by Carolyn Hart
Emma nodded as if at a bright pupil. “Exactly. We will have a most instructive evening.”
ANNIE MOVED RESTLESSLY, TRYING NOT TO WAKEN MAX. Everything hinged on tomorrow night. But oh how wonderful it would be if they had some inkling before they all met at the pavilion. Maybe tomorrow she could come up with something concrete. She remembered the expression on Emma’s face in the hospital. Emma knew something that mattered. Tomorrow Annie was going to look that hospital room over. Something there…Her eyes began to close. She tugged on the cover.
“Ouch.” Max jerked up a foot.
She pushed up on an elbow. “I’m sorry. Did I hurt your foot?”
“Not a problem.” He murmured drowsily as he turned toward her. “As a matter of fact”—he didn’t now sound sleepy—“I know a cure for all hurts, big or little.”
Annie turned toward him. Love cured many ills and pushed away dark memories. She came into his arms.
THE MORNING WAS PICTURE-PERFECT APRIL, THE AIR SOFT and fresh and only slightly cool, sweaters sufficing in the shade of Emma’s terrace. Sea oats wavered on the dunes. The jade green sea was placid. A gleaming white yacht rode at anchor far out toward the horizon.
Annie wished they could while the day away, walk out onto the sand, plunge into the surf, come up feeling fresh and fine and free. Staying at Emma’s was like a holiday in a posh hotel, superb meals arriving on carts and a sense of endless time. They’d already lingered over breakfast for more than an hour.
Max poured coffee into Annie’s cup. “Even if Emma’s dramatizing herself and creating her own version of a fictional denouement, gathering at the pavilion is a good idea.” He filled his own cup. “Once we get the ball rolling, who knows what will happen.” He looked concerned. “Are you worried?”
Annie had the starring role. She’d never envisioned herself as lead prosecutor, but it was Annie who had heard Darlene’s revelations. “I’ll handle it.” Perhaps she spoke only a shade too quickly. Could she bring Darlene to life before that reluctant gathering, make them see her sadness and grief and anguish?
Chapter 17
Annie stepped inside Yesterday’s Treasures.
Fran stood near a counter, one hand on a cobalt blue crystal perfume bottle. A garnet necklace blazed against the creamy beige of her tailored linen dress. Embroidered eyelet on the neckline and hem transformed the dress from ordinary to chic. Fran was the epitome of elegance except for her drawn face and shadowed eyes. She stared at Annie without a word of greeting.
Annie felt a pang of unhappiness. Where was the Fran she knew, laughing and energetic and always busy? Annie didn’t know this stone-faced woman with burning eyes.
Annie steeled herself to speak. The sooner she finished, the sooner she could hurry away from the hurt of a friendship that had apparently ended. “Max and I have learned a great deal about the night Jocelyn died.”
Fran’s eyes never left Annie’s face. Her fingers tightened on the sterling silver screw top of the perfume bottle.
Annie spoke into cold silence. “We know everyone who cared for Jocelyn and Iris and everyone who knew Darlene”—her classmates hadn’t been Darlene’s friends, Darlene made that clear—“are hoping the truth will be discovered.” Annie felt as if she tossed words into a well.
Fran unclasped her grip from the bottle. She spun turquoise-studded silver bracelets in a nervous jangle. Finally, she spoke. “How can anyone ever know the truth? It’s nonsense to say someone killed Jocelyn. She either fell or jumped from the pier. She wasn’t herself that night. Everyone knows she was upset. As for Iris and Darlene, they could have been involved with sleazy people.”
Annie wondered if Fran believed what she was saying or if she was trying desperately to turn the investigation away from those who had good reason to wish Jocelyn dead. If the former, she was due for heartbreak. If the latter, she was motivated by fear either for herself or Buck.
Annie shook her head. “The murders of Iris and Darlene resulted from Jocelyn’s death. Tonight we’re going to share what we know. Seven o’clock. At the pavilion.”
Fran wrapped her arms across her front. Her face was drawn, her eyes empty.
Annie pushed through the door, hurrying into April sunlight and the bustle of Main Street. She carried with her the image of a desolate woman.
MAX STOPPED THE GOLF CART NEAR THE FRENCH DOOR OF Buck Carlisle’s office. Max leaned out and knocked on a pane.
