by Carolyn Hart
“It does seem crazy.” Annie felt safe and normal. Buck was exactly as he always was, kind and friendly and open. “I didn’t come to see you about what happened. It doesn’t do any good to think about how she died. Instead, I want to do something in Iris’s memory.” Annie described a spirit poster.
Buck’s face softened. “That’s a swell idea.” He gave her a grateful look. “Everybody will want to help.” He leaned back against the sofa, the tension easing from his body. “Iris and I had a lot in common.” His gaze was faraway. “Nothing came easy for us in school. She and I were yellow birds in the first grade.” He shoved a hand through his curly brown hair. “Mrs. Blake put the readers in three groups, blue birds, red birds, and yellow birds. Everybody knew what it meant. Blue birds could read anything. Red birds stumbled. As for the yellow birds…” He squinted his eyes in a puzzled frown. “I hated being a yellow bird in front of everyone. I knew I wasn’t very smart. But one day, something wonderful happened. Mrs. Blake wanted us to sing ‘The Bear Song.’ You know, one person sings and everybody else repeats the line. She asked Iris to stand up and start. I guess Iris was sitting at the first desk or something. I don’t know why she picked her. Jocelyn was always Mrs. Blake’s favorite.” There was no rancor in his tone. “Jocelyn was everybody’s favorite, beautiful and kind and sort of shining. When she walked into a room, you didn’t see anybody else. But that day Mrs. Blake called on Iris. And”—wonderment shone in his face—“it was like we heard an angel. Iris’s voice was high and clear and sweet and perfect. We all sat there and stared. Nobody knew Iris could sing. Mrs. Blake looked stunned. She was kind of a horsefaced old gal, gruff, impatient, demanding. It was so quiet, Iris looked scared, like she’d done something wrong. She started to cry. Mrs. Blake went over to her and put her arms around her and said, ‘Thank you, honey. That was beautiful. I should have known a yellow bird would sing the best song.’ For years after that, Iris and I picked each other up when we were down. She’d look at me and say, ‘Yellow birds sing the best songs.’ When I took first in a woodworking show when we were seniors, she came up and hugged me and whispered, ‘Yellow birds sing the best songs.’” His eyes reflected remembered hurt. “My folks didn’t come to the show. Dad had a bar dinner. If I’d been on the football team, he would have come to the game. I wasn’t good enough even for third string. So what good was it that I could make a beautiful bowl? But Iris came.” He stared at Annie with mournful eyes. “She’ll never be a yellow bird again.”
LIZ MONTGOMERY REMINDED ANNIE OF A DRESDEN SHEPHERDESS. Annie wasn’t sure whether the thought was engendered by Liz’s round pliant face and flowery dress or the multitude of porcelain in her small but exquisite shop. It was easy to imagine Liz in a hat with streamers and rose-colored muslin against the backdrop of Victorian bisque figurines in soft pastel shades, cups and saucers that were elegant at teas two hundred years ago, mid-Victorian hand-painted and gilded tea sets, and a Gainsborough lady figurine from early-twentieth-century Japan. Treasures adorned every shelf and table.
“Annie.” Liz didn’t smile. She came slowly forward.
Annie realized with a small shock that she was accustomed always to seeing Liz with her lips curved in a slight smile. Today there was no hint of cheer.
“I saw you going into the police station. What’s happening?” The question was almost harsh. “Do the police have any suspects?”
Annie felt uneasy. Liz assumed Annie had inside information about Billy’s investigation. She had to make it clear that she wasn’t involved. “I have no idea. I don’t know anything about the investigation. Billy asked for the guest list for the picnic.” It wasn’t necessary to say she and Max had delivered the list early this morning.
Liz frowned and her cool gaze never left Annie’s face. “I suppose the police will talk to everyone who knew her. Well, Russell and I barely said hello last night. Max told Russell you had a long talk with her.” Her unwavering stare was faintly hostile.
Annie wasn’t surprised that Russell had already told his wife about his conversation this morning with Max. “Not really. She and I had a swim out at Nightingale Courts and that’s why I invited her to the picnic. It was very casual.”
