by Carolyn Hart
“It could be that Shell set it up to look like she’d gone missing, knowing talk would start.” Annie kept her voice steady. “But if someone killed her, that would take at least a couple of minutes, maybe more. Then the body had to be placed in the passenger seat. That’s another three minutes, maybe four.” There was something hideous about figuring the time it took to quench a life, struggle with a corpse.
Max’s eyes narrowed. “So the Porsche was driven somewhere and hidden is less than five minutes.”
Annie never felt confident about math but she thought Max’s estimate made sense.
“If Shell wasn’t the driver, if she was dead, the murderer drove the car somewhere, left it, then had to walk, maybe run, back to the club or, in Edward’s case, his house. There was very little time.” Max came to his feet. “Come on, Annie.”
• • •
Max turned into the overflow lot, stopped the Maserati midway between the entrance and the oyster-shell path to the terrace.
Annie looked around the overflow lot. At least there were a half-dozen cars now as afternoon drew on and the crowd at the pool increased. Would she ever see these spangles of silvery Spanish moss and palmetto shrubs and tall pines without wondering, Did she park there, between those two big pines, or there, near that camellia shrub? When Shell reached the Porsche, young, lithe, beautiful in a striking gown, was she on her way to leave the island with a lover? Or did death walk at her elbow?
Max looked at the map. “The Porsche went out of this lot, turned right. If the car had gone left, that took it through the front lot and one of the valets would have seen it. So, I figure the car had about six minutes to reach a destination and be hidden well enough that no one could find it.” The Maserati purred onto the blacktop road. Max lowered the top, despite the heat, making it easier to look. “Watch for broken vines, anywhere that looks like a car went through.”
Twice they angled off on rutted side roads, but the growth was impenetrable on both sides of the car and showed no evidence anyone had been into the brush. Max winced as spears of palmetto shrubs scraped along the side of the car. Both roads finally narrowed to paths, forcing him to back the car out to the blacktop.
The heat pressed against them. To her right through the pines, there were glimpses of the golf course. Of course, that land was manicured and even the rough afforded no sanctuary for a Porsche.
A yell of anguish indicated a shot gone wrong. Annie looked at the golf cart trail. “Max, stop!” She reached out, gripped his arm.
The car jolted to a stop.
Annie pointed. “There’s where that boy said the colonel’s MG got onto the course that night. Max, if someone wanted to get rid of the Porsche, it could be driven on a golf cart path.”
Max stared at the path. “Quick. Call the pro shop.” He was backing and turning the car. “Ask how deep the lagoon is at nine.”
Annie got the pro shop. “… about fifteen feet, eighteen right in the middle.”
“That’s deep enough.” She knew her excited comment puzzled the girl in the shop. “This is Annie Darling. Reserve a cart for me and my husband. We’ll be there”—the car roared around a curve—“in about four minutes.”
They made it in three, piled out of the car, and ran toward the rank of waiting carts. As they started off, a boy yelled, “Hey, that’s the wrong way.”
Max waved a hand. “An emergency.” Twice Max eased the cart off the golf path to yield to carts heading toward the back nine. Several of the golfers knew him. A Korean vet and active pilot in the Confederate air force called out, “Looking like Wrong Way Corrigan, Darling.” A humorless banker said acidly, “Reprehensible. It’s one way that way,” with a forceful gesture.
Max pushed the cart to its maximum twelve mph. When they reached the wooden bridge over the lagoon by the ninth green, Max stopped the cart on the bank.
A foursome approached the green. Red flags marked a swath in the center of the green where sod, not yet deemed playable, had been placed in the ruts left by the colonel’s MG the night of July fourth. If a ball landed in the repaired area between the flags, a golfer could drop the ball without penalty.
A new railing, not yet painted, was near the center of the bridge. Their footsteps echoed on the wooden bridge. Max looked at the new railing, then pointed at the stone post. “There’s a streak of yellow midway up. That’s probably where the front fender of the MG hit. Damn clever to hide the first damage.”