Buck looked toward the sound. He stared, then put down a sheaf of papers and pushed back his chair. When he opened the French door, he blocked the way inside. “Sorry, Max. I’ve got a deadline.” Buck looked tired and defensive.
Max nodded. “I won’t interrupt. Tonight Annie and I are going to explain everything we’ve discovered about Jocelyn. Seven o’clock. The pavilion.” Max turned the wheelchair. When he reached the sidewalk, he looked back.
Buck stood like a statue. He wasn’t looking at Max. Buck stared across the bay at Fish Haul pier.
LIZ MONTGOMERY SACKED UP A MIDDLE-AGED TOURIST’S purchase. “I put plenty of bubble wrap in the box. You should be able to check this in your luggage or mail it. Please think about us when you’re next on the island.”
Annie waited near a rosewood cabinet filled with Dresden figurines.
As the gray-haired shopper bustled past, Liz slowly turned toward Annie. Liz’s face was heavy and cold, her blue eyes bleak.
Annie wished they’d called everyone on the telephone. That had been her suggestion, immediately vetoed by Max and Emma. Both hoped for some revealing response to the invitation. Annie knew she was getting a good idea of just how upset everyone was. Was that a plus? She returned Liz’s cool gaze with equal frost. “There’s going to be a meeting tonight at the pavilion for Jocelyn’s friends. Seven o’clock.”
She turned to go.
A sharp voice stopped her. “Why should I come?”
Annie swung around. Her answer was rock hard. “Why shouldn’t you?”
MAX THANKED RUSSELL MONTGOMERY’S SECRETARY, SLIPPED his cell phone in his pocket. He steered the silent electric golf cart off the main drive. Once again he enjoyed the delights of his new mode of transportation, the dappled shade on the bike paths, the scent of pine, the cheerful chitter of birds and squirrels. The path was circuitous, but it brought him in only a few minutes to Sand Dune Road, home to the island’s lumberyard and a half-dozen modest warehouses.
Russell Montgomery stood on the flat roof of a weathered wooden building. He gestured as two workers used brushes to sweep a sticky black mass of coal tar across the roof. The pungent odor of hot tar overrode the smell of pines.
Max stopped the cart far enough from the structure that Russell would be able to see him. “Hey, Russell.”
At his shout, Russell slowly turned and looked down. Perhaps the slighter stature of the Latino workmen, though obviously wiry and strong, made Russell appear even larger, more formidable. He stood with his broad shoulders back, his feet planted apart, his blue work shirt rolled to his bulky forearms. After an instant of immobility, he moved swiftly, reached the parapet, swung over the side, and came down the ladder with familiar ease.
When he reached the cart, he stood with his arms folded. His strong face was studiously unrevealing. “You can take occupancy on the Franklin house next Monday. I’ll make a final check Friday, but everything looks on track.” He spoke with constraint. “There won’t be any charge for the repairs.”
“Or for the dead snake?”
Not a muscle moved in Russell’s face. There might have been a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. “Snake? You’ve lost me.”
“Right. Nobody shot a rattler and threw it on my desk. Maybe we can talk about that tonight.” Max’s look was level. “I didn’t come about the Franklin house.”
Russell’s hands dropped. “In that event, our discussion is over.” He turned away, walked toward his truck.
Max called after him. “You might be interested in coming to the pavilion tonight. Seven o’cloc
k.”
Russell kept walking.
“Everyone there will hear about the baby who never got to live.”
Russell stopped. His shoulders bowed. His hands clenched into huge fists. He jerked around. “Damn you. Damn you to hell.”
The anguished shout hung in Max’s mind long after the truck roared to life and jolted down the gravel road to disappear in a cloud of dust.
CARA WILKES’S GAMINE FACE TWISTED IN A SCOWL. “WHY don’t you leave me alone?” She lifted the hammer and pounded on the top rim of the For Sale sign. Behind her a modest gray bungalow looked comfortable and welcoming in the soft morning sunshine though it had the air of emptiness common to un-inhabited structures.
Annie would have liked to wrap her arms around Cara’s thin shoulders, offer comfort. “I’m sorry.”
Cara lifted the hammer, let it fall to her side. Her lips trembled. “Everything’s horrible. Hideous. Hateful. I used to have bad dreams about Jocelyn. You don’t think you are going to die when you are eighteen. It was as if all the color bled away, as if the world was strange and everything familiar was off-kilter. The stars at night made me feel as if everything could disappear in an instant. I left the island and it got better and then everything was worse. You don’t know”—she looked at Annie with eyes glazed by sorrow—“what I would give if Melissa could have lived to be eighteen or twenty-eight. My baby was two when she died.”
