by Carolyn Hart
Annie’s throat felt tight. “Who had the drugs?”
He shook his head. “Iris didn’t say. She always said ‘my friend.’ She said it worried her that no one came forward later and admitted being with the sister and yet she was almost sure the sister walked away with her friend. Iris also thought she remembered someone else going into the fog with Jocelyn. She knew there could be an innocent explanation. Still, she felt haunted by Jocelyn’s death. Iris wasn’t sure how much was a dream and how much was her own guilt and how much was actual. She thought she would know if she went back to the island.”
SUNSET BATHED THE MARSH AND NIGHTINGALE COURTS in crimson. An egret stepping daintily in shallow water looked touched by flame. A great blue heron might have been a statue. Frogs in the lagoon croaked and bellowed. Chuck-will’s-widows gave their haunting call as they skimmed, seeking moths. On the deck behind Cabin Seven, Annie sipped cream sherry and Max lifted a frosty bottle of Beck’s as they watched night fall.
Max looked toward her. “Give it a rest.” But his voice was understanding. There was no hint of criticism.
Annie buttoned her cardigan against the chilling night, but her heart felt warm. She took comfort from the empathy in Max’s dark blue eyes, the compassion in his face. He wanted her to be freed from distress at Iris’s struggles, but he knew she had to work her way to peace. “I keep thinking about Iris, coming back to the island, trying to lay ghosts to rest. She looked almost stricken when I invited her to come to the pavilion, but she came. That was brave. I wish she hadn’t.” Annie clenched her hands. “Friday night Iris must have realized who walked into the woods with Jocelyn.” Had memory come clear through the haze of time and drugs?
“Billy will find out.” Max’s tone was final.
Brother Doyle had told Sgt. Harrison of Iris’s intentions. Billy now knew why Iris had returned to the island. His instinct that Iris died because of Jocelyn had proved to be true.
Annie’s cell phone pealed. She put down her glass, retrieved the phone from the patio table, glancing at caller ID. “Hey, Henny…. I’ll be back in the store tomorrow…. Sure. That will be great…. I love the new display in the front window…. Henny, were you teaching when Iris Tilford was in school?”
Max turned to listen. Dorothy L. stirred in his lap, gave a sleepy mew.
“Let’s talk tomorrow. I’m trying to find out more about her for a tribute. See you then.” Annie closed the phone, smiled contentedly. “Henny is a great friend. And your mom can always be counted on.” Annie completed the sentence in her own mind:…despite a world view that borders on the unhinged. As soon as the thought came, Annie scolded herself. For all her wacky ways, Laurel was good-hearted and well-meaning. “Anyway,” Annie added hurriedly to mask a twinge of guilt, “Laurel and Henny did a wonderful job at the store. Though I’m afraid,” her tone was rueful, “they see this as the start of a continuing involvement. Henny said she had some more ideas to brighten things up. But I’ll be glad to see her tomorrow. She remembers Iris.”
ANNIE STRUGGLED UP FROM THE DEEP SLEEP THAT IS NEAR oblivion with jumbled thoughts of a jellyfish sting and a diesel truck belching smoke and screeching brakes. Hot pricks came again and with them a muzzy awareness of her surroundings. A strange room. No, not strange. Their cabin at Nightingale Courts. The broken ceiling at the Franklin house had put them here so the door to the bathroom wasn’t where it should be and the blackness that loomed like the mouth of a cavern was only the plate glass doors overlooking the marsh.
Dorothy L. seized Annie’s foot through the thin sheet. She wailed, high and demanding. “Stop it,” Annie hissed, trying not to wake Max. She moved her foot. Dorothy L. leaped with a piercing cry.
Max slept with his face in the crook of an elbow, his breathing slow and even.
Annie grabbed at the chubby cat. They hadn’t dared let her go out at night in a strange place. A marsh hawk or alligator or gray fox could spell quick death. Once they were safely ensconced at the Franklin house, Dorothy L. would learn her new territory. Until tonight, she’d cuddled quiescently between them. Annie clutched Dorothy L. and struggled to move her sluggish, sleep-drenched body, still cumbered by a dream of foul-smelling trucks. She slid her feet into cold Crocs, shivered. “Sorry,” she whispered, “you’re going to have to sleep in your carrier.” Annie stumbled toward the corner where they kept the carrier. She was on her knees, pushing a reluctant Dorothy L. inside, when she heard an odd, metallic sound.
