by Carolyn Hart
The husky voice exuded support. “You wouldn’t be calling if you were in the chapel—”
Annie’s eyes darted to the round clock. To her surprise it read ten minutes after ten. She regularly attended Holy Communion at ten o’clock on Wednesdays in the chapel of St. Mary’s, but Ingrid’s abrupt departure had deranged, as Hercule Poirot might remark, her routine.
“—so obviously something unexpected has occurred. I am thrilled—humbled—exalted—that you are seeking my help.” A sigh of contentment wafted over the wire. “Henny and I have just completed our morning tai chi on my deck overlooking the lagoon. Happily a portion of the deck is covered so the swirling mist over the marsh was lovely, much as you might see in a hanging scroll of a Chinese landscape. Annie, would it surprise you if I told you that a great blue heron,” Laurel’s tone was hushed, “executed a most perfect Stork Spreads Its Wings. Oh, the grace of that long golden bill, the symmetry of that curving neck, the delicacy of those trailing feathers.”
Annie resisted the impulse to say that she would not only be surprised but astounded since most great blue herons of her acquaintance did not attend tai chi classes. Herons and storks were cousins so it might be assumed the exercise was patterned after the birds and not the birds after the exercise.
As was often the case in exchanges with her mother-in-law, Annie’s mouth opened and closed with a sense once again that she had been bested, but wasn’t quite certain how it had happened. “Laurel, I need help. Ingrid’s sister…”
Emma paced back and forth near the counter, muttering. “Who is she? Not a stranger to the island or she wouldn’t know about Nightingale Courts.”
Annie spoke a little louder. “…so I’m going to Nightingale Courts right now.”
The front doorbell sounded.
Annie looked up in time to see Emma’s caftan swirling out into the mist.
“Sweet child, don’t give the store a moment’s thought.” Laurel’s laughter was a gay trill. “Henny and I will be there at once. Everything shall be splendid. Henny and I have often discussed how we would cha—That is, Death on Demand will receive our most loving and careful and insightful supervision.”
MAX DARLING BALANCED NEAR THE TOP OF THE WOODEN ladder, one hand gripping the top step. With the other hand, he maneuvered a furled banner toward a hook projecting from the rafter. He eased the rod into the hook. With both sides secure, he started down the ladder, pulling the banner down as he went.
When he reached the flagstone floor of the harbor pavilion, he looked up. The ten-by-twelve-foot banner hanging from the central rafter rippled in the onshore breeze that swept gently through the open-air structure. If he turned, the view of the Sound would be magnificent, a light haze of fog over jade green water, sailboats scudding before the wind, steel gray dolphins leaping and diving. Instead, he focused on the banner. Maybe he should hook some trolling sinkers to each end. He had some eight-ounce sinkers.
“It looks pretty, moving in the breeze.” The soft voice was admiring.
Max swung around. A much-too-thin girl—his mind amended the thought—a much-too-thin young woman, in a faded yellow blouse and age-paled jeans, stood astride a bicycle at the foot of the pavilion steps. She looked damp from the mist.
She gave an apologetic smile. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You’re fine. Come on up.” The harbor pavilion was a public picnic facility and anyone could reserve it. Since he and Annie had switched their party plans at the last minute, he was glad it was early enough in April that the property was available on a Friday night and that Ben Parotti, proprietor of the island’s famed Parotti’s Bar and Grill, would cater for them. If the party had occurred at the Franklin house, Max had planned to don his chef hat and serve shrimp and crab okra gumbo, baked chicken breasts with a Madeira wine and whipped cream sauce, corn pudding, and cold asparagus with a vinaigrette dressing. His signature lime shortcake, light and zesty, would have been the dessert.
Instead of asking Ben to replicate Max’s dinner, they’d settled on an oyster roast with the usual suspects from the menu at Parotti’s Bar and Grill: rice with almonds, raisins, and chopped cooked chicken; apple fritters; cheese grits; curly fries; candied sweet potatoes; and pineapple-coconut cookies. A grill would offer hamburgers and hot dogs for nonoyster fans. Beer on tap, sweetened and unsweetened iced tea, assorted soda pop, and chicory coffee strong enough to march in a parade would satisfy thirst.