Annie did reach out now, touched a rigid arm. “I’m sorry, Cara.”
“Sorry’s nice.” Cara’s voice was once again brittle as Annie had so often heard it, aloof, disengaged, distancing her from pain. “Nice, but it doesn’t help. Nothing helps. Except God. I know Melissa’s fine now. I’m the one who isn’t fine.”
Annie moved closer, slipped her arms around Cara’s stiff body, held her for an instant, then stepped back.
Cara rubbed her eyes with a thin hand. “No one should have to die young, not Melissa, not Jocelyn, not Iris, not Darlene. I’ll come tonight.”
ANNIE STOOD WITH HER BACK AGAINST THE DOOR. IT WAS an ordinary hospital room, at the moment unoccupied. Small. Narrow. A TV mounted on the wall opposite the bed. Open door to the bathroom. One window, a western exposure.
There had been three of them present, Annie, Pamela Potts, and Emma. Annie pictured Emma in the bed, head bandaged, face pale, spiky hair drooping, frowsy in a wrinkled hospital gown, one arm linked to an IV, but her blue eyes were alert and searching. She’d looked at Annie, snapped a crusty complaint. “My head hurts.”
Annie had placed the vase with three dozen pink carnations next to the planter with Liz Montgomery’s lavender blooms. Pamela had held out both the Homestead Purple and Annie’s carnations for Emma to admire. The room had been fragrant with the scent of flowers, including roses from the Altar Guild.
Emma’s eyes had fluttered closed, then opened. She spoke a few words, stopped. She’d started to remember what had happened to her and the memory fled.
What in this unadorned room had brought back the circumstances of her injury?
Nowhere in the confines of the room did there appear to be anything to trigger Emma’s memory. Annie looked outside at a majestic magnolia. In the afternoon, the glossy green leaves would shine. This was an old hospital. Had the window been lifted for fresh air? Pamela was a firm believer in fresh air.
Annie nodded. There had been a slight fresh breeze. Perhaps Emma heard the clack of magnolia leaves, a quick snapping sound like a step. Annie walked to the window, lifted the sash, heard the rattle of magnolia leaves and the faint clink of the metal rings on the flagpole.
BILLY BUILT A STEEPLE WITH HIS FINGERS. WHEN MAX finished speaking, Billy took his time answering. Finally, he shrugged. “I don’t think this murderer’s going to be rattled by a confrontation, no matter how unpleasant it is. But it can’t do any harm for you to talk to them.” Billy’s smile was dour. “It should be safe enough with the whole group there. Let me know what happens.”
SHADOWS FROM THE PINES THREW THE PICNIC GROUND in dark shadow, broken only by occasional lamplights and the gleam from the interior of the open-air pavilion. In the distance, the lights on the boardwalk were in bright contrast to the darkness of the water beyond. The last vestiges of sunset streaked the sky with tendrils of crimson.
Emma led the way, marching up the pavilion steps as if to a throne. Annie wondered if she’d ever achieve the mystery author’s compelling presence. The answer was swift. Not in this lifetime or any other.
Balanced on the edge of a foot, Max swung the crutches over the last step into the pavilion. Annie was afraid he was rushing his progress and knew from the tightness of his face and the careful way he placed his feet that walking was hard.
Annie came last. Only a few days before, she’d been eager to greet their guests, a cheerful milling throng. Would she ever come to the harbor pavilion again without a feeling of dread? In the distance, mourning doves gave their soft cry.
Emma appeared affected by the silence of the cavernous pavilion and the stark metal-shaded lights that hung from the ridgepole, affording occasional spots of brightness that emphasized the gloom of the perimeter. She stood with hands on her hips, tonight’s fringed caftan a swirl of georgette with alternating blocks of orange and green enlivened by embroidery of bold black dragons.
Emma swung a dismissive hand at the pavilion’s picnic tables. “Those aren’t suitable. People sitting on either side reminds me of a boardroom.” She scanned the area, gave a decisive nod.
Emma pointed at the low brick wall that separated the fireplace from the main expanse of the pavilion. “Excellent. The overhead light shines there. We’ll invite everyone to sit on the wall. We’ll stand there.” She gestured to a spot a few feet away.