Annie stared at the murky brown water. If her conclusion was right, Shell’s car careened onto the golf cart path, driven by someone who knew this course well, plunged through darkness to the bridge over the lagoon, then, carefully, a door open, one hand on the wheel, the car was guided over the edge of the span to plummet into the lagoon, taking with it the top railing. Somewhere in the depths, mucked into mud, the green Porsche, no longer elegant, was touched by wavering reeds.
That night either a laughing Shell exulted in leaving no trace of her departure or a desperate murderer fled into the night. Shell could have walked across the course, taken the keys to the MG, staged the cover-up on the bridge, then left in another car. Or the driver left death behind and ran across the course to grab the colonel’s key from the valet stand. Fireworks burst above as the finale came nearer and nearer. There would have been a sweet sweep of relief when the MG wheeled onto the golf cart path. It wouldn’t have taken long to trench the fairway between nine and ten, gouge turf from the green at nine, and finally, to end on the bridge, the MG crumpled against the post. Out of the car then and a last sprint into the darkness.
Max looked down at the muddy water. “There’s one way to tell.” He started to pull up his polo shirt.
Annie grabbed his arm. “If the car’s down there, it can wait a few more minutes.” She yanked her cell from her pocket. “Billy—”
Max frowned. “He’s been warned off. Let me find out if there’s anything there.”
Annie gave him a look of sheer panic. “Go in that water? Are you out of your mind? Do you see that thing”—she pointed across the lagoon at a seven-foot alligator basking on the bank—“over there? That is not a toy. Contrary to what tourists think, that is not a dear adorable creature to be fed, especially not with your body.” She looked around. The far side of the lagoon bordered private property. A well-kept lawn sloped up to a cream-colored two-story stucco home. “Over there. There’s a canoe on the bank. We can borrow that.” She was extraordinarily proud that she used the plural. To be on water in the proximity of a scaly beast was not in her job description, but she had no intention of letting Max go out on the water by himself. He was just idiot enough to think he could take a dive.
Max held the canoe steady while Annie climbed in the stern. He settled in the bow, picked up a paddle. Annie’s nose wrinkled at the smell as they moved away from the reeds and into a patch of algae toward open water. “I hope it’s not blue green algae.”
Max spoke over his shoulder as he paddled smoothly into open water and headed toward the bridge. “Has anyone ever told you that you worry too much?” His voice was mild with an undercurrent of amusement.
“Blue green algae can make people really sick—” She broke off at the sound of low laughter. “Well,” she said finally, “maybe.”
The canoe glided to a stop next to the pillar nearest the newly restored railing. Max looked up. “The Porsche could have nosed almost straight down right there.” He used the paddle to point. The muddy brown water was opaque. “I’ll maneuver the canoe out a couple of feet. Bend over the side and put your paddle as far down in the water as you can.”
Annie tilted as far as she could, holding tight to the side, while Max leaned the opposite direction, a countervailing weight. Annie knew only too well how easily canoes tipped… Blue green algae… She didn’t look toward the opposite bank where she’d last seen the alligator sunning. If there was a ripple in the water and the alligator headed toward them, as well he might, this, after all, being his domain, she didn’t wan
t to know. She concentrated on her task, felt the oddly warm water on her hand, up to her wrist, reaching her forearm. She held the paddle firmly and poked down straight.
She lifted the paddle to avoid a drag as the canoe moved perhaps a foot or two at a time. Each time the canoe stopped, she eased the paddle down to its full extension. The bridge was about four feet behind them now. She didn’t want to think about the contortions necessary for Max to lean and maneuver the canoe at the same time.
The downward thrust of her paddle abruptly stopped.
Annie loosened her grip on the side, held up a hand. “Keep us here.” She lifted the paddle, again pushed down. When the tip met resistance, she raised the paddle, lowered it in a jabbing motion. There was no give, her hand jolted by the contact. “Whatever I hit, it’s hard.”
11
Four police cars and a forensic van lined up on the road. Billy Cameron and several officers watched from the bank. A blue tow truck was backed to the lagoon’s edge with its flatbed upended and tow lines loose and ready to attach. Max stood talking to the driver.
