Dead, White, and Blue

by Carolyn Hart

  Some of the color eased back into Jed’s thin face as the flare of panic receded. His breathing came more evenly. Now his gaze was sharp. “Who are you?”

  “Max Darling. I’m looking for your stepmother.”

  “Don’t call her my stepmother.” His voice was angry. “She—” He hesitated, spoke carefully, “She’s married to my father. That’s all I know. I don’t know anything about her.”

  “Did you see her the night of the Fourth?”

  Jed gave Max a long stare. “Why?”

  “She hasn’t been seen since that night.”

  “That’s what you say. Maybe she left the island. I don’t know. I don’t care. And I don’t have to talk to you.” He turned his back to Max, stuffed the driver in his bag.

  “Maybe you’d like to talk to the police. You were here at the club. You saw her.”

  Jed turned slowly. The hand gripping the strap to the golf bag was white with strain. “There were a lot of people around. I didn’t notice her.” He shouldered the bag.

  Max felt aggressive. Sometimes a bluff worked. “You were seen talking to her after the dance.”

  Once again Jed exhaled. “You got that wrong.” There was an odd tone to his voice.

  Max had hoped to shake Jed. Instead, the question reassured him. Jed clearly knew something about Shell, but he hadn’t spoken to her.

  Jed moved past Max.

  “Why were you looking for your dad that night?”

  Jed strode away.

  • • •

  Joyce Thornwall balanced the box of votive candles on one hip. The sky blue of the altar guild smock was flattering to her curling white hair. Intelligent dark eyes studied Annie. “I assume you believe there is good reason to seek this kind of information.”

  Annie thought of a forlorn sensitive teenager, waiting for a phone call. “I do.”

  “Very well.” Joyce’s tone was brisk. “I notice if people are out of sorts at a party.” A swift smile. “When you are the commanding officer’s wife, it is your duty to keep everything smooth and pleasant. At the dance, it was as if there were two sets of people attending. Most of the dancers were having a lovely time, but several were not. Notably Wesley Hurst. After Shell arrived, there were four separate incidents. She joined Wesley at the bar. Shell appeared quite comfortable. She said only a few words, but when she walked away, Wesley was furious. She interrupted the Irwins on the dance floor, claimed Edward. It might have been lighthearted. Shell seemed to be enjoying herself. Edward’s response was”—Joyce picked her words carefully—“unusual. Instead of being flattered or irritated or bored, he looked like a man standing on a tenth-story ledge. I don’t believe I am exaggerating to say he was simply terrified.” Her eyes narrowed. “It was as if she threatened him in some fashion. I glimpsed him later sitting at a table. I don’t know where Eileen was. He was by himself and he was the picture of despair. Not long before the end of the dance, Dave Peterson dumped Shell in the middle of the floor. He swung away and bumped into us. It was as if we weren’t there. He moved like a man in shock. So I looked past him at Shell. Before Don and I moved away, I saw her look across the dance floor. She smiled and started walking. It wasn’t”—again Joyce chose words with care—“a nice smile. Rather like a card shark moving in for the kill.”

  “Who was she looking at?”

  Joyce was regretful. “I don’t like saying, but I trust you, Annie. I know you won’t cause trouble for anyone if you can avoid it. Shell headed straight for Maggie Peterson.” A sigh. “Maggie’s decent and kind. And she’s been so ill. Men… some men… are bastards. She couldn’t have missed seeing Dave dump Shell on the dance floor.” She stopped, finally said quietly, “Maggie looked like a woman with no hope.”

  • • •

  Max drove toward an area of modest homes on the north end of the island. Rhonda Chase hadn’t sounded delighted at his call, but she’d agreed to see him and maybe it would be helpful to know why Shell spooked Edward Irwin. But Max felt thwarted. Richard Ely wasn’t answering his cell. He didn’t have a landline, which wasn’t uncommon these days. Max wanted to find out more about what—and who—Richard saw on the terrace during the fireworks. There had to be a reason for Jed Hurst’s near panic when he’d asked him about Shell’s Porsche. If Richard saw Jed going toward the overflow lot, it might give Max some ammunition for another talk with Jed. But finding Richard might be a challenge. Maybe he didn’t come to work because he was sick. Maybe he was at a doctor’s office. Max had no intention of giving up. Now to figure a good way to approach Rhonda Chase…

