitch in. Between the two of you, I’ll bet we know the owner of that bracelet within an hour.”
“Ah, a challenge. Will do.” The connection ended.
Annie handed back the phone and gave Emma a chiding look.
Emma smiled blandly. “Probably the woman in the hall is totally peripheral but it will be a nice exercise for Henny and Laurel while we attend to serious business. Now”—she hitched her chair closer to the table—“for the important work. As Marigold always insists, ‘Determine the first task.’ In this situation, our first task is to discover whether Shell spoke to anyone else. Our second task is to ask Richard Ely to elaborate on his observation of Shell as she walked toward the overflow lot.”
“Max is out at the club. He said he’d talk to him. And he’s going to ask Rhonda Chase to explain why it surprised her when she thought Edward Irwin was afraid of Shell.”
“Very good. We’ll concentrate on Shell. Plus, that leaves us a third task. Stir the pot.” Emma looked at Annie expectantly. “That’s what I did in Death Knocks Twice. You’ll remember the story—”
Annie felt a quiver of panic. Emma expected Annie to be au courant on each and every book, all eighty-seven of them. “Twice,” Annie murmured hopefully.
“—it was very clever.” She looked at Annie expectantly.
“Very clever.” Annie spoke as if overwhelmed at the magnitude of the achievement.
“One of my best plots.”
“Wonderful plot. The twist was simply fabulous.” For readers who didn’t mind coincidences.
Emma looked like Agatha basking in the sunlight. “I was truly inspired.”
Annie remained reverentially silent. She knew better than to push her luck.
“Ah, yes.” Emma reveled in glory for a moment longer, then said briskly, “As Marigold told the inspector, get their attention. Enough of subtlety. That’s what we’ll do. We’ll shock them into cooperating. We’ll confront people face-to-face. You learn a lot from expressions. As Marigold always observes—”
Annie tried very hard to keep her face pleasant and admiring.
“—‘The smoother the liar, the sweeter the tone.’” A pause.
Annie gave a moment for Emma’s self-adulation. “Right. So?”
Emma’s eyes narrowed, but she continued. “We announce at the outset that we’re hunting for Shell. Shell disappeared after the dance. Did you see her? With whom? When? Where? What did you observe?”
Annie hesitated. If she and Emma announced Shell was missing, the news would wash over the island like a storm surge. “Max and I’ve been keeping it low-key.”
“Why?” Emma demanded. “If she’s fine, no harm done. If she’s not fine, somebody may get nervous.”
Last night Max had suggested they might talk to Billy Cameron today. Certainly that contact would make it publicly known that Shell hadn’t been seen since the night of the Fourth. Annie and Emma might as well see what they could discover. Possibly they would get a lead to Shell’s whereabouts. “I’m in.”
Emma nodded approvingly. “Now”—she was businesslike—“who attended the dance?”
Since many members were out of town in July, the summer dance always had the lowest attendance. Annie wrote down names as she spoke. “There were twelve couples that night. When we subtract Max and me and the Hursts and the Irwins, that leaves nine couples. Teresa and Harold Baker, Joyce and Don Thornwall, Maggie and Dave Peterson, Camille and Caesar Hernandez, Wendy and Alan Carlson, Lou and Buddy Porter, Rose and Jake Wheeler, Claire and Roscoe Crawford. Elaine Jamison and Burl Field were guests of the Bakers.”
Emma was didactic. “Wesley Hurst is the last person to contact. We’ll wait on the Irwins until Max talks to Rhonda Chase.” Emma whipped granny glasses from her capacious pocket and perched them on her nose. She peered over the rims at Annie. “We’ll also wait on the Petersons. We know Dave appeared angry with Shell. Anger suggests a strong personal connection. Our queries may provide some information there.” She pursed her lips. “Let’s look at our pool of possible informants.”
Annie was grudgingly admiring. Emma did make everything clear.
Emma pointed a stubby finger at Annie’s list. “Scratch the Bakers and Elaine and Burl. They left Monday for the Amazon.” Her blue eyes gleamed. “But we have Joyce and Don Thornwall—”
Annie interrupted. “Let me talk to them.” Annie admired the newcomers to the island, Don a retired naval captain, Joyce the epitome of the finest of military wives. Both were smart, charming, intelligent, and, most important now, observant.
Emma was reluctant. “Hardly sporting to take the best possible witnesses for yourself. Let’s split them up. I’ll talk to Don. Now, Camille and Caesar Hernandez.” She shook her head. “I doubt we get much from either of them. We’ll put them in reserve.”
Annie agreed. Camille was a fund-raiser for an island charity and circumspect in her opinions. Caesar was hearty, raised bird dogs, and was oblivious to social nuances.