“Hell might be cooler.” Marian Kenyon shot a longing look across the lagoon at watchers in the shade of a towering live oak.
Annie agreed. Five o’clock on a July afternoon on the unshaded side of a steamy lagoon sent rivulets of sweat down her legs. She knew her face was as red and moist as Marian’s.
Abruptly, Marian lifted the Leica that hung on a strap around her neck as a masked figure in a wet suit broke the surface of the lagoon. “Here he comes.” Click, click, click. “Yeah, spray of water, nice. I can see the caption now: From the depths… Poor Lou. He must be even hotter than we are in that outfit.”
Athletic Sgt. Lou Pirelli, who’d grown up as an island kid, was at home in any kind of water anytime, anywhere. He trod water, shouted. “There’s a car. I can hook up the lines.” He stroked to the bank, maneuvered through the reeds.
Annie hoped he was wearing rubber swim slippers to protect his feet from sometimes razor-sharp reeds and broken mussel shells. He was too good a swimmer to need flippers in an area of water as small as a lagoon.
The tow truck driver relayed the lines to Lou. He swam out, disappeared into the depth, resurfaced, once, twice. When he bobbed to the surface the third time, he stroked quickly to the bank. “Ready.”
Max moved away from the tow truck, joined Annie and Marian.
Marian was oblivious now to the heat, the Leica aimed and ready as the winch moved the cables and the muddy water swirled. As a car roof lifted above the surface and Marian snapped one shot after another, an old black coupe jolted to a stop next to the tow truck. Doc Burford, his white shirt wrinkled and his brown trousers shabby with one droopy cuff, climbed out to stand and stare at the water, face heavy, arms folded.
After one last click as the cables pulled the muddy car up onto the hoisted flatbed, Marian scrabbled for her notebook, flipped the pages, then eased up to fluttering Do Not Cross tape for a look at the back of the rescued car. She came back to Annie and Max, waved her notebook. “License matches. Not that there are likely to be many Porsches gigged from a lagoon, but this is Shell Hurst’s car. And Billy must think there could be foul play or Doc Burford wouldn’t be here.”
Water streamed from the Porsche, likely draining from the engine and the trunk.
Marian stood on tiptoe, squinting. “I can’t see through the windows.”
Despite the heat, Annie felt cold. They had found Shell’s car. Where was Shell? Annie tried to picture Shell dancing the night away on the deck of a yacht moored in Rio.
Billy Cameron stood to one side of the tow truck, talking to Lou Pirelli, who also streamed water. Lagoon muck scummed his wet suit from the knees down. In a moment, Lou nodded. He waited until Mavis Cameron hurried to him with a pair of latex gloves. He slipped them on. She handed him a foot-long length of leather cord.
A grinding sound marked the slow descent of the flatbed. When the flatbed was horizontal, Lou scrambled up one side. He approached the front window of the driver’s seat, bent forward to peer inside. With a shake of his head, he looped the leather cord around the door handle, moved to one side, pulled. Water spewed from the interior.
Using all his strength, Lou prevented the door from swinging wide. A stream gushed through the six-inch passage, murky green water and a bloated blue gray hand with no nails on the tips of swollen fingers.
• • •
The door to the break room opened.
Hyla Harrison stepped inside. She held up several sheets of paper. “Your statements. After you check them over and sign, Billy wants to see you.” She placed stapled sheets in front of both Annie and Max. “Some iced tea?” Hyla’s face was uncommonly pale, emphasizing a sprinkling of freckles across her nose.
Annie was thirsty, but the police station break room’s vending machine carried canned tea, which ranked only a tad better than roach poison in Annie’s view. “Maybe a Coke.” At least cans were a natural habitat for soft drinks.
“Pepsi?”
At their nod, Hyla brought each of them a chilled can, pulled out a chair at the end of the table, and sat down, her posture straight.