  • • •

  Emma sniffed at the smell of sweat and disinfectant, and surveyed the health club exercise room with its apparently unending variety of machines, many equipped with TV screens. What some people considered fun astonished her. A tendril of thought imagined Inspector Houlihan on an Exercycle and Marigold insisting he immediately dash out into the cold to aid in a denouement. An emergency, no time to dawdle, turn on the siren, the inspector with knobby knees and shivering…

  Don Thornwall, alerted by a cell phone call, dismounted from the seat of a rowing machine. He grabbed a towel and threaded his way to the perimeter of the room.

  Emma noted admiringly his muscular physique. A fine figure of a man, just at six feet, black hair with touches of gray, forceful features, fit and trim as might be expected of a retired naval officer.

  “Emma.” He swiped at a face glowing from effort. “Nice to get in a little extra work. Already been out on the bay this morning but the heat’s a little much in the afternoons. What can I do for you?”

  He listened without comment until she finished, thought for a moment, said matter-of-factly, “Used to recognizing stress. I saw Shell Hurst several times. She wasn’t stressed. At one point, Dave Peterson abruptly abandoned her on the dance floor. Shell was amused.” He paused. “Once had a lieutenant commander who was a hothead, ready to brawl when he should have kept control. I had to give him a poor efficiency report, blocked his promotion. Dave had the same look as he blundered across the dance floor. He wasn’t in control and he was mad as hell. I saw other evidences of stress. Wesley Hurst was also in the grip of powerful emotion. When Joyce and I were waiting for our car to be brought, Wesley was raising a ruckus, demanding a kid get his car before some others in line. He was acting”—there was a faint stress on the verb—“like a guy who’d had too much to drink. I guess one of the kids slipped away and got Jerry O’Reilly, because in a few minutes Jerry pulled up in a golf cart, all charm and bonhomie, and he and one of the kids talked Wesley into the cart, saying he should have a free ride home and one of the kids would bring his car and leave it at his house. It was a pretty slick piece of work. About that time Dave Peterson showed up and he was furious because his car was gone and one of the valets didn’t help matters by saying his wife had been there a few minutes earlier and taken the keys. This took the attention away from Wesley in the golf cart, but I happened to get a look at Wesley’s face as the cart left. He was a man who had suffered a shock. I don’t think he was drunk.” The retired captain’s face reflected certainty.

  Emma imagined the scene, Don Thornwall observing his surroundings, collating impressions, making a swift judgment.

  “He was as sober as I was. I found that”—Thornwall’s tone was dry—“interesting.”

  • • •

  Henny Brawley stepped inside Out of the Attic, one of the island’s most successful antique and collectible shops. She welcomed the air-conditioning though it was tepid, not too surprising considering the age of the shabby Victorian house. The bottom floor housed the merchandise. Roscoe and Claire Crawford lived in the upper two floors. Roscoe could have played a Southern plantation owner in a movie, overlong white hair, a drooping white mustache and Vandyke beard, a white suit, but his face betrayed him, a gaze that had a tendency to shift away from direct contact, a bitter twist to his mouth.

  The antiques included good pieces, an English Chippendale chest-on-chest
, a Georgian bowl and tea service, a japanned Queen Anne–style secretary, a Louis XV mantel clock in exquisite porcelain, terra-cotta urns from Italy, but there was plenty of kitsch, ranging from a glowing Elvis velvet hanging to poor imitations of Day of the Dead folk art. Did the odd conjunction reflect a true knowledge of the old and beautiful paired with a disdain for products of a debased culture? Or was he simply a businessman delighted to offer anything that would sell?

  “Henny, welcome, welcome.” Roscoe strode toward her, pausing for an instant in the pool of light from a truly glorious rococo chandelier with cut glass pendants. The light haloed Roscoe’s smooth hair, perfect mustache, finely trimmed beard, and immaculate white suit. Satisfied with the effect, Roscoe moved forward. “What can I do for you today? Perhaps a nice Tiffany lamp or a beautiful Coromandel screen, eighteenth century, quite striking. You could create the perfect retreat for reading.” He gestured toward the darkly lacquered screen with gorgeous patterns in ivory and mother-of-pearl.

