by Carolyn Hart
Max curled his hands into fists. If ever he wished he was standing on his feet, it was now.
Russell talked fast, his voice hard. “Twice now Billy Cameron’s hammered at me because of ‘information received.’ Billy says he has ‘confidential sources.’ We all know who’s running around the island, poking into people’s lives. I’m here to tell you that if you people go around talking about me, you’re going to regret it.”
“Are you threatening me?” Max met his gaze directly.
Russell’s face flushed. “I’m telling you I’ve had enough. Stop trashing me.”
“Not trash. Truth.” Max met his gaze without wavering. “Whether you want to admit to it or not. And whether you like it or not, Annie and I will do everything we can to help solve Iris’s murder. Somebody told Annie about you and Jocelyn at the sports picnic. Jocelyn wanted to talk to you and you tried to stay away from her. Jocelyn was crying. Today someone else confirmed that. Another classmate overheard you and Jocelyn. Jocelyn told you she wasn’t talking to you about the baby.”
Russell’s face was suddenly unreadable. “There’s no proof.” His voice was a rasp. “There will never be any proof.”
Max fought a wave of anger. “Why don’t you tell your side? If you have a side.”
“Back off, Max. My life is none of your business.” Russell leaned forward. “Things get ugly for people who go looking for trouble.”
The moment stretched and held.
Max’s muscles tensed. He was ready to launch himself, head down, and butt Russell in the gut when Russell swung away and strode rapidly toward his truck.
THE GONG SOUNDED MELLOW. ANNIE HAD INTENDED TO hurry to her computer, see if Fran had e-mailed a memory for Iris’s spirit poster. Instead, she stopped near the cash desk to look in amazement at the throng of women in the coffee area. The gong sounded again. Annie moved down the central hallway. Dim lighting turned Death on Demand’s nooks into shadowy enclaves. Not good for reading, but soothing to a harried soul.
At the fringe of the crowd, Annie slipped out of her shoes to join the other barefooted women. Although she scrambled to keep up, she felt she did a good job of moving the moon across the sky. Fifteen minutes passed. Peace touched her as they concluded with a slight bow, left hand cupped over right on the lower abdomen.
An aura of contentment permeated the coffee area even as the tai chi enthusiasts chattered and drank coffee or tea, each clutching a book purchased before the exercises.
Henny rapped smartly on the coffee bar. “Ladies.” Henny’s alert dark eyes gleamed with enthusiasm. “Our new Mystery Club will meet next Monday evening. We will discuss”—she held up a hand for silence—“Peter Robinson’s Inspector Alan Banks series. You’ll want to buy the new book. At a discount, of course. We’ve ordered them especially for you and if you’ll take your place in line—”
Annie watched in amazement. The dutiful readers—maybe tai chi was the answer to the world’s angst—swarmed into an orderly queue leading up to the cash desk and a big stack of beautiful books. Hardcovers. If each customer bought a hardcover in addition to an earlier purchase, Death on Demand might set a one-day sales record.
Laurel and Henny swooped to the cash desk. Ka-ching, ka-ching.
When the front door closed behind the last mellow mystery lover, Annie clapped. “You’re wonderful. Both of you. Thank you for keeping the store going. Since Duane is back, I can take over now.” Life would almost be whole again. Someday maybe she would sleep through the night and not awaken with a start, remembering the crackle of flames and smell of smoke, fighting away a sweep of terror.
Henny led the way down the central aisle. She radiated eagerness, dark eyes gleaming, narrow intelligent face alight. Laurel high-stepped behind her, silver blond hair swirling, red tai chi uniform perfectly draped on a figure that any chick might envy.
Laurel gave a final kick. “Dearest Annie, Henny and I have wonderful plans.”
“Plans?” Annie hoped the word didn’t resemble a desperate mouse squeak. “Some special getaway as a reward for all your hard work here?”
Henny patted Annie’s shoulder. “We have a mission. We have always loved Death on Demand, but now we know we can make a difference for you.”
Annie leaned against the coffee bar. They were wonderful, but they overwhelmed. Death on Demand was her world, hers and Agatha’s and Ingrid’s. How would Ingrid feel if Henny and Laurel became permanent fixtures?
Laurel beamed. She curved her arms up, pulling down yang. Or was she pushing up yin? “You will be thrilled, dear child.”