The slender woman propped her bike and came up the steps. She joined him to look up at the silk hanging. The banner held a life-size picture of Max and Annie, standing hand in hand on the piazza of the Franklin house, framed by alabaster white columns. The photo had been taken on a brilliantly sunny day.
Max’s gaze scanned past his own image to Annie, his beautiful, fun-loving, fascinating Annie with flyaway blond hair and steady gray eyes and kissable lips, soon to be hostess of the Franklin house. Her smile would welcome their guests Friday night to what should have been their inaugural party. The banner would proclaim the hospitality they hoped to offer at the Franklin house for years to come. The ripple of the fabric made it seem as if he and Annie were moving toward the viewer. Maybe he didn’t need any weights.
The visitor looked curious. “Is it an ad for a movie?”
He squinted. The banner did have the quality of a movie poster with its vivid colors and crisp images. Certainly the South Carolina Low Country had been the site of its fair share of films in recent years, thanks to the success of the hardworking South Carolina Film Commission in wooing films and TV programs.
“Nothing that grand.”
The girl looked at him, recognition quick. “You’re on the banner.”
Max pointed. “That’s my wife. The banner’s a surprise for her. We were supposed to have a party in our new house Friday night. An old house, actually. But we had some water damage. Since the party was already scheduled, we decided not to cancel…” He broke off because she wasn’t listening.
She stood beneath the banner, gazing around the old pavilion. A seat-level stone wall, conveniently placed for marshmallow toasting, framed a huge fireplace. Picnic tables and benches filled the remainder of the pavilion. More picnic tables dotted the grassy expanse between the pavilion and the harbor boardwalk. Diners could choose between the cover of the pavilion or the open-air tables.
The breeze stirred dark curls that sprang away from a thin face, emphasizing too-sharp features. She looked at the pavilion and the tables beyond on the grass, then turned toward the woods. She stood with her shoulders hunched, tense and stiff.
Max’s first impression had been of the accentuated thinness that often marked models, but her hollow-cheeked face was worn, older than its years, with dark smudges beneath somber brown eyes. Max wondered if she had been ill.
She turned toward him. “A party Friday night.” She brushed back the straying curls. “I hope you have a good time.” With that, she gave a slight nod and hurried to the steps and down. She swung onto the bike and pedaled fast.
Max had a sense of escape as he watched her disappear behind a grove of pines. He was left in silence broken only by the caw of seabirds and the clang of a buoy, lonely sounds both.
ANNIE DROVE FAST ON SAND DOLLAR ROAD, HOPING SGT. Hyla Harrison and her patrol car weren’t tucked in the shadows of a live oak. Annie and the aloof officer wouldn’t be termed friends, but now they were friendly. Sgt. Harrison usually dropped by on her day off to order a double espresso poured into half-and-half and buy the next title in Ed McBain’s 87th Precinct series. Annie’s fingers clamped on the wheel. She was ready to brake if she saw a bicyclist, deer, or Sgt. Harrison.
Annie turned left from Sand Dollar Road onto a narrow, sandy twisting lane. A hand-lettered arrow pointed west: NIGHTINGALE COURTS 2, MILES. Dust churned beneath the Volvo’s wheels as she passed beneath the arch of the honeysuckle-laden arbor and nosed into a parking slot near Cabin One.
Grateful that the mist had eased and the gray sky was beg
inning to lighten, she hurried to the manager’s office. The small space was filled to capacity. As she slipped behind the counter, she was relieved when a quick count added up to five. She could handle five. Without thinking, she sucked air deep into her abdomen. “Breathe from your center, peace will follow.” She almost strangled, realizing she heard Laurel’s husky voice in her mind, but darned if the inflow of oxygen wasn’t helping.
Ingrid and Duane had never upgraded to a computer. They registered their guests in an old-fashioned leather-bound book that had come with the property when Ingrid bought it twenty-five years ago. They did have a small credit card scanner. Two couples from Ohio, the Gormans and the Hasseldorfs, were quickly checked into Cabins Three and Four. Annie noted their license plate numbers and felt a quiet pride that she’d remembered everything. She smiled at the new lodgers. “Due to a family emergency, the cabins aren’t ready yet, but they will be available within the hour. Please be the guests of Nightingale Courts for lunch at Parotti’s Bar and Grill.”