As she slid home the latch and came to her feet, she turned toward the door. She hadn’t heard a car. Her nose wrinkled. Something smelled gassy. Odd in the middle of the night. Had a car pulled in and someone knocked at the office? The sound didn’t come again.
Likely some noise had roused Dorothy L. A raccoon might be at work.
Dorothy L.’s shrill meow pierced the silence.
Annie turned back toward the carrier. What in the world was wrong with Dorothy L.? She must sense a predator, some kind of danger. The insistent meow continued, loud and frantic. In a minute Max would be awake. Well, she was his cat, he could deal with her. Annie picked up the carrier. Maybe she should put the carrier on the front porch. Actually, the car might be the best place.
As Annie reached for the doorknob, a whoosh sounded behind her. The noise was ominous, totally out of context. Something was terribly wrong. Something alien and inexplicable was happening. She whirled around. Orange light glowed beyond the sliding glass doors. With horrifying quickness, flames danced against the plate glass. Fire blazed, orange and yellow and red.
“Max!” Annie’s scream rose above a crackling roar. Still clutching the handle of the carrier, she flung herself toward the bed, pulled at his arm. She pulled and tugged and called.
Max flailed awake and struggled from the bed, unsteady and confused, his voice groggy. “What’s wrong?”
“Fire!” She screamed to be heard above crackles, hisses, and pops. Hot smoke assailed her. “We’ve got to get out.” Dorothy L. meowed, high and strident, without stopping. The carrier wobbled in her hand as the cat lunged.
Max was a dark shadow in the hellish orange glow from the sliding glass doors. She pulled at his arm and they turned toward the door. Annie shouted, “I’ve got Dorothy L.” She came close behind, a hand on his back.
Max stopped at the door, fumbled to find the knob. His muscles bunched. He grunted with effort. “The door’s jammed. I can’t budge it. We’ve got to go out the window.” He turned and grabbed her arm.
Annie gasped for air against thickening smoke, the smell acrid and harsh. Dorothy L. scrambled back and forth in the carrier, meowing frantically.
Heavy smoke obscured the glow from the deck. They moved blindly in a thick haze faintly tinged by orange. They could no longer see. They might be moving in any direction.
Horror pulled at Annie. They didn’t know the way to the window. They couldn’t get out.
Max crashed into an obstacle. “This way.”
Annie barely heard his shout. She felt caught in a maelstrom, flames licking near, choked by oily smoke. Sirens shrilled above the cacophony of the fire.
Max’s grip on her arm was hard, imperative. He steered her forward. The carrier bumped against her leg.
Suddenly, above the fire’s roar, glass crashed, air poured inside, burning embers and sparks spattered them, hot and hurtful.
“Get to the goddam window.” Duane’s shout was hoarse, desperate.
Annie was never certain whether they homed to his shouts or whether they moved instinctively into the life-giving swirl of air. Max pushed her ahead of him. Flames flickered against darkness. Water sizzled as it met fire. Wetness splashed inside, cascaded over her. At the gaping hole that had been a window, Annie froze. Flames flickered everywhere, reaching inside.
Water gushed at the window, a steady strong stream that sloshed toward the roof and washed through the broken window to drench her.
“Jump, dammit, jump.” Duane’s shout rose above the fire.
An
nie swung the carrier up and pushed it through. “Get the carrier.” Thankfully, the weight shifted away. Dorothy L. was safe.
“Jump!” Duane’s shout was almost lost in the mind-numbing roar of water and flames.
Fire blazed above and on either side. The smell of smoke and charred wood choked her. Max swept her up and thrust her into the night. Strong arms reached up and took her.
She twisted, screaming for Max.
A canvas-gloved hand pummeled her, beating out sparks on her nightgown. She was lifted, carried past the tangle of hoses. She struggled to be free. “Ma’am, please. You’re all right. Here…” And she was thrust forward.
“It’s okay, Annie.” Duane reached out to grab her. “They got Max out.”