Henny moved comfortably behind the coffee bar, obviously at home there. She filled three mugs, set them on the counter.
Annie noted the names on the mugs: Tell You What I’ll Do by Henry Cecil, Shoot a Sitting Duck by David Alexander, and The Takeover by Richard Wormser. Were they portents of her future?
Henny beamed. “We have a new schedule planned. Subject to your approval, of course. Laurel and I will be in charge every Monday. Ingrid has talked for years about creating reading lists with brief summaries of the books. This will give her time to do the research. Mondays off will afford you and Max long weekends. Mondays will be special.” Henny clapped her hands together. “Tai chi every morning, the Mystery Book Club at night.”
Laurel beamed. “Isn’t it wonderful, dear child? We call ourselves The Tai Chi Mystery Mavens.”
Once a week.
Delight made Annie euphoric. Only on Mondays. Of course she was always interested in improving Death on Demand and Laurel and Henny provided a dash of color. Moreover, they were adept at parting customers from their cash. But how glorious that they would invade her domain only on Mondays. “That’s great! Oh, how can I thank you?”
“Oh well, if you insist.” Eyes gleaming, carrying her steaming mug, Henny headed directly for the collectibles.
Laurel waved her hands like clouds and looked thoughtful. “I’ve been dreaming of a very special treasure hunt. I don’t quite have it worked out, but this would be a good place for the hunt to end.”
Henny returned with two books.
Annie left them at the coffee bar, Henny trying to decide between a seventy-dollar good-condition edition of Fingerprint by Patricia Wentworth or a forty-two-dollar some-wear edition of A Is for Alibi by Sue Grafton.
Annie smiled as she slipped behind her computer in the storeroom. How lovely to think about tai chi and mysteries. Those thoughts helped hold at bay the somber moments they’d endured. Tonight she and Max would be safe and comfortable at Emma’s. Soon the Franklin house would be ready. Nothing could be wholly right with their world until Iris’s killer was found, but she intended to savor this happy moment.
Annie clicked on her messages: forty-three. Sometimes she wished for the good old days of letters or phone calls. Combined, she had never received forty-three letters and phone calls in one day. Annie scrolled, deleting, saving, occasionally responding. She was midway down the list when she stopped, clicked print. Fran’s message would help complete the spirit poster for Iris:
Please forgive me for being upset when you came to the shop. If only Iris hadn’t come back to the island. She called and wanted to talk about the sports picnic at the pavilion. I’ve been trying to forget that night for years. I begged Iris to let things be. We can’t change what happened and everyone’s gone on and made a good life. She wouldn’t listen. She asked if I knew who went into the woods with Jocelyn. How would I know? None of us ever talked about the sports awards picnic. If I knew, I wouldn’t say because that person might be innocent. Don’t you see? No one will ever know what happened.
I’m sorry. I’m upset again. Will everything ever go back to where it was and we were happy?
Annie could see Fran’s irregular features with their surprising charm, imagine her impatiently brushing back a tangle of dark curls. Annie was sorry that Fran was upset. But Jocelyn and Iris were dead. Annie doubted anything would ever be quite the same for that tight group of friends locked
together then by a fatal night, pushed apart now by suspicion and uneasiness and fear.
I didn’t see much of Iris in high school. I was working hard to go to college, making good grades, saving money. She never seemed to look ahead so we didn’t spend much time together. She didn’t care about school. Ever since her mom died, she was sad. I tried to tell her that lots of people have hard times. I didn’t grow up easy, but I decided I wasn’t going to be like my family. My mom dumped me on my grandmother. All she did was complain about how much it cost to feed me. Iris was lucky. Her grandmother kept a nice clean house and she was sweet to everybody. My house was trashy and my grandmother drank too much. Iris never got over her mom dying. Iris kind of drifted around and she never had much to say. She wasn’t like that when we were little. We were best friends in third grade. After school, we’d go to her house and have tea parties. We pretended we had shops. I had a jewelry store and I sold gold rings. I saved the bands from my uncle Joe’s cigars and put them on a plate I decorated with foil. Iris found an old stack of National Geographics that someone threw out. She cut out pictures and pasted them on art paper. She called them her brochures. She had a travel agency. When she grew up, she wanted to go around the world. She’d be the first person ever from Broward’s Rock to go to Zanzibar. She found it on the atlas, saved the National Geographic pictures. Zanzibar. She loved the sound. That’s how we said good-bye. “I’ll see you in Zanzibar.”