  Henny moved toward the screen. Drat Roscoe. He was right. In the long open room that was her home, the screen would be perfect to block off a portion in the far corner. “It is beautiful.”

  Like a shark scenting blood, he knew she was good prey. “Perhaps you might like to take the screen with you, give it a try.”

  “I’ll think about it. Roscoe”—her tone was confidential—“I came directly to you because I know you notice things and you are discreet. There are some questions about the Lady Luck dance and I just know you can help.” Actually, Roscoe loved to gossip, the more unkindly, the better.

  He was instantly grave. “Of course, if I can be of assistance in any way…” He listened with avid attention. When she concluded, he smoothed his beard. “I saw Shell Hurst’s arrival. Not a woman you miss. But”—he looked regretful—“I have no idea when she left. Claire wanted to go home early. We have a wonderful view of the fireworks from our upper verandah. We’d parked over at the golf club. Of course”—he was the quintessential Southern gentleman—“I dropped Claire off when we arrived. I went out on the terrace to go to golf parking. I’d say Wesley Hurst had a bad night.” His tone was lightly malicious. “Shell accosts him at the bar and Vera gives him hell on the terrace.”

  “Really?” Henny wondered if Wesley remained on the terrace. Annie said Shell was last seen walking toward the overflow lot. It might be important to know where Wesley was when Shell left. “On the terrace? It’s rather dark there.” Henny pictured the exit from the hallway onto the terrace. “Are you sure he was talking to Vera?”

  “Oh, I didn’t see them. They were in the shadows of a live oak, just two figures. I heard them. I know their voices. Vera spoke rather loudly at the end.”

  Henny appraised his shifting eyes and sly smile and knew he’d taken his time, possibly slipped into shadow himself, curious to overhear.

  “At the time”—he was full of self-importance—“I didn’t give much thought to what they said, but now I wonder if their conversation might have something to do with Shell leaving.”

  He was parceling out the words, the better to hold her attention. Henny maintained a pleasant, most attentive, respectful expression and pictured his head on a platter with an apple in his mouth.

  “Vera’s voice was hard, demanding. ‘You have to deal with her tonight.’”

  • • •

  Laurel took a deep breath as she neared the lotions counter. The thick scent of coconut oil lotion evoked memories of beaches she’d loved: Waikiki, Copacabana, Phi Phi, Natadola, Tenerife, and Cottesloe. She had a swift memory of a brawny bronzed young man at Cottesloe in an outback hat and swim trunks. She smiled. That was a night to remember. She had a quick glimpse of her image in a mirrored pillar and smoothed a tendril of golden hair cut short for the season, sleek against her head. Summer was such a lovely fashion season. She nodded approval of sparkling silver embroidery that added a grace note to an almost sheer white cotton tunic above elegant white linen slacks and strappy white leather sandals. Tiny bells on her silver earrings sounded like faraway wind chimes when she walked.

  Behind the counter, Claire Crawford looked up from her perch on a tall stool. Dyed-brown hair sprang in tight curls from a long face that might have looked better on a horse. Mascara-thick lashes blinked above eyes of a curious light gold. She gave a high shriek of excitement and popped to her feet. “Laurel, we’ve just received a new batch of Bobbi Brown makeup. Perfect for you! Come and let me do a makeover.”

  Laurel felt her smile freeze. Would Michelangelo permit a preschooler to experiment? Perish the thought. But she increased the warmth of her smile. “Dear Claire. That would be such a treat, but we’ll save it for another day. However, I’ll purchase a makeup session for my sweet daughter-in-law. And I’ll take a jar of hydrating face cream and a jar of buffing grains.”

  Claire almost pranced, and Laurel wondered if she received a commission on sales. “Absolutely the best. The buffing grains will do wonders for you.”

  Laurel managed to retain the smile. “I’m so glad I needed to replenish some of my favorites. And you can tell me all about the Lady Luck dance. I’ve heard so much about it.” A meaningful glance. “I don’t suppose you had any idea when you and Roscoe came that there would be so many exciting moments.”

  Claire tossed her head and the curls quivered. “I wasn’t surprised.”

  Laurel widened her eyes, cooed enticingly, “Really. Do tell me.”

