by Carolyn Hart
Henny was decisive. “I’m not talking about sex. As a matter of fact, Buck and Cara—”
Annie looked at Henny in surprise. Buck and Cara? Buck was married to Fran.
“—were inseparable most of their senior year. I don’t know what happened. I think Buck and Cara quarreled. They started avoiding each other. As for Fran, she was dating off island. She had an aura among the kids because she had a big romance going with an ‘older man.’” Henny smiled. “He was probably in his twenties. I heard he was a bartender at Frankie’s where she worked on the mainland. But when Cara and Buck broke up, Fran went after Buck. They were dating by the time of the sports picnic. As for Sam, he always had a circle of girls for easy sex. They weren’t important to him.” Henny looked regretful. “Iris was one of his conquests. She was anybody’s girl who’d look at her. You know the scene. Not the popular girls, the ones with respect for themselves, but the girls who are desperately hungry for attention and deep down don’t feel they have any worth. It isn’t that nice girls don’t have sex. They do, but not one-night throwaway hookups. Iris was available, though she and Sam did seem to be a pair that spring. I remember being surprised, but, frankly, it was just another indication of Sam’s willingness to use people without caring for them. But when Sam died, Buck stumbled through the weeks like a ghost. I don’t think it was grief. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he looked guilty, as if he’d done something dreadful.”
Annie gazed at Buck’s young smiling face that gave no hint of trouble. Although if she looked hard, perhaps weaving in what she knew with what she saw, there might be uncertainty in his gaze. Buck lacked swagger. He’d been a yellow bird since he was a little boy.
Henny shook her head. “I must be wrong. After all, there’s no question how Sam died.”
The next sticky marked Jocelyn Mary Howard’s class picture. The beauty of classic features seemed poignant now.
Jocelyn was a quintessential princess. She expected everyone always to do everything to please her, yet she was basically thoughtful. It’s hard to know how Jocelyn would have turned out. She was bright. A superb debater. I rather thought she might be a lawyer. If she believed something was right or wrong, she wouldn’t be budged. She loved animals. She led a march on a body shop near Shank swamp—
Annie pictured a rundown area of the island with dilapidated houses, a seedy bar, and a few businesses that started, failed, were reborn, never quite succeeded.
—where cockfights were held every Monday night. They were run by a couple of tough brothers, Joe and Gus McCoy. One night a kerosene-filled pop bottle filled with a burning rag stuffed in the neck was tossed on the Howard front porch and caused some damage. Several nights later some shots were fired into her upstairs bedroom window. The attack on her car happened about this time. Jocelyn led another march and this time she had every charitable group on the island involved. Almost two hundred people showed up. Frank Saulter started twenty-four-hour surveillance on the body shop. Finally the guys left the island. The local SPCA gave Jocelyn a medal.
Annie looked at Jocelyn’s bright, clear gaze and resolute mouth. Jocelyn was beautiful. She was well aware of her beauty and expected admiration. Yes, she was a princess, but she was more than a pretty girl. “A brave princess.”
Henny’s dark eyes were somber. “Brave, perhaps foolhardy. I’m afraid she was unable to see a threat. If Frank had been a good-old-boy cop and hadn’t backed her up, she might have been hurt. That last night she may not have realized she was pushing someone too far.”
Annie pictured the end of Fish Haul pier. A girl stood at the railing. Had her companion pointed out at the water, spoken of a boat or a light? As Jocelyn bent forward had a hard, violent push sent her flying down to darkness? Had death come as a surprise?
Annie’s gaze moved to the next photo: Samuel Edward Howard. The golden boy, handsome, commanding, a Friday night hero.
Sam gloried in being the quarterback. He moved through the halls as if he owned them. He was the handsomest, richest, most athletic senior. Russell was a linebacker. Sam treated Russell almost as an equal. Did I like Sam? He could be appealing. He had charm. I’m not sure he had a heart.
Annie turned pages to the yellow sticky at Frances Fay Kinnon’s photo. Even as a high school senior, Fran had an aura of success, stylish hairdo, expertly applied makeup, perfect posture, a smile that exuded confidence.