When she ran away, I always wondered if somehow she’d gone to Zanzibar. Instead, she never made it farther than Savannah. That’s how I’ll always remember her, smiling and waving, saying, “I’ll see you in Zanzibar.”
Chapter 15
The front door to Confidential Commissions was locked, which indicated Barb was out and about. Max used his key and maneuvered the wheelchair inside. He turned on the light and paused to admire the new decor of the anteroom, which was replicated in his office, spare, angular furniture and black-and-white-tiled floor. The new decor reflected the vitality of faraway New York. He’d never regretted his move to Broward’s Rock. Where Annie lived would always be home for him, but New York’s magic remained a part of him and often beckoned, the rhythm of blaring horns and hurrying crowds, life lived full throttle.
He wheeled to his office, still thinking about Annie and New York and champagne breakfasts. He opened the door and stopped, startled to find the light on. He was sure he’d turned the light off when he left. Barb wasn’t here and it was unlikely she’d turned the light on.
He shrugged and wheeled toward his desk. The smell struck him first. He stared at the desktop. There wasn’t much blood. Blood must have spewed where death had occurred. The long, thin, headless body of an eastern diamondback rattler lay limp and still atop papers and folders.
Max had a quick memory of Russell Montgomery, red-faced, fists bunched, leaning toward Max. Russell would shoot a rattler with ease, had probably done so fairly often. Diamond-backs were no stranger on the island. As if watching a film, Max pictured Russell moving brush and hearing that distinctive warning. Did he keep a handgun in his truck or a rifle? In any event, how easy for a good marksman to shoot the snake. One less dangerous predator to deal with.
BILLY LOOKED AT THE BACK DOOR. “JIMMIED.”
Max was furious. “If anybody knows how to get inside a building, it’s Russell Montgomery.”
“No proof.” Billy glanced up and down the alley. “Whoever brought the rattler would have made sure no one was around.”
Max looked, too. The alley was beginning to fill with afternoon shadows. He and Billy were the only people in the service area behind the shops. “Like now.” Max turned away. In his office, he stood by the desk as Billy used a gloved hand to lift the carcass from the desk, ease the dead snake into a box.
Billy shrugged. “I don’t know what the hell good it will do to keep the snake. I’ll tag it for the Tilford case.”
Max used damp paper towels to swipe away the traces of blood and body fluids. “We may not be able to tie the snake to Russell, but I’m sure he brought it. Maybe that will turn out to be a big mistake on his part. Sure, we knew he had a hell of a motive, but now we know he’s ready to get ugly.”
Billy tied twine around the box. “Yeah. There’s one interesting thing.” Billy’s tone was thoughtful. “It could have been uglier. He could have left a live rattler.”
As the door closed behind Billy, Max’s nose wrinkled as he smelled the musty scent of rattlesnake. He wheeled to the kitchen area and found Clorox wipes. He returned to his office, wiped papers and folders and scrubbed the desk.
The dead snake was not only a warning, its presence in his office was a contemptuous dismissal of locks.
Max pulled the stacks of folders nearer and saw a note in Barb’s flamboyant handwriting:
Here are the dossiers on Jocelyn’s classmates. I didn’t find much new on anybody. I’ve highlighted stuff you might want to know. Some heartbreak for Cara Wilkes. I don’t think it’s relevant to the murder.
Nice thing about an island is that everybody’s here unless they’re not. I contacted the guests who attended the picnic, excluding Iris’s classmates. Seven of the guests knew Iris. Only three noticed her or spoke to her Friday night.
Max was disappointed. He’d hoped others attending the oyster roast might have glimpsed Iris walking into the woods with her killer. He scanned the names. Kim Holland, a bouncy blonde, taught fourth grade and never missed an event at Death on Demand. Ruddy and brusque outdoorswoman Joan Kelly raised Afghan hounds and volunteered at The Haven. Amiable Mike Peterson taught golf at the country club (“Keep your elbow straight…”).
