by Carolyn Hart
Edward pulled his shoulders back. His cheeks puffed out. “I don’t have to talk to you.”
Max sat on the edge of the desk, folded his arms. “The police are holding Jed Hurst.”
Surprise jerked Edward’s sparse eyebrows high. “Jed?” He sagged against his chair in relief. “If he’s the one, then why don’t you leave me alone?”
“He’s innocent.” Max spoke quietly. “An innocent kid shouldn’t go to jail. Do you agree?”
Edward’s eyes dropped to his desktop. “The police must have some grounds to hold him.”
“They do. But he’s innocent. We’ve found out enough”—Max could see the terrace in his mind, Shell slender and arrogant, sure of her beauty and her power, walking toward the path, Vera watching, Jed near the grandstand, Wesley starting after Shell—“to know the murderer either followed her from the terrace or was waiting at her car. That’s where you can help. If you are innocent, you have no reason not to tell me when you left the terrace and where you went.”
Edward’s face was suddenly still. He looked at Max. Something flickered deep in his watery brown eyes. Fear? Despair? Uncertainty?
Max was intent. If only he could ask the right question. “Did you see Shell leave the terrace?”
It was as if Edward had been handed a lifeline. The words came fast, jerkily. “I left right after the fireworks started. My head hurt. Eileen decided to stay. I walked home.”
Max felt a sick whip of disappointment. Not the right question. He tried again. “When was the last time you saw Shell?”
Edward’s gaze slipped away. He didn’t look at Max. “I don’t know. Maybe as the dance ended. I wasn’t paying any attention.”
The lie hung between them.
“After she threatened you with jail, you didn’t pay any attention?”
Edward’s stare was dull, defeated. “I never wanted to see her again.”
• • •
Billy Cameron was patient. He took notes. When both Annie and Max were done, he slowly shook his head. “So everybody’s said where they were. Maybe that’s true. Maybe not. And maybe”—he looked at Annie—“you’re right about Wesley finding her dead and the kid running there later and panicking and getting rid of the body, but somebody killed her. We’ve got Wesley, Jed, and Dave all at the lot at the right time. But we don’t have any proof.” His head swung toward Max. “As for the phone booth, we don’t have a murder investigation into the death of Richard Ely.”
Max started to interrupt, but Billy held up a hand. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know what you believe. Richard was blackmailing somebody. You’re right that a call went from the booth to his house at nine oh-three P.M. the night of the storm. You did some good legwork to track down the Talbot woman. But her description could fit anybody. So, that’s no help.” He gave a grim smile. “I don’t think the judge will give me a warrant to search for a well-cut London Fog raincoat. And you left a name off your list.” He didn’t wait for Max to ask. “Maybe Jed Hurst was all geared up in his dad’s London Fog and ivy cap.”
Max didn’t bother to answer. His expression spoke for him.
Billy looked wry. “I get you. Too subtle for a kid and how would he pay off Richard? The kid can’t sell his silver spoon yet.” Billy rubbed one cheek with knuckles. “There’s not a whisper of proof but your scenario makes sense.” The phone on his desk buzzed. He glanced down, picked up the receiver, punched a button. He listened, wrote on a notepad. He hung up, then lifted blue eyes to look at Max. “Hyla found prints in the phone booth. Lots of them are old, smudged, don’t matter. Several are recent, clear, distinct. She ran everything she picked up against the prints Mavis took. Like you said, everybody was quite willing to help their law enforcement officer. All of them knew they’d never set foot in that MG. So we got their prints and”—he sounded grim, not relieved—“we have a match. One of our helpful citizens sure as hell made a call from that booth, but we’ll never prove it was the call to Richard Ely.”
Annie felt the beginning of enormous relief. A match…
Faces flickered in her mind like jerky footage in an old black-and-white film. Dave with his bullish masculinity, the once beautiful Maggie diminished by illness and infidelity, imperious Eileen proud of her family and social standing, frightened Edward facing disgrace, possibly jail, reckless Vera terrified for her son, and third-generation rich Wesley butting against realities where money couldn’t help. “Oh, Billy, now Jed will be safe.”
Billy’s face was stolid, his words clipped. “Yeah, I can pin those prints to one of the suspects. But there’s no way to prove those prints were made when the call to Richard was placed, no way to prove Richard was murdered, no way to tie the killer to Shell. No way.”
