Death Walked In

by Carolyn Hart

  “I’ll take that.”

  Annie stiffened. The familiar voice was easy and smooth. Still on her hands and knees, clutching the package, no larger than six inches by four, she turned to look up at Hal Porter. Behind her the brick clicked into place, the hiding place no longer exposed.

  He stood a few feet away. He didn’t cradle the double-barreled shotgun as he had Wednesday morning. He held the shiny weapon straight and true, aimed directly at her. “Don’t do anything stupid. Or your pretty face will be in bloody ribbons.”

  She stared into mocking brown eyes. Hal Porter. Tall, strong, athletic, handsome Hal who had been involved from the first, pretending to be a friend and helper. Emma had been right. “Beware the Trojan Horse.” She’d been suspicious of the woman beneath the pier. They should have been suspicious of the oh-so-helpful handyman.

  He stood at ease. He was enjoying himself. Annie felt icy deep inside. Hal was looking forward to killing her. She pushed away the thought, knew she mustn’t let fear devour her.

  But Hal wasn’t a member of the family. Gwen Jamison told her friend she’d seen a member of the family hide a package in her family cemetery.

  “You?” Annie’s voice was uncertain.

  “Me.” His grin was satisfied. Chilling. “Me and a friend.”

  Annie had a swift memory of Denise’s bouncy, eager face. No one had mentioned her involvement with a man. Hal Porter was a swaggering, bold, sexy man. Had Gwen seen Denise? That made sense. Denise could easily have broken into the library, taken the coins, hurried to Gwen’s family cemetery to hide them. Gwen must have contacted Denise and promised to protect her if the coins were returned. Instead, a gunshot ended Gwen’s life. Annie had no doubt whose hand had held that gun.

  Now she faced a calculating killer armed with a shotgun. His shotgun, of course. There had been no black teenagers trying to break into the Franklin house late Wednesday night. If—when—she were found maimed and dead from a closeup blast, the search for the imaginary thieves would be intense. Thursday night the watching eyes had been his. She glanced at his shoes. Cowboy boots.

  “You had on sneakers Thursday night.”

  “What a smart little lady.” The derisive glitter in his eyes made clear his disdain for women. “If you’d pointed the flashlight at my feet, I’d have had to take you and the dude out then. You bought yourself a little time. Those shoes are at the bottom of a lagoon. I had to go home and get the boots.”

  Annie found it hard to breathe. Hal was relaxed, a man enjoying sport. When he’d walked toward them Wednesday morning, fresh from his first kill, she had admired his sun-bleached hair, strong features, and athletic build, his aura of insolence, his swagger, the confidence of a man who expected women to notice him. Now she saw the predatory gleam in his eyes.

  “Slide the package to me on the floor. Then the book.” He was impatient, but the shotgun never wavered.

  The fireplace was behind her. Hal stood between her and the hall. She still crouched. The barrels of the shotgun aimed at her face seemed enormous.

  Annie placed the slick package on the floor, pushed. The little book skidded close behind.

  Hal’s half smile and the aim of the shotgun remained steady as he scooped up the package and the book, tucked them inside his partially unzipped leather jacket. The smile slid away. His look was dreamy. He lifted the stock to his shoulder, his left hand slid along the barrel.

  Annie stood frozen. All she could think of was the horror for Max. Shotguns did dreadful things. She knew something about them. Hal’s was a twelve-gauge pump action, probably loaded with buckshot. If she were found on the floor of the lovely old drawing room, there would be blood and tissue splattered in every direction.

  Please, God, don’t let Max come to the house, please…

  At first the sound made no sense to her, a hard rock beat, thump thump double thump.

  Hal’s eyes blinked. It was as if he came back from a long way. He still held the shotgun high.

  Thump thump double thump.

  His left hand fell away from the barrels though his eyes never left her face. He pulled out a cell phone, flipped it open.

  “Yeah?” He was brusque. He listened. Suddenly he smiled, a huge, triumphant, elated smile. “Blood found in his car? That’s great. I was afraid they were too dumb to find it…. Sure I put it there. Why not?” His eyes narrowed. “Are you crazy? Who cares what happens to him? Somebody’s got to take the fall and it’s not going to be us…. You don’t have a choice.” The words were freighted with malignity. He still watched Annie.