Smiles replaced frowns and in a flurry the couples were on their way, clutching a handwritten note to put the meals on the Darlings’ tab. Annie took another centered breath and felt cool, calm, and collected. She turned to the waiting area’s final occupant, a slouch-hatted, raincoat-clad figure hidden behind the fronds of a potted banana tree.
“How may I help you?” She tried not to sound hurried though she felt the minutes fleeting before the tourists would return, expecting pristine cabins.
“Took you long enough.” Emma’s crusty voice wasn’t admiring. She ducked from behind the banana tree.
“Emma?” Annie blinked. Where and how had she arrived? Emma’s maroon Rolls-Royce certainly hadn’t been parked out in front.
Emma’s blue eyes gleamed. “I’m incognito.”
Annie’s stare was blank.
Emma moved briskly toward the counter. “Marigold never tips her hand when she goes undercover.”
Since it might be dangerous to her health, Annie never admitted that she loathed Emma’s overbearing, red-haired sleuth. Although it was lovely to see Emma aggressive and demanding, almost, in fact, her old self, Annie didn’t have time to waste. “Whatever it is, it has to wait until I get two cabins cleaned.”
Emma reached for the register. “You run right along. I’m checking into Seven. I’ve already parked Essie Faye’s son’s car there.” Essie Faye was Emma’s imperturbable housekeeper. “He’s loaned it to me.”
“Why?”
Emma planted her hands on her hips. “The girl in Six. How can we keep an eye out for her if we don’t know who she is?”
Obviously, the Girl on the Bicycle—a possible title?—had captured Emma’s imagination. Perhaps Emma would get back on track. The subdued ghost-of-her-former-obnoxious-self would be replaced by the crusty persona Annie knew well. In Annie’s private thoughts—very private—she thought of the mystery writer as Emma Center-of-Her-Own-Universe Clyde. Whatever, Emma’s request seemed harmless and another cabin rented, another dollar in the Nightingale Courts coffer. “Okay. Put the register on the second shelf when you finish.”
ANNIE’S NOSE ITCHED. SINCE HER GLOVED HANDS WERE damp from scrubbing the lavatory in Cabin Four, she wiggled her nose, finally sneezed into the crook of her elbow. She was almost done, the cabins dusted, beds freshly made, floors swept. She glanced at her watch. She had ten minutes left of her hour and only this bathroom to finish. She reached for the mop, blinked watery eyes. Maybe she’d put in too much ammonia—
The screen door rattled. A high voice cried, “Somebody’s hurt.”
Annie whirled, knocking over the pail. Sudsy water sloshed onto the tiles. She moved fast, skidding on the wet floor. She pushed open the screen door.
A thin, dark-haired woman stood beside the cleaning cart near the cabin steps. She pointed toward Cabin Six. “A woman’s hurt. I found her in my cabin. Hurry. She may be dying.”
Chapter 3
Annie pushed inside Cabin Six. A crumpled figure lay near the foot of the bed. In a shaft of sunlight from the open door, a ruby ring sparkled on an out flung hand. “Emma…”
The next few moments were never clear in Annie’s mind. She found herself on her knees, holding a clean hand towel gently against the bloody gash on Emma’s forehead.
The young woman stood in the doorway. “Can I help?”
“I think I have the bleeding stopped.” Annie’s cell phone was in her purse in the office. “Do you have a cell phone?” The cabins no longer had in-room telephones. Ingrid and Duane touted solitude, promising a retreat from worldly cares at lovely Nightingale Courts. Ingrid saw it as a reasonable savings, confident everyone carried a cell phone these days. If they didn’t have a cell, they were welcome to use the office telephone as long as charges were reversed.
“No.” The young woman moved forward. “I’ll stay with her if you want to go call.” She knelt beside Annie. “I can hold the cloth.”
Annie was on her feet. She ran as fast as she could. When she reached the office, her breath came in choked gasps. She punched 911.
“Emergency services.”
Annie was relieved to recognize Mavis Cameron’s voice. Island Police Chief Billy Cameron’s wife was unflappable and capable. “Mavis, Annie Darling. Send an ambulance to Nightingale Courts, Cabin Six. Emma Clyde has a head injury. She’s unconscious.” Annie hung up and turned on her heel.