Annie felt disheveled from the long hours at the lagoon. She and Max both looked sweaty and wrinkled. His seersucker shirt had some dried brown splotches from the splash of lagoon water. When they’d rowed back to the bank, she’d stepped in mud up to one ankle, and that light blue canvas espadrille would never be the same. Tonight she’d have to dig out the calamine for both of them. Her cheeks were hot and Max’s face was much too red. Usually they were equipped with hats and sunscreen, but this afternoon’s vigil hadn’t been planned.
Thoughts skittered like confetti, her defense against images that would be seared in her memory for a long time, though Max had tried to shield her from the moment that the swollen, foul-smelling mass that had been Shell’s body was removed from the mud-stained Porsche after Doc Burford officially pronounced that life had ceased to exist.
To fight the queasy unease in her stomach, Annie flipped the tab, took a long drink of the Pepsi, welcomed the quick uptick from sugar. It took only a moment to check the statement. Hyla was good and careful and she’d transcribed the recordings accurately.
Annie signed with a feeling of relief. As soon as she and Max spoke with Billy, they would be free to go and they could leave behind them the uncertainties that had driven them since Hayley Hurst enlisted Max’s help to find Shell.
As soon as Max signed and dated, Hyla was on her feet. She took the statements, held the door for them. They followed her down the beige-walled hall to Billy’s office. Annie knew that Hyla recognized they could find the office on their own, but that wasn’t proper protocol. She was an officer discharging her duty.
Hyla tapped on the door, opened it. “Mr. and Mrs. Darling are available, sir.”
Billy’s answer was grave. “Thank you, Officer. Please show them in.”
They settled in the wooden straight chairs opposite his yellow oak desk. Through the window on the Sound, the sunset blazed vivid orange. Lights sparkled on boats heading toward the harbor. Black skimmers flapped inches above the darkening water on their search for menhaden.
Billy gestured at two brown bags sitting on the edge of his desk. “Figured you guys were hungry. Cheeseburger with chili for Annie.” He pointed at a sack with an A on it. “Fried flounder on an onion bun for you, Max.”
Annie spread a couple of napkins on her lap and ate, surprised at her hunger, as Billy tapped a sheaf of papers and talked. “Good stuff in your statements.” He glanced at Max. “I get the picture that Edward Irwin was afraid Shell Hurst planned to publicly expose him at the dance. That didn’t happen, but she may have told him she’d contact the police the next day. That certainly would have given him a motive to silence her.” Billy’s broad face folded in thought. “From what Edward said about the phone call, she probably gigged the others ahead of time, too. We have her cell calls that day. She talked to Wesley. If she threate
ned to announce at the dance that he was running around on her with Vera, you can bet Wesley told Vera. Or Shell may have told him to go whistle for a divorce; she wasn’t going to play.”
Annie licked a smear of mustard from one finger. “Vera told Wesley he had to deal with her ‘tonight.’ That put Wesley right in the middle, Vera demanding that he do something to shut Shell up and arrange for a divorce, Shell laughing and refusing to agree.”
Billy made a couple of notes. “One of them—or both of them together—could have decided the only answer was murder.” He shook his head. “Shell intended to cause as much misery as possible at the dance. We know she talked to Dave Peterson. It looks like he planned to split from his wife, run away with Shell, but we didn’t find a suitcase in the trunk of the Porsche and she and Dave had a dustup at the dance. What’s your take on Dave’s reaction if she blew him off?”
Max spoke quickly. “You don’t make it as a big-time highway contractor unless you’re one tough dude.”
Annie remembered Dave’s flushed face when she confronted him about the gun Maggie said was in his desk drawer at home. “He wouldn’t like being played for a fool. Billy, can you find out if there’s a gun missing from Dave’s desk at home?” She paused. “Do you know yet how Shell was killed?” She didn’t want to ask about the bloated mass that had to be explored.
“Not a gun.”
Annie felt a welling of relief. Now she didn’t have to picture Maggie with a gun, slipping through the summer night in pursuit of Shell.
Billy wasn’t forthcoming. “The cause of death isn’t being publicly released.” His face creased. “I got hold of the sister. Damn tough to tell someone that kind of news over the phone. I told her we’d do our best to find out what happened. We told her what we knew, but for now we’re keeping forensic facts under wraps.”