  Slowly his gaze changed, bloodlust giving way to speculation. His eyes looked bright. His lips curved in a satisfied smile. “I’ll tell you what. We’ll talk about it. I’m at the Franklin place. Bring your car and we’ll go for a little drive.” His jaws ridged. “I don’t care what you tell anybody. You got to go to the grocery. You got to see about Denise’s funeral. Stop sniveling. Get in your car. If you aren’t here in five minutes, I’ll come after you.” His tone was silky. “You wouldn’t like that.”

  Max listened, his smile fading. “…to the hiding place in the Franklin house. At least I think I do. Max, there are directions in a wonderful little book. I’d bought it to surprise you, a history of the Franklin house. Rhoda Grant’s been hunting for it. She tried to find it at Miss Pinky’s and I’m sure that’s why she went to Chastain Friday morning. Anyway, I’ve got it and I’m going to go see what I can find.” Her voice was excited. A car door slammed. “I’m on my way there right now. I called and left a message for Harrison. I told her I’d ring nine-one-one if I found anything. I hope Posey listened to Barb and Kerry. Talk to you soon. Love you.” The connection ended.

  “Annie.” His voice was deep in his throat. Annie on her way to the Franklin house. Alone. His chest felt tight. She’d called at a few minutes before ten. It was ten twenty-five. The ferry was due to dock in five minutes. The island loomed ahead of them, a growing green smudge on the horizon. Annie had certainly had time to get to the Franklin house, time to look, time to call him back. She hadn’t called.

  Quickly he punched her number. Annie always carried her cell. The number rang five times, switched to voice mail.

  Maybe she’d left her purse in the kitchen. She often dropped it on a counter when they came in that way. The telephone there was in service in readiness for their move. Quickly Max dialed the new number. Once. Twice. The peals continued until voice mail was activated.

  Max punched 911. “I’ve got to talk to Officer Harrison…”

  Annie heard the trill of a mockingbird, the industrious rat-a-tat of a pileated woodpecker, smelled the sweet scent of camellias, watched oyster-shell dust plume beneath the wheels of a black Lexus as it pulled up behind her Volvo. She had never been so aware of the feel of the sun on her face.

  Rhoda Grant watched as Annie and Hal crossed the uneven humpy ground. Rhoda looked lost and bewildered. The eyes lifted toward Hal were filled with foreboding.

  Rhoda, the wife who wanted to fly, who loved fine things, who slept in a separate bedroom, who was seen by Laurel at a gambling club with a possessive man not her husband. How easily had she become involved in an affair with a dominating, sensual, dangerous man? Was the theft his idea or hers? Did they intend to sell the coins and run away together? Or was she a tool chosen by Hal for sex and later for crime?

  Hal opened the back door, jabbed the shotgun against Annie’s side. “Get in.”

  She slid into the back seat. Relief almost made her dizzy. Whatever happened, she wasn’t in the drawing room. Max wouldn’t find her there.

  Hal kept the shotgun trained on Annie.

  Rhoda looked toward him, her expression terrified. “You didn’t tell me she was here. You have a gun on her. Why?” There was a sob in her voice.

  “Stop crying.” His tone was ugly. “I don’t like women who cry. You’ve cried enough. It came in handy because everybody feels bad for you, the way you’ve howled over Denise. You’re a fool. She saw us
walking toward Gwen’s house. She had to die. And so does she.” His eyes never moved from Annie’s face. “Roll the windows down.”

  The windows whirred down.

  Hal slammed the back door shut, spoke to Annie through the open window. “Bend over, face on your knees, hold your ankles.”

  Annie felt confused. Was he going to shoot her in Rhoda’s car? With a sense of inevitability, she bent forward, gripped her ankles.

  A car door opened, the car rocked a bit, a door shut.

  “You can sit up.” Hal’s voice came from the front seat. The shotgun poked between the driver’s seat and the passenger seat. “Enjoy the ride.”

  The Corvette jolted to a stop behind Annie’s Volvo. A police cruiser was parked beside the Volvo. Max flung out of the car.

  Officer Harrison, her pale face troubled, walked toward him.

  Max looked past her at the back door to the Franklin house. He couldn’t speak.