She sagged against him and looked toward the cabin. Dancing flames illuminated firemen in white plastic helmets and bright yellow gear.
Duane’s smoke-smudged face glowered at her. He held Dorothy L.’s carrier under one arm. “Damn fools. You almost got killed saving a damn cat.”
Annie felt tears streak her face. “She saved us. You saved all three of us.”
Max, blond hair darkened by ash, stubbled face set and angry, bare-chested and limping, streaked with grime and dirt, his tartan boxers plastered against him, came toward her, his arms open.
She ran to him, held him tight, breathed smoke and Max and the marsh. All that mattered in the world was his body next to hers.
Chapter 10
The pumper truck headlights illuminated the cabin as the roof collapsed. Sparks swirled up within a dark column of smoke shot through with flame. Water slammed into the cabin from four hoses. Firefighters, two fire trucks, the fire chief’s sedan, three police cars, and an ambulance jammed the clearing in front of the cabins.
Face grim, arms folded, Billy Cameron stood near a police cruiser, watching. The Ohio vacationers, disheveled in hastily donned tees and shorts, huddled near the office. The bigger man kept yelling. “Turn one of those hoses on our cars…. We’ve got rights….”
Duane bunched his hands into fists, stalked toward the loud-mouth. “Shut up.” He waited until there was silence, stalked back to Annie and Max.
“Somebody started that fire. I smelled gasoline when I came outside.” Duane looked toward the blaze. “That’s why the cabin’s a goner. Gas was splashed all the way around it. Thank God the firehouse is close.”
Annie had smelled gasoline before the fire began, smelled it in half-sleep, mixed the sour stench into a dream of smoke-belching trucks. She huddled in a lawn chair, a fire truck masking her view of the flaming cabin. She had no desire to watch. She and Max would have died if not for Dorothy L.’s insistent cries and Duane’s courageous rescue. She and Max had been enveloped by fire, noxious smoke choking them. She tried to stop trembling. Despite the warm blanket wrapped around her, her teeth chattered.
“Here.” Henny Brawley handed Annie a plastic cup. “Hot tea. Drink it.” Henny was impeccable, hair brushed, makeup fresh, warm-up jacket zipped against the offshore breeze. She handed a second cup to Max. “I’d offer Scotch but you’ll need a pain pill. Not a good combo.” She glanced at his feet.
Max sat with his feet propped on a small webbed stool covered by a blood-spattered towel. A redheaded EMT with the build of a sumo wrestler held a Maglite trained on Max’s feet. The second EMT, thin and rangy with a bald head and a snake tattoo crawling across the back of one hand, stemmed the bleeding with small pads, then covered Max’s feet with clean gauze and tape. “Need to get you to E.R. They’ll clean the wounds with Betadine, remove the glass, and stitch up a couple of deep cuts. They’ll take X-rays to make sure they don’t miss anything. Glass shows up on X-rays. We’ll get the gurney.” His soft British accent seemed incongruous on a Southern sea island.
Max looked pale and tired. He twisted to look toward the gutted cabin. “I need to talk to Billy.” He gave Annie a worried glance. “The front door wouldn’t open.”
“There will be plenty of time for that.” Annie knew Max was hurting. The Crocs had saved her feet from injury, but he’d stepped barefoot on glass shards from the broken window as they escaped. Lines of pain pulled at his mouth.
Max handed the plastic cup to Henny, managed a faint smile. “Do you always careen around the marsh after midnight, carrying hot tea for wounded friends?”
Henny gestured toward dark water and the shoreline that curved, forming a small bay. “I was on my deck across the bay. When I saw flames, I knew it was Nightingale Courts. I called nine-one-one and came over to see if I could help.”
“With hot tea. Thanks, Henny. If it hadn’t been for Duane…”
Annie grabbed Max’s hand. “And Dorothy L.”
Henny reached down for the carrier. “I’ll bet you want to thank her in person.”
Annie shot her a grateful glance. Dorothy L. was a guaranteed stress buster.
Henny eased the carrier onto Max’s lap. Max opened the grill wide enough to slip his hand inside. “Good girl. Brave girl. Smart girl.” Some of the tension eased from his body. “She’s purring. I can feel the rumble in her throat.”