Every class has one: the girl most likely to succeed. Fran came up the hard way, single mom with a drinking problem, food baskets from the church, secondhand clothes. As soon as Fran was old enough, she started working part-time. She was quick to pick up manners and styles from her classmates. She learned to go to the Junior League shop in Savannah and pick up really beautiful clothes on the cheap. She worked at Parotti’s until she figured out she could make more money from big tips at Frankie’s, a swanky restaurant on the mainland near the ferry dock. I never doubted that Fran would do whatever it took to lift herself in the world. It made her admirable if not especially likable. She was too self-absorbed, too driven to be appealing. She used the same focus in school. She was a top student and it paid off. Every year Letitia Campbell—
Annie knew Letitia Campbell, a steely-eyed, elderly woman who had run the Altar Guild at St. Mary’s for years. The family had lived on the island for two hundred years and managed to stay wealthy despite wars and declines in rice and cotton. When one avenue closed, a canny Campbell found another. Letitia’s late husband made another fortune in electronics and her sons were entrepreneurs in Atlanta and Dallas.
—provides a four-year scholarship to Clemson, Letitia’s alma mater. The scholarship is awarded on the basis of scholarship, character, and need. Fran was hands down the winner her year. Buck went to Clemson, too. I think she made up her mind she was going to be Mrs. Stanley George Carlisle IV and return to the island as part of the social class her mother never belonged to. Buck and Fran married right after graduation.
Annie felt sad. “I think Fran’s scared for Buck.” Annie repeated Fran’s revelations about Russell.
Henny was thoughtful. “Russell seemed to be trying to stay away from Jocelyn at the picnic.”
The next yellow sticky marked the photo of Russell Robert Montgomery.
Annie was struck by the marked difference in Russell then and now. His face had been lean; now it was heavy. His eyes then were somber, his expression guarded; now he appeared genial if still somewhat reserved.
Russell looked haunted after Jocelyn died. Again, just as with Buck and Sam, I felt there was something more, something deeper than loss. In fact it had been obvious for a couple of weeks that Russell was avoiding Jocelyn. That could have made him feel guilty after she died, especially if he suspected she’d committed suicide. Russell was from a military family. His father was a retired Marine colonel. Col. Montgomery went to The Citadel. Everyone knew Russell had to go there. He was grim about schoolwork. He would have been scared to go home if he brought in poor grades. Russell served in the Marines for five years before he came back here and got into construction. His father had died.
The short, crisp sentences on the sticky note revealed a boy under the thumb of a domineering father. “If his father hadn’t died?”
Henny swirled the tea in her glass. “I have no doubt Russell would still be in the Marines. I think they came back to the island because of Liz. She’s from a big family and she missed being home. I don’t think Russell was glad to be back.”
Annie wondered if Russell’s antipathy to the island indicated guilt or did it simply reflect reluctance to return to a place with unpleasant memories of a controlling father. If Liz favored coming home, was that an indication she had nothing to regret? Or was the pull of family strong enough to overcome a past that she was now desperate to hide?
The last sticky marked Cara’s class picture. There was no aura of sophistication. Cara Jane Jackson’s sandy hair hung in a smooth page boy. Her young face was open and eager. Those were not qualities Annie associa
ted with Cara Wilkes of the gamine haircut, shadowed eyes, and aloof expression. She’d worn a simple cotton top. Now Cara flaunted the latest in expensive leisure clothes, accented by dramatic baubles and bangles.
When Cara and Buck quarreled, it was like watching a rose shrivel from fire blight. She turned sarcastic and bitter and was quick to take offense. I ran into her a few times after that. Buck and Fran went to Clemson. Cara worked part-time and put herself through Armstrong State. After her grandmother died, she stopped coming to the island. I was surprised when she moved back a couple of years ago. I’ve always wondered why. She’s turned into a smart, fashionable woman. I think she does well selling real estate. She’s pleasant and friendly, active in the community, and yet I sense emptiness when I’m with her. She’s a shadow of the girl I once knew.