  Harrison’s eyes showed pity. “She’s not there. I searched the entire house. Her purse is on the kitchen counter.”

  Max whirled, shouted. “Hal?”

  The only answer was the rustle of magnolia leaves in the dancing breeze.

  The Lexus jounced in the ruts of the narrow dirt road. “What if somebody sees us?” Rhoda’s voice shook.

  “It isn’t tourist season. If we see another car, we’ll go somewhere else.” Hal jerked his head toward Annie. “I doubt if she’s in any hurry.”

  Annie looked away from her captor, looked out into dimness, the sunlight blocked by a canopy of live oaks, magnolia, and slash pine. The car eased to a stop next to a yaupon holly shrub. Rhoda turned off the motor. The only sounds were the slap of bird wings as a flock rose from an island in the murky lake, the rustle of pine boughs, the rattle of magnolia leaves.

  Annie sat stiff and still. She and Max always came to the rookery in March to see the blue grosbeaks and summer tanagers and ruby-throated hummingbirds and indigo buntings. Last year they brought a picnic with ham and cheese sandwiches on homemade white bread and a bottle of chilled chardonnay. She’d been the first to spot a lemon-yellow parula. She and Max had spread a blanket in a secluded nook. After lunch, she’d lain in his arms and looked through binoculars until Max nuzzled her cheek and said birds were lovely but she was lovelier. She’d pointed out they were in a public place but he pointed out there was no public and he’d carefully chosen their luncheon spot and…

  “You can’t kill her, too!” Rhoda’s voice was shrill and desperate.

  Annie heard the words, but they didn’t penetrate her icy shell. Now it was said, words that could not be taken back.

  Hal flicked Rhoda a swift, bright look. “I’m not going to kill her.” He sounded amused.

  Rhoda sagged against the seat. “Will you tie her up, leave her? You’ve got a cabin cruiser. We can get away.”

  “Listen real close, Rhoda.” His easy drawl sounded comforting. “I’m not going to kill her. You’re going to kill her.”

  Rhoda leaned away from him, pressing against the door frame.

  His face was unyielding, merciless. “Get out. Both of you.”

  By the time Annie stood on the uneven sandy ground, Hal was around the car, the shotgun trained on her. He didn’t look toward Rhoda, who leaned against the car, trembling.

  “It’s your turn, Rhoda.” He pulled her away from the car.

  “I can’t.” The cry came from deep in her throat.

  He jerked her upright, slapped the shotgun into her hands.

  Annie tensed. Could she run? Should she run? But where? By the time she’d taken a half-dozen steps, he’d grab the shotgun and shoot.

  He moved a few feet to one side. “Lift it.”

  An ashen-faced Rhoda slowly raised the shotgun. “I could have put the coins back. I told Gwen that’s what we’d do. But you killed her.” Tears spilled down her cheeks.

  “You’re a fool. How safe did you think you’d be? We didn’t have a choice.” He looked impatient. “Come on, shoot.”

  “You said you loved me.” Her voice was a scarcely heard whisper.

  “Love?” He was derisive. “When I saw that gold, I decided you could get it for me. You were easy. Then you had to screw up, get yourself seen. But I’ve got the coins and I’m going to keep them.”

  “What about me?” The shotgun wavered in her hands.

  He shrugged. “What about you?” His tone was dismissive. “Stop wasting time. Aim.”

  The shotgun was level with Annie’s chest.

  Annie whirled and began to run.

  “Shoot, damn you. Shoot.”

  The shotgun roared.

  Officer Harrison looked tough and angry, her freckled face stern. “Where is Mrs. Grant?” The family stood by the side of the Grant house, Geoff, Justin and Margaret, Kerry and Barb. Missing were Ben and Rhoda. All of the family cars were there except for Ben’s MGB and Rhoda’s Lexus. Hal’s pickup was parked a little to one side.

  A shaken Geoff stared at Harrison in silence.

  Max struggled to keep his fury and fear leashed. Harrison was doing her best. But Annie was gone. What if no one knew? What if no one answered? The minutes hurtled past and Annie was gone.

  Geoff hunched against the cool breeze. He looked older and smaller. Justin stood with his arm around Margaret. Kerry’s violet eyes were huge and frightened. Barb trembled.