“Russell and I were surprised to see her.” There was no indication it had been a pleasant surprise. “We said hello but didn’t have a real chance to talk.” She shook her head as if she regretted the short interlude. “Everything was fine when we left. I waved good-bye to Iris.” Something shifted in that seeking gaze, perhaps a flash of fear or perhaps the momentary shock of confronting eternity. Beringed fingers clutched at her amber necklace. “What happened?”
Annie turned her hands palms up. “No one knows. Apparently Iris went into the woods with someone.”
Now the fear in Liz’s eyes was unmistakable. “Who?” The demand was sharp.
“I think Billy—” Annie stopped. She couldn’t go around reporting what Billy had said. “I don’t know.”
Liz’s blue eyes narrowed. She was shrewd enough to know Annie had started the sentence with one thought and ended it with another.
“I don’t have any idea what the police are doing.” Annie talked fast, trying to get past the awkward moment and the suspicion in Liz’s eyes. “That’s not why I came. I just visited with Buck about a tribute to Iris.” She described the spirit poster.
This time there was no rush of approval. Liz’s round face was as unmoved as the forever frozen, milky white porcelain cheeks of a statuette. “I wish I could be helpful. But,” Liz’s tone was icy, “I’m afraid nothing I remember about Iris would be appropriate.”
Annie found herself on the way out. “…need to run some errands…glad you are bearing up so well…such a dreadful end to your evening…”
Her last glimpse of Liz in the shop doorway supplanted Annie’s image of Liz as a quaint figure with the much more impressive figure of a focused woman with memories she would not—or could not—share.
ANNIE HESITATED AT THE ENTRANCE TO YESTERDAY’S TREASURES, then reached for the antique bronze knob. Once begun, her canvass for memories of Iris would look more suspicious if abruptly ended. If she spoke only with Buck and Liz, the others would wonder why. She had no doubt that Iris’s classmates would be in touch and Annie’s visits discussed. Annie had a distinct feeling that Max was not going to be pleased with her afternoon.
As if on cue, her cell phone chimed. Annie turned away from the shop, moved to one of the cast iron park benches with a view of the harbor. She smiled at the caller ID. “Hi.”
“I talked to Father Patton and he’ll be glad to do the service.”
As always, the sound of Max’s voice lifted her.
“We’re looking ahead to ten o’clock Friday. There isn’t any family left. I’ll take care of the obituary. Marian said she’d help. I’m at the store. I thought you’d be here, but Laurel told me about the note. What does Billy think?”
“Could be something, may be nothing. Anyway”—and she felt virtuous—“it’s in his hands. I told him about my spirit poster and now I’m checking in with everybody to get some nice memories of Iris.”
An instant of silence in the ether was a clear reminder that Max was no fool. “Everybody?”
“Max,” she tried not to sound defensive, “it’s terrible if we don’t have anything to do with our friends. It’s as if we’re declaring them suspects. I decided I owed them more than that and since I need memories of Iris, I’m dropping by and visiting. That’s all I’m asking for. Buck gave me a sweet memory.”
“No questions about murder.” Again it was a demand, not a question.
“I’ve already promised Billy.” Did both Max and Billy think she was untrustworthy?
“Good. Make your visits short and sweet. And then, let’s take some time for us.” He sounded determined. The dead could be mourned, but life was to be lived.
FRAN’S SHOP WAS AS ECLECTIC AS LIZ’S WAS PREDICTABLE. Oaxacan clay statuettes were displayed on a Hans Wegner teak wall cabinet.
African tribal masks hung from a Victorian iron hat tree. Yet the overall impression was not a hodgepodge but a collection of amazing vitality and exuberance. Fran’s shop had been written up in Southern Living as one of the most unusual in the sea islands, offering glimpses of exotic worlds.
Fran stood behind a counter filled with cut-glass perfume bottles. A musky scent rose from a wooden bowl filled with potpourri. Fran’s stare was wary. “I saw you go into the station.”
Billy’s concern was quickly proven correct.
Fran’s voice was clipped. “Did you tell Billy about Russell and Jocelyn?”