When Annie hurried back into the cabin, the dark-haired woman held Emma’s wrist. She looked up, her eyes concerned. “There’s a pulse, but it’s faint. I don’t know how long she’s been here. I guess she was bringing clean towels and she fell.”
Bringing clean towels?
Towels were tumbled onto the floor near Emma. Indisputably, she had carried them and dropped them as she fell.
Annie spoke uncertainly. “I guess that’s what happened.” Emma had no business in this cabin, with or without towels. She once again dropped down beside Emma, took one flaccid hand in her own, worried at its coolness.
It seemed a long time but Annie knew only minutes had passed when sirens sounded. The hospital was very near. Annie pushed up from the floor, hurried to hold the door for the EMTs.
The young woman stood near the table, her thin face furrowed. Her yellow peasant blouse was too big, slipping a little on one shoulder. A braided leather belt hitched up saggy jeans. Faded red sandals were down-at-heel.
Annie’s muscles tensed, willing the techs to move faster though she knew they were proceeding with all due speed, following protocol. Most important, they made a careful examination to be sure Emma hadn’t suffered a neck or back injury, then lightly applied a gauze bandage to the wound.
Annie breathed a sigh of relief when Emma was strapped onto a gurney. Emma’s face, the portion not hidden by gauze, was waxy, the grayness of shock and blood loss. The EMTs, ebullient Josie Winters, who had a complete collection of Elizabeth Peters’s Amelia Peabody series, and burly Jack Kramer, who had once played shortstop with the Savannah Sand Gnats, eased their burden down the steps. As the ambulance pulled away, siren wailing, a police cruiser turned into Nightingale Courts.
Annie looked at the thin woman. Annie didn’t know her name, but there wasn’t time now for introductions. “I’ve got to go to the emergency room. I’ll straighten the cabin when I get back.” Or maybe she could catch Max, ask him to take over at Nightingale Courts and finish the cleaning. She’d grab her purse from the office and head for the hospital. Annie pushed through the door, then stopped on the porch.
Police Chief Billy Cameron walked toward Cabin Six. Billy was six-feet-plus inches of brawn and character. His short blond hair had glints of silver though he was still in his thirties. His eyes held a sober, questing look. Billy was the island’s watchdog. He’d grown up on Broward’s Rock, and he took the safety of each and every citizen very seriously indeed. Billy was here because she’d called 911 and not stayed on the line.
He came up the steps. His probing gaze chided her as she stepped back
for him to enter. “Mavis didn’t get all the information. What happened to Emma? What are you doing here? Where’s Ingrid?”
She hadn’t reported a crime, but Billy knew his island. Famed island mystery author Emma Clyde lived in a multimillion-dollar beach mansion. Her discovery, unconscious from a head injury in a motel cabin, required explanation.
“Ingrid’s gone to Florida on a family emergency and I’m handling everything. I don’t know how Emma got hurt. I didn’t find her. The guest who rents the cabin found her”—Annie looked at her watch—“about twenty minutes ago.” It felt as though hours had passed.
Billy looked puzzled. “She found Emma in her cabin? How did Emma get in?”
Before Annie could reply, the young woman joined her on the porch and answered. “I guess she used her passkey since she was bringing towels.” She stood aside to point into the cabin. “See, they’re on the floor.”
Billy looked at the woman, not the towels.
There was a moment of silence.
She drew herself up, her narrow face rigid.
“Hello, Iris.” Billy rocked back on his heels. His gaze was cool. “Your grandmother reported you missing.”
A pulse fluttered in her thin throat. She didn’t speak.
“She spent all her money looking for you.” His tone wasn’t accusing, more grave and sad. “She loved you.”
Tears glistened in the woman’s deep-sunk dark eyes.
Annie felt as if she watched an injured bird, desperate to take flight, unable to move, frozen in pain.
Billy shifted his weight forward. “You didn’t come to her funeral.”
“I couldn’t. I was…sick.” Tears spilled unchecked. Iris slipped bony fingers together, laced them so tight the skin blanched. “Were you there?”
He nodded. “She was a good woman. Everyone came.”
Tears trickled down her thin cheeks. “Did they play ‘In the Garden’?”