Kim Holland: I was surprised to see Iris. I intended to say hello but I got to talking with Ted Porter and when I looked around I didn’t see her…. It was about seven-thirty when I tried to find her. I kept an eye out but I decided she’d left.
Max wrote the time on a legal pad. He felt a flicker of hope. Maybe another guest would pinpoint Iris’s presence before or after seven-thirty. That would narrow the period when it would be important to establish the whereabouts of Buck, Fran, Russell, Liz, and Cara.
Joan Kelly: Lived next door to her grandmother. Nice woman. Kept cockers. Iris wasn’t up to life. No gumption. Weak stock breeds weaklings. Asked her Friday night if she’d come home to stay. Said she was back for a visit. That was about the time I went back for a second dessert. Real Key lime pie. When did I see her? Ten after seven.
Max scrawled the time in large numerals: 7:10–7:30. Maybe a picture was slowly taking shape. The serving line was still open at half-past seven. Darlene was at her station with a clear view of the entrance to the woods during that twenty-minute period. Darlene would easily recognize Iris and her other classmates. Maybe a net was beginning to close around an elusive, swift-moving, deadly figure.
Mike Peterson: It was nice to see Iris again. She was a sweet girl. I ran into her up near the pavilion. She asked how things were going. I told her everything was great and I was having a swell time getting paid to hang around a golf course. She said she’d been in Savannah the last few years. I asked her to come by our table. I wanted her to meet my wife. She gave me the sweetest smile. She said she would. Maybe I’m spooked by everything that’s happened, but I get a funny feeling when I remember her face. As she turned away, she looked kind of scared but determined, real determined. I didn’t think anything about it at the time. Now I have to wonder….
Max sketched the pavilion and marked the site of the restrooms with Xs. Iris may have been on her way to a restroom when she stopped to visit with Mike. Someone could have followed her from the picnic area with gloves and a length of cord. Iris’s expression of fear and decision convinced Max he was right. This was the fateful moment. Iris saw the person she suspected. Mike returned to the picnic tables. Iris and her classmate spoke. Iris was persuaded her fear was unfounded.
Max immediately pictured familiar faces. Had Buck beckoned Iris to enter the woods with the promise of truth to come
? Had Fran offered a solution absolving them all? Had Russell professed to remember that foggy night and claimed he could explain Jocelyn’s sad death? Had Liz insisted Iris’s memory was faulty? Had Cara recalled Jocelyn’s distress and said Jocelyn walked away alone toward the harbor?
Max turned to the dossiers:
Frances Fay Kinnon Carlisle: Mother Emmalou Estes Kinnon McElroy, waitress. Father Morgan Kinnon. Parents divorced when Fran was five. She came to live with her grandmother Eliza Estes, never knew her father. Mother visited sporadically. Grandmother Estes was employed at the telephone company. In high school, Fran worked at Parotti’s, then she was on the wait staff at Frankie’s Supper Club on the mainland. Fran was class valedictorian. She received the Campbell scholarship to Clemson. She majored in business, graduated in the top ten percent of her class. She and Buck Carlisle married right out of college. She managed a boutique clothing store while Buck was in law school. Upon his graduation, they returned to the island and Buck joined his father’s firm. She opened Yesterday’s Treasures. She received a state award for top small business two years ago. Fran and Buck adopted a daughter from China, Terry, who is now five.
Max wondered how Jessica Carlisle, Buck’s regal mother, dealt with her daughter-in-law’s modest origins. Probably with grim reserve. He doubted Jessica had ever eaten at Parotti’s with its down-home atmosphere or Frankie’s, which had a shady-lane reputation for backroom gambling and introductions to willing ladies. At least Jessica should be impressed by Fran’s academic achievements and acquired social graces. Fran had left her shabby background far behind. Max picked up Buck’s folder.
Stanley George (Buck) Carlisle IV: Father Stanley G. Carlisle III, lawyer. Mother Jessica Fairlee, homemaker. One sister, Jodie. Parents are movers and shakers on the island, both financially and socially. Average student in high school. Eagle Scout. Accomplished woodworker. Elected social secretary of his fraternity at Clemson. BA, Clemson; JD, University of South Carolina. Active in student bar association, served as secretary. Married to Fran Kinnon. Returned to the island after graduation from law school and joined his father’s firm. Adopted daughter Terry.