Annie heard a familiar name with a quiver of shock.
• • •
The webcam picture of the yacht’s saloon lacked clarity, but there was no mistaking the expressions on three distinctive faces. Emma Clyde’s square jaw jutted with determination. Spiky blue hair mirrored her eyes and matched a swirling caftan. It was apparently a blue day. Laurel Roethke’s dreamy gaze had a mystical quality. The exquisite cut of a long-sleeve chiffon blouse with alternating bands of pale green and beige emphasized an aura of elegance and Elvira otherworldliness. Henny Brawley’s intelligent brown eyes narrowed in concentration. She folded her arms, austere and formidable in a cream turtleneck and black linen trousers.
Henny broke the silence. “How utterly frustrating.”
Emma barked. “There has to be a way.”
Laurel turned a thoughtful gaze toward Annie.
Max’s arm slipped around Annie’s shoulders, a hand tightening protectively on her arm.
Dorothy L, startled by his sudden movement, jumped to the floor and looked back at the sofa.
“I wonder.” Laurel’s husky voice was speculative.
Annie stiffened. When Laurel had that look…
Laurel smoothed a tendril of golden hair. “Dear Annie. You’ve made such a point of speaking to all of them. It wouldn’t come as a surprise for you to make contact, possibly intimate puzzlement at some discrepancy and suggest a meeting at some secluded spot and, of course, there would be brave minions of the law secreted—”
“Ma. No.” Max was emphatic.
Annie tried to consider the possibility in an academic fashion. Deep inside, she felt a flicker of terror. Now that they knew, she could see the danger, the coldness, the intelligence at work. Only a fool would arrange such a meeting.
Emma’s bulldog face scrunched in thought. “Annie nattering about discrepancies won’t break through that composure. We need some kind of shock.”
Henny pushed up from the cane chair, paced restlessly. She moved with the grace of both an athlete and an actress. She’d been the mainstay of the island’s little theater for years. She stopped, faced the camera, flung out a hand. “It’s like slamming into a glass wall. We can see through the barrier, but we can’t break through. We know everything, yet safe on the other side of the barrier, the murderer has no fears, unaware that we know.”
Laurel murmured dreamily. “That’s why”—she glanced toward Annie—“I thought if we arranged a surprise—”
Annie came to her feet, clapped her hands together.
Laurel looked hopeful.
Max rose, too. “Absolutely not. No assignations in a remote area.”
Annie was ebullient. “We know. The murderer doesn’t know. Don’t you see?”
Four faces stared at her, Emma with an impatient frown, Laurel with an eager light in dark blue eyes, Henny with a quirked eyebrow, Max with his jaw set.
Annie spoke rapidly, forcefully, excitedly.
Emma raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Quite clever. Amazing.”
Annie charitably decided Emma wasn’t amazed at Annie’s perspicaciousness, rather at the outlines of an elaborate trap for an unwary killer.
Ideas came at a rapid clip. Henny provided a roster of names with brief descriptions. They pulled and tugg
ed at the plan, made modifications, expanded, deleted.
“Would that we were there. But now we must leave the execution to the force in place.” Emma clearly thought the second team was in charge. She glanced from Annie to Max and back. “As Marigold often says when resolution rests upon Inspector Houlihan, ‘I have provided clear instruction. The matter is now in the lap of the gods.’” Emma rose majestically and sailed to the wet bar at one end of the saloon. “This calls for a libation.”
Max moved to their wet bar.
Soon, they rose and held their glasses in a toast. “Until tomorrow night…”
• • •
Mavis Cameron appeared as always behind the counter at the station, self-possessed, calm, pleasant, but there was a flash of curiosity in her mild gaze as she waved them through the swinging gate.