Annie’s cell phone played the “Army Air Corps.” “Hey, Henny.” Henny had been a WASP during WWII, one of the glorious women who ferried bombers about the country and tested new fighters.
Henny’s voice held a smile. “Vera Hurst.”
Annie blinked. “Excuse me?”
“The woman wearing the heavy link gold bracelet was Vera Hurst. She was having dinner on the terrace with several friends. They were vague about the time, but she drifted away a little while before the fireworks began. Laurel said to tell you that Vera was wearing a short-sleeve navy ruffled blouse and belted floral skirt, peonies on white, and navy sling back pumps. Anything else you need to know?”
Annie glanced at the legal pad. “Emma and I are going to fan out, talk to people who were at the dance. We’re going to be up front, tell them we’re hunting for Shell, and ask: Did you see her? With whom? When? Where? You and Laurel can help. I’ll call in a few minutes, give you the names. Okay?”
“Reporting for duty. Awaiting orders.” The connection ended.
“That was Henny. She and Laurel found the woman seen talking to Shell. It was Vera Hurst.”
Emma was thoughtful. “According to Eileen Irwin, Vera and Wesley are having an affair. I wonder if Vera approached Shell or Shell approached Vera. Either way, it must have made for an interesting encounter.”
Annie said slowly, “Vera’s hand was clenched into a fist.”
Emma tapped the tabletop. “That end of the hall has a doorway out onto the terrace. If Shell and Vera went out that way together, Vera may have seen Shell walking toward the overflow lot. We can compare what Vera saw to what Richard Ely tells Max.”
“We’ll talk to Vera after we hear from Max.”
Emma nodded agreement. “All right. Let’s see who we have left. Wendy and Alan Carlson. Not promising.”
Wendy Carlson taught first grade and was gentle, sweet, and never gossiped. Alan was a lawyer and very likely quite careful to parse his words. “I’d say let’s skip the Wheelers, too.” Rose Wheeler was a poet and spent most of her time wandering the beach near their home in a straw sun hat and flowing white dress, barefoot and immersed in her own world. She had an ethereal smile and rarely evinced interest in anything but poetry. Jake was tall, taciturn, gruff, and humorless.
Emma frowned. “As for Claire and Roscoe Crawford, she’s silly and he’s sly.”
Annie wasn’t ready to dismiss them. “Silly people rarely think before they speak. And sly people watch everyone and never miss much.”
Emma wasn’t impressed. “Give one to Henny and the other to Laurel.”
“All right. That leaves—”
Emma interrupted. Her smile resembled a barracuda. “The Porters.”
A look of understanding passed
between them. Lou Porter chattered nonstop and always with a slightly malicious slant. She worked behind the desk at the Sea Side Inn. Buddy had a car dealership, a beaming smile, and a sharp gaze that missed little.
Emma delved into another pocket, lifted out a change purse. She opened a side flap and retrieved a very bright and shiny quarter. She held it up for Annie to see. “My extra leaf Wisconsin quarter. Rare. And lucky. I’ll take heads for Lou.” She didn’t wait for an answer, flipped the coin. The coin landed with a musical clink, rolled, turned, stopped.
Annie looked at the gleaming obverse. Why was she not surprised?
6
Max walked around the clubhouse toward the pro shop. All but three places were taken on the driving range. Max spotted several teenagers. A chubby blond. A towering dark-haired boy. A trim, athletic teenager with a mop of dark hair. Something about his build reminded Max of Vera Hurst. Thwock. Hitting with his driver, the teen lofted a ball to the two-hundred-thirty-yard marker.
The chubby blond hooked a drive into the woods. The biggest teen scudded a ball about ten feet ahead.
Max stopped behind the trim boy. “Jed?”
He looked around. His face was narrow and his deep-set eyes a replica of Vera’s. A look of intense absorption waned. He blinked at Max and was suddenly tense, wary, alert. He hunched his shoulders in his loose polo shirt.
Max was suddenly alert, too. Was the kid always worried when an adult confronted him? Or was there something deeper here? “I want to talk to you about your stepmother’s Porsche.”
Jed stood frozen, his face stricken, eyes wide, lips parted. His hands clenched on the golf shaft. He stared at Max, made no reply.
Max wasn’t sure what to ask, but he knew he had a live one on the hook and this was no time to let the line go slack. “What time did you see her Porsche the night of the Fourth?”
Jed let out a long breath. There was no thought, no artifice in the involuntary exhalation.
Immediately Max realized he’d made a mistake. Whatever question Jed feared, Max had not asked it. He tried again, this time speaking as if certain of his facts. “You talked to Shell.”