Annie smiled. She’d always known that Max was Dorothy L.’s preferred person, but that was all right. Dorothy L. now had carte blanche. Whatever she wanted, she would have. Annie gradually began to feel warm, warm and safe and cared for.
A purple Chrysler PT slewed around the Nightingale Courts arbor, rocked to a stop in front of the office. Marian Kenyon slammed out of the car. A bandanna corralled frizzy dark hair. A Gamecock sweatshirt flopped to the knees of faded jeans. She held a notebook. A camera dangled from a strap around her neck.
Marian skirted the police cars, ignoring Sgt. Harrison’s shout, and came even with the nose of the first truck. She lifted the camera, clicked rapidly.
Sgt. Harrison, freckled face grim in the light from the spots, marched to the reporter and gestured emphatically toward the office.
Marian tried to duck around her and move toward Billy.
Harrison blocked the way, gestured again.
Marian turned and surveyed the motley gathering in front of the office, the vacationing couples in dry clothes, a grimy Duane in a once-white T-shirt and red shorts, Henny stylish in a peach warm-up, and headed straight for blanket-draped Annie and immobilized Max.
The EMTs maneuvered the gurney next to Max. “Okay. We’re going to roll you over—”
Max ignored them. He snapped shut the grill, handed the carrier to Henny, and swung his legs toward the ground. “Hey. Marian.” His tone was curt.
Marian stopped in front of him. She looked at the bloody towel and her face furrowed in empathy.
The slender EMT clamped a restraining hand on one leg. “Hold up, buddy. You won’t be walking on these babies for a while. You got some deep cuts on the right heel and left in-step.”
Max’s tensed muscles slowly relaxed. He glared up at Marian. “You almost got us killed, you and your story about Iris talking to Annie. You scared the murderer and we got trapped in a burning cabin.”
Marian suddenly looked diminished, older, her gamine face forlorn.
Annie pushed up from her chair, stumbling as her feet tangled in the trailing blanket. She gave Marian a hug. “You didn’t mean to cause us trouble.” She turned, held out a hand to Max, tried to keep the blanket from sliding to the ground.
Marian’s eyes glistened with tears. “I was trying to gig Iris’s friends. Her so-called friends. Nobody would give me anything.”
Max was unrelenting. “You gave someone the idea Annie knew a lot.”
Marian stared at the flame-laced column of smoke, her face drawn in misery.
Henny lightly touched Max’s arm. “A murderer sees threats everywhere. It probably didn’t take Marian’s story to put Annie in danger. Everyone on the island knows people talk to Annie.” Her smile was sweet. “That’s why we love her.”
THE MAROON ROLLS-ROYCE GLIDED INTO THE TURNAROUND drive at the emergency room. Emma Clyde parked by the main door between NO PA
RKING signs. Emma considered such signs aimed at lesser mortals. Moreover, at this late hour, or very early hour depending upon perspective, the drive was empty.
Annie had hesitated to call Emma from the hospital, despite Henny’s earlier assurances that Emma had offered them refuge and would be quick to come. In fact, Annie’s cell rang as Max was being checked out. A wide-awake Emma said she would be there in a jiffy, explaining she’d been alerted by a friend in the E.R.
The automatic door wheezed open. The orderly pushed the wheelchair outside. Annie followed, grateful to escape the antiseptic smell of the hospital. A ratchet of frogs sounded from the lagoon at the front of the hospital. The air felt cool and silky. She was grateful for Henny’s warm-up jacket. She smiled at the flaming hibiscus on Max’s shirt. Duane’s T-shirts were too small, but he’d found a floppy Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts for Max. Max’s hair was uncombed, he was unshaven, and his bandaged feet were elevated. Max sagged to one side of the wheelchair, sleepy from the painkiller.
Emma bustled from the car. Her spiky hair, purplish in the glare of the hospital lights, looked droopy but that was the only sign of disarray. Of course, her usual costume, a flowing caftan, was unlikely to reflect hasty dressing. This caftan blazed with coral and white peonies against a black background, an interesting fashion combination with black leather Reeboks. The caftan’s bright colors made it definite that Emma had regained her combative spirit.
