by Carolyn Hart
Annie caught Mavis as she was turning away. “After you talk to Billy, could you give Henny some help? It’s easy. Everything’s in the script.”
Mavis agreed, Emma departed to rejoin the costume committee, and Annie followed Jolene Parotti down the steps to the galley.
The recalcitrant five, fortune hunters all, were crammed in front of the stove. Annie greeted the mayor, the high school principal, a vacationer wearing an Ohio University T-shirt, a member of the Altar Guild, and a potter.
“Annie!” Five voices called out with loud complaints. “…says right here, five steps north, six steps south…supposed to be a little chest with cards”—the mayor waggled two cards—“…not fair to keep us out. The others will be getting ahead….”
Annie reached for the mayor’s Treasure Map. There was a tug-of-war. “I’ll give it back,” she said gently.
His plump fingers reluctantly released the sheet, his pouter pigeon face puffed with impatience.
Annie held up the map, pointed to the first instruction. “Remember, the searches all begin at the Treasure Chest painted on the deck by the pilothouse.” Annie was perhaps inordinately proud of the Treasure Map. The directions for each hidden chest contained the number of steps from the pilothouse and an enigmatic clue.
The mutiny in the galley pertained to chest number four. Annie read, “Five steps down—”
The potter clawed at his black beard. “Yeah, yeah. If you follow the steps, you end up in the corridor, and here’s the galley, and if it has something to do with food—”
The vacationing buckeye rattled his sheet. “Let’s cut to the chase. Right here”—a stubby forefinger tapped instruction number four—“it says: Hint—A carnival delight to some, but this one makes no crumbs.”
Five sets of eyes glared at Annie.
If they cared that much…She said airily, “One of my favorite foods at the carnival is funnel cake, but on a boat…” She drew back against the bulkhead as the five stormed past her, thudding into the corridor and heading for the bow and the funnel.
Mrs. Ben shook her head. “I declare. What some folks will do to win a prize that probably don’t amount to a hill of beans. If you don’t mind my saying so. Now”—she moved toward the stove—“to my beans.”
“They smell wonderful.” Annie sniffed brown sugar and molasses and realized she was starving. She turned and hurried toward the stairs. She needed to check on the buffet, and find Rachel, and say hello to everybody.
Annie poked her head into the main saloon. Ben Parotti, natty in a Jack Nicklaus green blazer, lifted a hand in greeting. Ben had reminded Annie of a scruffy gnome until he met and married Miss Jolene and exchanged his long underwear tops and baggy coveralls for the latest in menswear from Belk’s. His café had always been the island’s premier eating spot, and as far as Annie was concerned Ben’s fried oyster sandwich couldn’t be bested. Tonight he was a genial host as well as boat owner and caterer.
“Eaten yet, Annie?” His gravelly voice exuded cheer. “The hush puppies are barking.”
She grinned. “Pretty soon, Ben. Just making sure everything’s going all right.” The buffet line was moving quickly. She wrinkled her nose. Hmm. Hot fried fish, what a great smell. But work came first….
On the lower deck, she stopped near the bookstall. Duane Webb, Ingrid’s husband, was swamped. She hurried upstairs to find Ingrid equally busy on the upper deck. Annie was nearing the finish of her circuit when she saw a thin figure all alone at a side rail.
Annie stopped beside Rachel. “Hey, come with me and let’s see how the play’s doing.”
Her young stepsister hunched her shoulders. In the moonlight her thin face was hard and still as alabaster. She yanked at the neck of her oversize striped T-shirt, shook her head violently.
Annie slipped an arm around rigid shoulders. She didn’t know what to say. Was it better to say nothing or—
“Annie”—Rachel’s voice was choked—“look!” A wavering finger pointed down to the deck below.
It took a moment for Annie’s eyes to distinguish the couple embracing near the stern. Sylvia Crandall stood with her head pressed against Pudge’s shoulder. Annie knew this was not passion. This was pain. Her father awkwardly patted Sylvia’s back, a gesture of consolation.