“Do you know anything about the man she married?” Annie was well aware that half of all marriages end in divorce. A recital of that statistic never addressed the searing pain of parting. When love turned cold, the wound might heal but there were always scars.
“Nothing. No one on the island, to my knowledge, ever met him or knows anything about their life together or what happened.”
“She came home.” Annie wanted to believe in at least one friend. “Surely if she had anything to do with Jocelyn’s death, she would never have returned.”
Henny said quietly, “Buck is here.”
Indeed he was. What if it was Buck who had been threatened by Iris’s memories? What would that mean to Cara?
Annie looked up at Henny. “Friday night Iris must have remembered who she saw walking into the woods with Jocelyn. But if she remembered, why did she go into the woods with that person?”
“She must not have been certain.” Henny looked out at the marsh.
Annie looked, too, drawing comfort from the peace and beauty of the water and the rustle of the cordgrass in the onshore breeze.
Henny sighed. “Or it may be that Iris was reassured, that an explanation was offered. Possibly the claim was made that Jocelyn jumped from the pier and that had been kept secret to protect her mother.”
Annie was indignant. “Why was Iris so foolish?”
“That’s easy to understand.” Henny’s tone was sad. “Iris wanted to believe Jocelyn’s death was an accident. Don’t you see, if Jocelyn died because Iris warned the drug dealer, then Iris would have to face the terrible truth that her actions caused Jocelyn’s death. Another hand would have pushed Jocelyn from the pier, but Iris would know that she was responsible. That would be a terrible burden.”
Annie understood. Iris desperately wanted to believe that her fears were unfounded, that her memory was faulty. She must have been quick to accept a glib explanation and so she walked into the woods with death.
Annie felt a hot rush of anger. She gestured at the yearbook. “They all seemed to have secrets. We have to find out more.”
ANNIE SUMMED UP WHAT SHE’D LEARNED FROM HENNY. “There were all kinds of unhappiness in that group.” She looked at Max in dismay. “I don’t know if any of it helps us much.”
Max tapped his pen on the yellow legal pad. “If Buck acted guilty after Sam Howard died, that’s big. Why would Buck feel guilt about a friend overdosing on cocaine? That only makes sense if Buck supplied the drug. Maybe Jocelyn found out. Maybe Buck’s the one Iris saw with Jocelyn.”
Annie had a sharp memory of Buck’s poignant description of two yellow birds. Could he recall the little girl who’d meant so much to him if he’d killed her?
“Forget friendships for now.” Max’s voice was hard. “One of our friends tried to kill us. It may have been Buck.”
Annie knew he’d not missed her woeful look when he spoke of Buck. She looked at him ruefully. “You don’t miss much. You always read my mind.”
“I wish I could read some other minds.” Max pushed away the pad. “Did Liz smash Jocelyn’s windshield? Does she have that kind of temper? Why was Russell avoiding Jocelyn that last night? Does Fran know something about Buck and Jocelyn that has her scared? What did Cara and Iris talk about when Cara came to Nightingale Courts Friday?”
“We’ll find out. I’ll ask them.”
“We’ll ask them.” The correction was quick and firm. “And maybe Emma will keep writing and figure out everything for us.”
Annie grinned. “I didn’t think Emma would quit writing for long. I expect she’s thrilled to have a reason to focus on the book. Do you suppose she’s convinced that if she keeps writing she’ll figure out what happened when she was hit?”
Max was wry. “If she believes it, maybe it will happen. At the least, we’ll get her fictional take, which may or may not be helpful.”
Annie was a trifle jaundiced about Emma’s plots, which had a distressing tendency to turn on invisible inked messages and clues turned up in buried chests. Feeling guilty at her negative thought, especially since Emma was the bestselling author in the store next to Agatha Christie, Annie said hurriedly, “Actually, Emma’s a sweetheart to put us up. She’s usually oblivious to the world when she’s in the middle of a book.”
“I imagine she’s given us the best help of all. Something in the hospital room hinted at her attacker.” He looked searchingly at Annie. “You searched Iris’s room. You can make a list of everything you saw, compare it to the hospital room, see if you can find a link.”