  Claire’s golden eyes shone. “Maggie and I were in charge of decorating for the dance. Well”—Claire gave a whuff of exasperation—“she was no help. Once when I asked her which streamer, she stared at me as if she had no idea what I was talking about. Then she choked out something about going to the lounge and blundered out of the room. I thought I’d better see. In case she was ill.” The golden eyes slid away from Laurel. “Sometimes people are sensitive about not feeling well and I happened to know there was an unmarked door into the lounge so I just slipped up to it like a little mouse and eased it open—I had a key because we were doing the decorating—and you will never guess what I heard.” Now those golden eyes gleamed with excitement.

  Laurel felt as if a cellar door had opened and out swept a rank, dark smell. “Maggie was on her cell phone?”

  Claire’s nose twitched. She suddenly spoke in a passable imitation of Maggie’s soft voice but with a shrill edge. “‘I know about the money. I know what you’re planning. But there’s a gun in Dave’s desk—’”

  Laurel drew in a sharp breath.

  Claire gave a silly whinny of laughter. “Wouldn’t you know! There I was, all ears but someone walked into the lounge and Maggie cut off the call.”

  • • •

  Max breathed deeply. “Fresh dirt and marigolds. That’s a good combination.”

  Rhonda Chase pushed up from the flower bed. She wore a broad-brimmed straw hat with a light blue tie beneath her chin. Her smock was clearly for gardening. She brushed dirt from the knees of her jeans. “I like the way marigolds smell. I put some out around my mamma’s grave. Makes me feel good every time I go there.” She closed her eyes, gave a brief nod, then opened them to look at Max with a steady gaze. “Have you found Mrs. Hurst?”

  “There’s no trace of her. Or of her car.”

  Mrs. Chase was firm. “I’ve told you everything I know about her.”

  “I have some questions about Edward Irwin. When I spoke to you at the inn—”

  Her face was suddenly impassive.

  “—you described Edward as ‘scared to pieces’ by Shell Hurst and you seemed surprised at his response to her. Why did his apparent fear surprise you?”

  Her lips folded into a tight line.

  Max knew there was something there, some real reason that prompted her to find Edward’s reaction odd. “Is there something you know from that evening?”

  There wasn’t a flicker of expression in her face.

  “Did you see them in conversation?”

  “I suppose they talked
while they danced, but I don’t know what they said.”

  “Did you see them talking at any time? Anywhere?”

  “No.” Short, definitive, unyielding.

  “Did you ever see them at the inn?”

  “Lots of folks come to the inn.”

  Max had a quick memory of the hotel corridor, Rhonda Chase businesslike in her neat gray uniform. Her words danced in his mind. I’ve worked plenty of parties. I know all those folks. Funny thing, they never recognize me, but I know them when I see them, know more than they’d ever guess. Her disdain had been obvious.

  “When did you see Edward and Shell at the inn?” Even as he asked, he thought the question ludicrous. Shell Hurst dallying with Edward Irwin? When did a champion skier take to the bunny slope?

  “Mr. Darling, I keep myself to myself. That’s all I’m going to say.”

  • • •

  Annie walked across the blacktop of the car lot. Heat rose in waves from the pavement, reflected off the metal of cars. Puddles from the earlier rain were probably hot enough to poach an egg. She stepped inside a small building in the center of the lot, welcomed the change to frigid air. Three heads swiveled toward her. She smiled at a portly man with a round face, budding paunch, and ready smile. “Hey, Buddy.”

  Two twentyish-something salesmen subsided in their chairs, turning off their smiles faster than incandescent lightbulbs from China fizzle. One picked up a copy of Ellery Queen. The other stared raptly at his iPhone.

  Buddy was on his feet. His Hawaiian shirt was loose and bright, his smile eager. “Ready for a trade-in, Annie? I can make you a deal.”

  Annie shook her head. “You know me, Buddy, I drive a car until it refuses to budge. Actually, I’m checking on some things about the Lady Luck dance. You always know everything. Do you have a minute to visit?”

  “Sure, sure. Slow day here. Come on back to my office.”

  She followed him down a short hall, settled in a luxurious leather chair. He sat behind a desk and folded thick fingers across his paunch. He knew all about Shell’s disappearance. “Nobody’s quite calling it that. More like, have you heard that Shell’s skipped out on Wesley and who’s the lucky guy?”