Rachel shoved her hands into the pockets of her baggy shorts. “I’d push Cole right into the water if I could.” She jerked to face Annie. “You should have seen the way he treated Pudge. He wouldn’t speak to him. He wouldn’t even look at him. He turned his back on Pudge to talk to his mom and then he slouched away.”
Annie was puzzled. “Cole?”
“Cole Crandall.” Her tone dripped disgust. “He’s in my class. Thinks he’s so special. Just like his mom.”
Annie made a guess. “Is he a friend of Stuart Reed?”
Rachel’s eyes widened.
Annie tweaked a dark curl. “No black magic. I’m fresh out of chicken entrails, but some guys were being rowdy downstairs, and Billy’s enlisted their help to be on the lookout for a pickpocket.”
“Those guys get to help Billy?” Rachel’s voice was shrill. “Honestly, that’s not fair. They already think they’re special. Stuart Reed’s rich and good-looking and he never lets anybody forget it. He has all these guys who follow him around and do whatever he says. I can’t believe Billy would pick them to help him! And Pudge is all soppy about Sylvia and wants to be a buddy to Cole. Well, if Pudge wants to hang out with Cole he can forget me. But then”—her voice wavered—“I guess he already has. Oh, I hate everybody.” She pulled away from Annie and rushed toward the steps.
Annie stared after her. Lordy.
Max Darling balanced two paper plates above his head as he worked his way around the customers massed at the book booth on the upper deck. Ingrid briskly made change and handed a purchase to a customer, then shouted, “Twenty-three.” Maybe Annie should teach marketing at the community college on the mainland. Max had nodded politely when she told him she’d ordered dispensers with numbered slips for the book booths, which would be manned by Ingrid on the upper deck and her husband, Duane, on the lower. Annie had explained earnestly, “The boat isn’t big enough for long lines. This way everyone pulls off a number, and Ingrid or Duane call each number in turn. Mystery readers like for everything to be orderly. And fair. They are very big on fair.” Darned if she wasn’t right. The crowd was good-humored, festive, and buying books at a rate that astonished him. Father Patton, the associate rector, was encumbered with two stuffed book bags, his face wreathed in a triumphant smile. He was a special fan of James Lee Burke.
Max found Annie on the platform near the pilothouse. She was silhouetted in the moonlight, graceful as a bronze of Diana. He stopped to admire her, a frequent and favorite pursuit. The wind ruffled her blond hair, tugged at her blouse. Enthusiastic, happy, serious, hardworking, levelheaded Annie, who lighted up his life. And later tonight…His grin was big enough to encompass Alaska.
She lifted her arms, held her hands high above her head to clap vigorously. “Huzzah!”
Max joined her, looked over the railing at the audience crowding near the raised platform near the bow. Henny Brawley swept off her hat, took a bow. Always fond of emulating favorite detectives, tonight she sported a brown fedora and rumpled, stained tan trench coat. Max suspected Lieutenant Columbo had served as her inspiration. She was beaming though flushed, which was understandable as the coat was a bit much for an August night though perfect for her role as Inspector Maguffin.
Annie pointed down to the forward deck, whispered, “She just described the setting, the old plantation house with wraparound porches surrounded by live oaks, a lagoon with an eight-foot alligator, a terraced garden with azaleas in full bloom, a raccoon who comes every evening to listen to Mozart, Wanda’s room with the evening sun shining on the heart pine floor and the emerald necklace on the dresser.” Annie heaved a happy sigh. She knew the play by heart. “Now she’s going to introduce the characters at the time of the
theft, according to their later testimony.” Annie took a plate filled with crisp fried fish, Ben’s homemade sweet potato chips, tangy coleslaw, baked beans, and those barking hush puppies. “Huzzah to you, too. I’m starving.” They balanced their plates on the wooden railing, just wide enough to serve as a table.
On the forward deck, Henny introduced the players, one by one:
“Wanda Wintersmith, mistress of Mudhen Manor.” A plump matron draped in a huge pink towel crossed the stage, blowing soap bubbles, her bare wet feet slapping on the wood. “I always take the most luxurious bath before a grand evening event.”