Annie gave him another cool glance. Was he picturing her settled at a table in Confidential Commissions, safely out of the action, perhaps permitted a foray to the hospital? In your dreams, Nick.
Barb plunged into Max’s office. Her Dolly Parton–blond, beehive hairdo quivered in outrage. “I’m sorry I’m late. I went by the Courts and I’ve never seen anything so awful, the cabin a burned-out shell, all black and fallen in.” Barb’s eyes were huge. “I don’t see how you ever got out.”
Annie was quick to give credit. “Dorothy L. woke us up and Duane got us out. We’re all right.” Physically that was almost true except for Max’s cut feet. Emotionally? How long would it be before she took life and safety for granted?
“Well, Billy Cameron just called and I told him things have come to a fine pass with murderers and arsonists running loose on the island. He had the nerve to tell me there was one murderer and one arsonist and they were the same.”
Annie knew Barb’s anger wasn’t directed at Billy. “You shouldn’t have scolded Billy. He’s doing his best.”
Barb stood with her arms akimbo. “Then why isn’t he out looking for whoever set the fire? Why’s he wasting time coming over here? I don’t suppose if you knew who set the cabin on fire, you’d be keeping it a secret, but he’s on his way over.”
Chapter 12
Billy Cameron dropped a tool with a thin oblong blade and rounded wooden handle on Max’s desk. “Got this out of my toolbox. Handy when you’re scraping paint. We found four putty knives just like this one at the cabin. One jammed beneath the front door, one between the sashes of the side window, one in the bathroom window, one in the sliding glass doors. There’s no way you and Max could have got out. You were locked in better than any jail cell.”
Annie folded her arms tight across her front. “I heard a metallic sound. I didn’t know what it was.”
Billy picked up the tool, balanced it on a broad palm. “Gas splashed all the way around the cabin, putty knives jammed home. Somebody trapped you easy as gigging frogs in a pond. If it hadn’t been for Duane, you would have burned to death. I don’t think the smoke would have got you first.”
Annie stared at their old friend’s grim face. She wished she could push away his measured words, but she couldn’t. Just as she couldn’t forget the horror when roaring fire and roiling smoke surrounded them and they had no way out.
Billy hitched his chair closer to Max’s desk, looked from one to the other. “Tell me everything you know, everything you guess, everything that’s happened from the time you first saw Iris Tilford to the fire.”
After all, it didn’t amount to much. Brief
contacts with Iris. Cara Wilkes’s visit to Iris’s cabin. The anonymous note at Death on Demand. Fran Carlisle linking Russell Montgomery to Jocelyn Howard. Annie’s efforts for Iris’s spirit poster, kind tributes from Buck and Russell and Cara, hostility from Liz, a delayed response from Fran. And, of course, their visit to the mission Sunday afternoon.
Billy rubbed a thumb against the handle of the putty knife. “So you know that Iris fronted for someone else in dealing drugs.”
Annie remembered the warmth of the sun, the coolness of the water in the pool. “Iris came back to the island because there were things she had to figure out. Brother Doyle said Iris told Jocelyn how Sam got the cocaine. Later that same night, Jocelyn died. Iris was afraid she remembered someone walking into the woods with Jocelyn.”
Billy’s face folded into a heavy frown. “Once a killer, always a killer. Iris didn’t have to be killed. So what if Iris saw—or thought she saw—someone with Jocelyn! That didn’t prove anything. No one will ever prove Jocelyn’s death was anything other than an accident or suicide.”
Annie nodded. “Maybe not. But this is a small island. How do you think one of her classmates would like to be publicly accused of drug dealing?”
Billy looked stubborn. “No proof. Iris’s word wasn’t worth much.”
Max shrugged. “Maybe not, but an accusation like that could ruin a marriage, destroy a business, break friendships.”
Billy turned the putty knife in his hands. “Killers don’t care about anyone but themselves. The decision to murder Iris was made shortly after she came back to the island. The attack on Emma proved that. Someone came to Iris’s cabin and searched to be sure Iris didn’t keep a diary or have letters or papers that might be a link.”
Max looked hopeful. “Do you know who Iris contacted on the island?”