Obediently, Annie’s gaze followed. Maybe Emma had a talent. Definitely she had a gift for the dramatic. If their guests complied, they would be in harsh relief, their hosts—interrogators?—in shadow.
THEY WALKED UP THE PAVILION STEPS, FOOTSTEPS ECHOING. Not one of the five classmates spoke.
Annie knew she would never forget their silence, five faces that struggled to reveal nothing, five classmates forever bound to the pavilion by heartbreak and violence.
Cara came last, walking by herself. She stood a little distance away from the two couples. Emma looked about, as if seeking inspiration. Her gaze stopped at the low wall. She gestured. “Please take a seat on the wall. We’ll be brief.”
After a disdainful look at the dusty bricks, Liz shrugged and gingerly sat. She folded her arms, her face hostile. Russell sat heavily beside her. He had an old athlete’s look of dominance, shoulders bullish, hands planted on his thighs. He looked ready for a fight.
Fran dropped down next to Russell. She pushed back a tangle of dark curls, jingling her silver bracelets. She was pale, though she’d obviously made her usual effort to be stylish. Ebony linen trousers emphasized the Florentine orange of her floral jacquard top. A glum Buck settled beside her. He stared at the floor. Cara was last. She left extra space between her and Buck. To Annie, the space emphasized Cara’s awareness of him.
Emma moved nearer the wall. She was impressive, character and determination in her square face, cool intelligence in her gaze. “One of you decided ten years ago that Jocelyn Howard had to die.” Her brusque voice was intimidating.
Annie expected denials, recriminations, exclamations of innocence.
The only sound was the cry of the doves.
“From that decision flowed Iris’s murder”—Emma’s indictment was inexorable—“the attempt to kill Annie and Max, and Darlene’s murder. All of you know some part of what happened ten years ago. Tonight the innocent will have an opportunity to speak out and bring an end to a desperate murderer who lashes out at any perceived threat.” Emma looked at each of the five in turn. “If you are reluctant to reveal what you know, understand that no one is safe until Jocelyn’s killer is found.”
Cara shivered. She gave a soft cry of distress. She looked shrunken, as if h
er black silk jacket was too large.
Buck’s turn toward her was immediate. And immediately halted.
Fran’s eyes were dark. A muscle flickered in her slender throat.
Buck hunched his shoulders and again stared down at the floor.
Emma was crisp. “Annie will share newly discovered information that tells us a great deal about Jocelyn’s last night.”
Annie clasped her hands together. She was aware of anger and fear. She felt her own wash of fear. Billy had warned them. Don’t taunt a tiger. What choice did they have? She took a breath and spoke, trying to keep her voice steady. “Everything goes back to the sports picnic ten years ago. You were close friends.” Annie looked at each in turn. “Liz. Russell. Fran. Buck. Cara.” She took another breath. “And Sam and Jocelyn. Darlene Hopper was in your class. None of you had anything to do with her. Except Jocelyn. Jocelyn was nice to Darlene. Darlene loved Jocelyn. I talked to Darlene yesterday.” Yesterday Darlene had been alive.
Annie looked from face to face, Fran wary, Buck grim, Liz angry, Russell bleak, Cara frightened. To some who listened, the revelations would be shocking. Others knew only too well. Yesterday in the alley, sullen Darlene had shed her toughness, her loneliness. Long-ago passions had awakened. She set out to avenge Jocelyn’s death, but she’d run to meet her own. “At the sports picnic, Russell made every effort to avoid Jocelyn. Darlene said Russell looked mean.”
Russell’s hard face revealed nothing. His steady gaze never wavered.
Liz’s eyes glittered with anger. “Russell didn’t look mean. He was upset. His best friend was dead.”
“Darlene told me.” Annie’s voice was sad. “Darlene said Jocelyn came up behind Russell, caught his arm. She was crying.”
“Of course she was crying.” Liz’s voice was harsh. “Her brother was dead, you fool.”
Annie shut out Liz’s voice, but she couldn’t escape Russell’s anguished eyes. “Darlene followed Jocelyn and Russell when they left the pavilion. They went on the path toward the woods. When they were far enough from the pavilion not to be heard, Jocelyn told Russell she needed help. Russell said he couldn’t do anything. She grabbed his arm and said, ‘I’m not talking about the baby.’”