Annie felt stung. “I didn’t have a choice. I had to go see him anyway about—” She broke off. The last person she wanted to tell about the anonymous note was Buck’s wife. “Something that had nothing to do with Russell.”
Fran’s eyes glittered. “About what?”
Annie felt miserable. “I can’t tell you. It had nothing to do with Russell. But when Billy asked if I’d talked to anyone about Jocelyn at the sports picnic, I had to tell him what you said.”
The silence between them was stiff and strained.
Annie took a step nearer Fran. “Let’s not quarrel. We all want Iris’s murderer caught.”
Fran’s angular face looked tired and worried. “Of course we want the murderer caught. But I intend to make it clear to Billy that you misunderstood what I said.” She was decisive. “Sure, Russell was upset that night. Why not? Sam was his best friend. He didn’t want to talk to Jocelyn. Guys can’t handle emotion. That’s all it amounted to.”
“I’m sure Billy will talk to Russell, clear everything up. Anyway, that’s not why I came to see you.”
Fran heard Annie out. She was pensive. “A memory of Iris? She was always there. She hung around us.”
Annie wondered if Fran sensed the picture she painted, Fran a part of a group, Iris peripheral.
“She was like a ghost that last year, never quite real.” Fran turned her hands over in helplessness. “I don’t know if that makes any sense. I don’t know any way to say it better. I didn’t have any idea what was wrong until Sam died. That’s when I heard whispers, that he was on drugs and that Iris sold them to him. I couldn’t believe it. But when she ran away, I knew. It was awful.” Her look was bitter. “Sam was the handsomest guy in our class. We all wanted to date him.” Fran’s eyes filled with tears. “I can’t talk about Iris now. I don’t want to remember.” Whirling, she moved from behind the counter, disappeared through a beaded curtain into a back room.
ANNIE PARKED IN FRONT OF THE MONTGOMERY HOUSE. SHE didn’t want to get out of her car and knock on the front door of the two-story yellow stucco home that overlooked a lagoon. Russell had built it and the house was comfortable and welcoming. Or had always been so in the past.
Annie no longer felt sure of welcome from the group that had known both Iris and Jocelyn. Maybe talking to them was a big mistake. So far, she’d done nothing but reinforce the idea that she was meddling in a police investigation. That wasn’t what she had intended.
She forced herself forward. Maybe Russell wouldn’t be home. Annie walked slowly up the walk. A buzz saw whined in the distance. Russell had recently mentioned expanding the deck. He was having a busman’s holiday this sunny April afternoon.
He saw her as she rounded the corner of the house. The buzz saw’s shrill whine was cut off. He swiped his hands on his khaki shorts and walked toward her, big, muscular, attractive. But his face was wary.
Annie felt small inside. She wondered if he’d talked with either Liz or Fran.
“Hey, Russell.” She hoped she didn’t sound as craven as she felt.
He suddenly frowned. “Is everything okay at the house? The plumber’s there even though it’s Saturday. He’s promised to keep after it until everything’s fixed.”
It was such a relief that he connected her visit with the Franklin house and not with Iris that she managed a tentative smile. “Everything’s fine at the Franklin house. We aren’t thinking much about the house now. Not after what happened last night. I’m upset that I asked her to our party and something awful happened. I’m putting together a memorial for Iris and I’m talking to people who knew her, asking for good memories. I hoped you could help.”
He looked startled. “Well, sure. I’ll talk to Liz—”
Annie interrupted. “I just spoke with her a few minutes ago.” Annie didn’t tell him his wife had declined to contribute. Maybe that wasn’t playing fair. At this point, she didn’t care. She’d set out to talk to those who’d known Iris. She was going to finish the task even if it left her friendships in shambles. She braced for another rejection as she sketched what she had in mind.
Russell looked thoughtful. “I felt sorry for Iris. She never seemed to belong. She was always around, but she didn’t have fun like the rest of us. Liz was always nice—”
Annie nodded and wondered why Liz didn’t have any good memories to share.
“—but Liz is always nice to people. Iris was real quiet. I think a lot of it went back to her mom and Hootie. Hootie was her pet owl. She’d raised him from when he was little and must have fallen out of a tree or something. Everybody said he’d die and she was stupid to try to take care of him. She didn’t pay any attention and the owl didn’t die. We were maybe nine or ten then. Maybe it would have been better if the owl had died right off.”