  Sunlight turned Justin’s hair and mustache to flame, but his face was pale. “Rhoda left in her car around twenty minutes ago. I was looking out the window of my room.”

  Geoff’s voice was thin. “Why are you looking for Rhoda?”

  “Information received. She was identified as the person who buried the stolen coins in Gwen Jamison’s family cemetery.” Harrison looked grim. “However, she was off island when Denise Cramer was killed. I told the circuit solicitor we needed to look for someone linked to her. Instead, he—” Harrison broke off. “I disagreed when Ben Grant was taken into custody. I asked our former police chief to investigate, see if there was any island gossip. We have no substantiation as yet but Rhoda Grant was observed at a Holiday Inn on the mainland with Hal Porter.”

  Geoff turned away.

  Max wanted to smash the world. He balled his hands into fists. Hal Porter. Hal and Rhoda were gone and they’d taken Annie.

  The sound came first, wheels crunching oyster shells. As the black Lexus came around the curve, no one moved or spoke. A woman slumped in the passenger seat. The car jolted to a stop a few feet behind the black truck. The driver’s door opened and Annie scrambled out. Pale and unsteady, she ran toward Max, her arms open wide. “Rhoda saved my life. He told her to shoot me, but she shot him instead.”

  Harrison strode toward the Lexus, revolver in hand.

  Annie reached the safe embrace of Max’s arms. Only then did tears come.

  Chapter 18

  Annie pulled Saran Wrap from a tray of Max’s finest appetizers, crisp rye crackers topped with Swiss cheese and carraway spread or feta and red pepper spread, celery loaded with cheddar and dried-apple spread. She’d declined his offer of coconut fried frog legs, but happily accepted marinated salmon strips on toast points.

  Max poured chardonnay into delicate crystal glasses.

  Flames flickered cheerfully as the logs shifted and settled in the fireplace.

  Annie looked around in gratitude. Death on Demand had never looked lovelier. She would be forever indebted to Rhoda Grant, who had been unfaithful and willing to steal but had never envisioned murder.

  The front bell announced the arrival of their guests. Emma Clyde moved down the central aisle, her blue-and-gold caftan billowing. Her square face was ruddy from sun at sea, her spiky hair a deep bronze. Henny Brawley, eyes shining with tears of happiness, rushed past Emma to envelop Annie in a hug. Laurel, a glorious vision of blond beauty in a swirl of soft violet silk, clasped her hands prayerfully. “My dear, such a terrible experience.”

  Surrounded, Annie reached out to them, welcomed their love a
nd caring. She’d planned this party for the return of the traveling trio long before she’d come so near to death. How special it was to celebrate their return and her deliverance.

  Laurel perched on one of the tall stools at the coffee bar. “Now.” Her breathy voice was intense. “Tell us everything…”

  Annie and Max took turns, but it was Annie who concluded. “He told her to shoot me. That’s when I ran. I stumbled over a branch and fell. I heard the gun go off. I thought she’d missed and then I heard her scream. I looked back and he was lying on the ground.”

  Emma cleared her throat. “I warned you of collusion. As I told you, Marigold is always suspicious of an apparently peripheral witness who purports to offer clinching evidence. Clearly, you should immediately have been suspicious of the ubiquitous handyman.”

  Laurel’s tone was gently chiding. “I do feel that I first offered the solution. As I said, my dear, look to passion. Passion is always involved.”

  Henny grinned at Annie, gave her the slightest flutter of a wink. “I recall emphasizing character. That turned out to be right, but I didn’t have Rhoda in mind.” Henny beamed at Annie. “In any event, you’re safe and sound and”—her voice lilted with pleasure—“I see that no one has yet identified this month’s paintings. I hoped I’d get home in time.”

  Annie knew what was coming. Would anyone ever match Henny’s record for identifying the books and authors in the monthly watercolors?

  Dark eyes sparkling, Henny pointed at each picture in turn. “The Body in the Snowdrift by Katherine Hall Page, Murder on Monday by Ann Purser, Hornswoggled by Donis Casey, The Chocolate Bridal Bash by JoAnna Carl, and Dead Man Docking by Mary Daheim.”

  Epilogue