Max tapped on Billy’s door, opened it. It was yet another beautiful day in paradise, the early-morning sun streaming through the harbor windows, highlighting Billy’s blond hair with its frosting of white, emphasizing the tired pouches beneath his eyes, turning the yellow varnish of his desk a bright gold. He, too, was, as usual, crisp in a white shirt and khaki trousers, grooved lines at the side of compressed lips the only sign of fatigue and stress. He waved a hand toward the straight chairs. His beginning wasn’t promising. “I’ve got ten minutes. The mayor’s due. I have to arraign the kid today. I don’t like it, but I can’t back off. We’ve got him dead to right on the MG and disposing of the body. The circuit solicitor’s pressing me to file murder charges. I won’t do it, but I don’t have enough evidence to get anyone else. Those prints in the phone booth could have been made any day anytime, and you can bet that’s what the murderer will claim. Another day, another week. As for the description, it could be anybody. Plus we don’t have a homicide investigation for Richard Ely. Right now we’re up a creek.”
Annie was decisive. “We have a plan.”
His eyes checked the wall clock. “Be quick.”
It didn’t take long, contact Jerry O’Reilly, arrange for calls to country club members, persuade the innocent to cooperate, line up the supporting cast.
He looked from one to the other, back again. Finally, slowly, he nodded. “There’s no law against you calling on people to do their civic duty. If people want to show up, fine. If not…” He shrugged. “We’ll cover you.” His smile was dry. “We’ll simply be cooperating with a citizen request. We’ll set up a videocam on the terrace and hook up the sound to the overflow lot. If you get something, we’ll be there. If you don’t…”
Annie laced her fingers together. Definitely there was no guarantee. If they failed, pressure would mount on Billy to charge Jed with murder. “We have to count on shock. The murderer has no idea there is suspicion of murder in Richard’s death, no idea the fingerprints were found in the phone booth, no idea someone watched from the Mermaid Hotel.”
Billy didn’t look convinced. “None of this works unless you can turn out a raft of people. Why would anyone come?”
Annie had an answer. “We’ll make the invitation too hard to resist. A thrill a minute for those who enjoy being on the edge of a murder case. That will get most of them. Some will come because they like the Hursts or think Jed’s going to be a Masters champion someday.” Once again faces flickered in her mind. “As for those involved, all of them are decent people but one. They’ll come because they want to do the right thing.” She hoped.
Billy had been a cop for a long time. “If they don’t?”
Max had an answer. “We expand the supporting cast.”
Billy looked toward the window.
Annie knew he wasn’t seeing the harbor bright on a sunny July morning, white sails brilliant, steel gray porpoises arching in their aquatic ballet, green water tipped by whitecaps, gulls wheeling as they swooped down for prey. The intercom on his desk buzzed.
Billy’s big hand reached out, flicked.
“Mayor Cosgrove is here.” Mavis’s voice was as colorless as winter fog.
“Right. I’ll come out to meet him.” Billy stood, looked at Annie and Max. He gestured with a thumb. “Go to the break room. You might as well start there. When you’re finished, check to see if the coast is clear and His Honor’s waddled away before you leave.”
The mayor was no friend to Billy, but Annie and Max also ranked high on His Honor’s aversion list.
Billy moved toward the door as they stood. He gave them a final brief look. “Seven o’clock. We’ll be in the overflow lot.”
• • •
Max opened the door to the break room, held the door for Annie. Two stricken faces turned toward them and Annie understood Billy’s oblique comment. Yes, Vera and Wesley Hurst were the right place to start.
Vera’s well-groomed perfection was a distant memory. Her thin face with the prominent jaw was pale as ash, her eyes red-rimmed, her dark hair tangled, in need of a brush. She lifted a shaking hand to her throat. “Leave us alone. We’re in big trouble. Stop hounding us.”
Wesley pushed up from a pale orange plastic chair. He no longer looked like a preppy habitué of the yacht club, his smooth face drawn and haggard, his eyes haunted. “Damn you people.”
“I thought”—Vera’s voice cracked—“maybe they were coming to say we could take Jed home.” Her face screwed up and she cried as if the tears would never stop.
Annie took a step toward her, held out a hand. “We want Jed to be free. He’s innocent. We know who the murderer is and we’ve come to ask you to help us. Please”—her voice wobbled—“listen to us.” She talked fast and hard.
Vera lifted her face, never minding the wetness of her cheeks. “You can save Jed?”
Max’s voice was gentle. “We can save Jed. You have to trust us.”
Wesley’s lips trembled. “I’ve been nuts. Jed’s fingerprints… I knew he couldn’t hurt anyone but I didn’t know anything I could say would help him. Yeah. I found her dead. I’ll swear to it. I’ll do anything you want me to do.”