Annie pictured the huge eyes of an owl, heard in her mind the plaintive cry. “What happened?”
“Her grandma had fixed a big wire cage in one of their trees. Hootie got out. Somebody shot him.” Russell kicked at a pine cone on the ground. “That happened not long after her mom died. I think that’s when Iris kind of went her own way. Sometimes I thought she had a look like an owl, a real distant stare.”
THE MODEST GRAY WOOD COTTAGE SAT HIGH ON PILINGS, safe from storm surges. A wraparound deck afforded views of the Sound and the salt marsh. Annie was pleased to see Cara’s convertible parked beneath the house. Annie wondered if Cara would provide a memory. At least she’d come to see Iris at Nightingale Courts though it was after Cara’s departure that Iris had appeared lonely and troubled.
Annie hoped Cara would offer more information for Iris’s spirit poster. Annie was grateful for Buck’s and Russell’s insights. She would find a photo online of a brilliantly yellow canary. Last year she’d taken a night photo of a barred owl in their backyard. She would likely never know whether Iris’s owl was a great horned or a barred, but the photo was arresting, a frontal shot with those huge eyes. “Here’s looking at you,” they seemed to say. Iris would be pleased. Annie needed more to be satisfied with her poster. She had no intention of giving up. She would keep on looking for memories, on the island and on the mainland.
As she walked toward the cabin, the sound of her footsteps on the oyster-shell drive was lost in the throbbing whop-whop of a low-flying Coast Guard helicopter. Annie looked up, shading her eyes. She wondered if the bright orange Dolphin was returning to the Savannah air station from a usual patrol or if a boater was in trouble somewhere on the Sound.
The path approached Cara’s cabin from one side, affording a view of the deck overlooking the marsh. Cara stood at the railing, facing the undulating spartina grass and the green water beyond.
The roar of the rotors was loud and intense. Annie came near, close enough to call out. The shout died in her throat as Cara turned away from the view.
Cara’s head hung down. Tears streaked a mottled face. She clutched a portrait frame against her chest. She walked heavily to a rattan chair and sank into it, a figure of despair.
Annie hesitated, then turned away. Cara was alone, deliberately, decisively alone, plunged into a private torment. This was not a moment she intended to share. Offering solace would be an affront.
Annie hurried to her car, started it, backed and turned in the drive, grateful that the fading roar of the rotors masked her departure.
What had she seen and what did it mean? Was Cara’s grief for Iris?
That would suggest a relationship far deeper than anyone knew.
If so, Billy should know.
Annie’s heart rebelled. She wouldn’t reveal Cara’s heartbreak unless she had no choice.
Chapter 9
At the coffee hour after the early service, Cara Wilkes was slim and attractive in a stylish pink bouclé jacket and matching skirt and pink leather heels. She wore her usual dangling necklace. This two-strand set alternated white and pink beads, a nice accent for her suit. Her short-cut sandy hair glistened in a shaft of sunlight. Her makeup was perfect, the pink lip gloss matching the beads. Cara was animated, talking a mile a minute, waving her hands for emphasis. There was no trace of yesterday’s distress.
Annie had wrestled through the night with her unwanted knowledge. If Cara’s tears were related to Iris’s murder, Billy should know. But there might be no connection.
In any event, she needed to ask Cara about a memory of Iris.
Annie glanced toward Max. He was deep in conversation with Father Patton. Annie skirted several groups, waited until Cara was free, then hurried to her. She’d scarcely started to explain when Cara interrupted.
“It’s a lovely idea. Buck told me all about it.” Cara smiled warmly. Her eyes were soft, then with a quick breath, she said brightly, “Fran wants to help, too. She’s sent you an e-mail. Buck said she was too upset to talk to you yesterday.” Cara suddenly looked somber. “We’ve all been upset since Iris died. But I love the idea of a spirit poster, something beautiful for Iris.” Cara linked arms with Annie, drew her nearer the parish hall’s French window, which opened to a terrace. “Come outside and let me tell you about Iris.”