• • •
Annie leaned against a railing near the wheelhouse of the Miss Jolene. The ferry plowed westward, the morning sun still high in the sky. She welcomed the breeze off the water and the sense of freshness and freedom so different from the heavy anguish in the break room of the Broward’s Rock Police Station. Please God, she and Max could bring peace to two terrified parents and freedom to a kid who had tried to protect his dad. She glanced at her watch. The run to the mainland took forty-five minutes. In another fifteen minutes, she would reach Chastain, the lovely old town on a high bluff overlooking the river. Antebellum homes, some among the oldest in South Carolina, drew tourists every day. On the outskirts of the small and elegant town sat a redbrick college. Waiting to meet her were some of the best and brightest from the Chastain College drama department faculty and students. Thanks to cell phones, Henny had already spoken to Roderick Fraley, the drama department chair, an old friend and one of her fellow actors in summer theater in Savannah.
Annie would meet them in the main hallway of the drama building. She could hear Henny’s well-modulated voice in her memory. “Roderick is tall, a gaunt face, rather an Abe Lincoln physique. Amelia Wellington looks like everyone’s Aunt Mary. She’s about five-four, snowy white hair, a camellia complexion, soft brown eyes, a dumpling figure. Morgan Bitter has a Brian Cox face, once seen, never forgotten. Smooth brown hair, black slash eyebrows, sharp features, medium height. Robin Visey is flat-out gorgeous, shoulder-length dark hair, slender, tall. They won’t let you down.”
• • •
Jerry O’Reilly’s anxious gaze moved from Max to Vera and Wesley Hurst. Jerry’s freckled face didn’t have a glimmer of its usual charm. “Tonight?” He puffed his cheeks in a grimace and looked as though he would like to be anywhere but the office of the service manager for the Broward’s Rock Golf and Country Club. “On the terrace?” Clearly he was flailing about in his mind, searching for some way to gracefully refuse.
Wesley hunched forward in his chair, his
haggard face relentless, unyielding. “I’ll rent the whole damn club. Listen, Jerry, this has to happen.” The tone was harsh. Wesley was a man fighting for his son.
Jerry rubbed the side of his neck. “Mr. Hurst, I understand you’ve got a problem. But club members don’t like to get involved—”
Max interrupted. “Jed’s a junior champion. People like him. Look, Jerry, you don’t have to know much about any of this. Wesley’s renting the terrace, inviting people who were here for the fireworks to help him find out more about what happened to his wife that night. We’ll handle the rest of it. All you have to do is get the grandstand set up and make sure all the waitstaff who were on duty that night are here. I’ll take full responsibility.”
• • •
Ingrid Webb held the door for a reluctant customer. “We’ll reopen later this afternoon. Some technical difficulties necessitate our closing.”
The rawhide wiry blonde wasn’t happy. “I haven’t finished my shopping.”
Ingrid gave a bright smile, spoke loud enough for the customers now filing toward the door. “A special thank-you for everyone’s understanding.” She glanced at a stack of new Kate Carlisle books. “A free copy for each of you.”
The coppery tanned blonde took the book with a frown, but when she saw the cover, her eyes lighted. “Oh, a mystery about a rare book…”
When the door closed after the last straggler, Ingrid hurried down the aisle. Joyce Thornwall and Pamela Potts each sat at tables separated by the length of the coffee area with cell phones and a country club directory. Joyce was calm, unhurried, her smooth white hair unruffled. She ticked off the fifth name on her list, pressed numbers. Pamela, glasses pushed high on her nose, spoke in her customary precise tone. “Mrs. Vinson, so glad to find you at home. As an outstanding citizen of our island, I know you will be pleased to help the Hurst family as they seek to discover more about the evening Shell Hurst disappeared…”
• • •
In an Australian slouch hat, aviator glasses, a Hawaiian shirt left over from an aloha party, chinos rolled to the knees, and black high-top sneakers, Max doubted his mother would recognize him. He pedaled his bike through a familiar neighborhood. He started four doors away from his quarry’s home. He parked the bike on its stand in the shade of a live oak and mounted the steps of an antebellum house with upper and lower verandahs and ionic columns. A green jardiniere with tall stalks of flowering acanthus sat to the left of a white door inset with art glass. Max rang the bell.