“Walter Wintersmith, Wanda’s errant husband.” A balding actor in a tuxedo carried a pair of dress shoes. He brandished a swab dripping with black sole dressing. “As far as I’m concerned, a shoe isn’t fully polished until the rims are done.”
“Periwinkle Patton, Wanda’s niece.” Mavis Cameron held out a whisk broom and dustpan. “Oh dear, I don’t know if I can get all this bath powder swept up. It’s such a mess.”
“Augustus Abernathy, Wanda’s nephew.” Augustus carried a hoe. He swiped at his face with a red bandana. “I know it’s almost time for the party but I want to finish mulching the roses.”
“Heather Hayworthy, an aspiring actress whom Walter—ah—admires.” The voluptuous blonde flounced across the stage, sequins scattering from a tear in her fancy dress. “Oh, this is just too much. My dress is ruined and I don’t have another for the party tonight!”
“Moose Mountebank, who believes he would make a fine squire of Mudhen Manor.” The handsome actor reached down to swipe at his shoes, held up muddy fingers, his face chagrined. “Wanda despises people who arrive late. And here I am, out of gas and the road’s a swamp from all the rain yesterday.”
Henny’s clear voice announced, “Detectives may now pose their questions.” Annie took another bite of delectable fish. A frown suddenly creased her face. “Have you seen Rachel?”
Max dipped his fish in tartar sauce. “She’s sitting with a bunch of girls in the main saloon and studiously ignoring Pudge and Sylvia at the next table. Pudge looked tired.”
Annie munched the crisp, delicious fish. Okay, when they got home tonight, it was time for her and Rachel to have a talk. But Rachel’s unhappiness was the only blight on an otherwise perfect—
A voice rose in a shrill scream.
Annie’s breath caught in her chest. She knew at once that something dreadful had happened. That cry had been freighted with horror. Harsh shouts rose in a discordant, frightening jumble. Another scream sliced through the night. She and Max ran to the starboard railing in time to see a geyser of water plume above the dark surface.
“Man overboard.”
The stentorian yell shocked the crowd to silence for an instant. A hoarse call followed. “Stop the engines. Man overboard.”
The boat shuddered to a stop. Running feet sounded, calls, shouts, cries.
“…fell from there…”
“…saw her on the way down…”
“…what happened…”
“…can they get her in time?”
“…throw down life preservers. Yeah, over there…”
Ben Parotti’s gravelly but authoritative voice barked over the PA system. “Remain where you are until further notice. Passenger sighted off starboard bow. Rescue efforts are under way.”
A clanking creak signaled a winch lowering a rowboat.
Annie leaned over the railing as a limp figure bobbed to the surface. There was no life, no movement, no struggle.
A searchlight swung up, down, wavered, settled on hair streaming in the water and a floating arm. The arm moved with the surge of the water. A spot of yellow marked one shoulder. Two life preservers wobbled nearby.
Yellow…Annie grabbed Max’s arm. “Oh God, it’s Pamela.” Pamela had been so clever, attaching the figure of a canary to one shoulder. “She doesn’t know how to swim. Oh Max, she’s going down—”
The body, weighted by sodden clothing, was slipping beneath the dark surface.
Max kicked off his loafers, climbed onto the railing. For an instant he was poised against the night sky and then he arched into space, down, down, down.
Annie clapped her hands to the railing, the sea-damp wood slick beneath her fingers. Max’s dive seemed to take forever, though she knew he was plummeting faster and faster toward the surface. He knifed into black water that plumed in a high white ruffle. Rough voices shouted instructions, commands.
Annie struggled to breathe. If anybody could save Pamela, Max could. He was a champion diver, a superb swimmer. She tried not to think about the night sea and sharks and a heavy weight pulling him deeper and deeper. She stared at the unbroken surface of the ocean, opaque as the dark sky. How far down had Pamela gone? How could he find her? Oh, Max, come up, come up.
Abruptly, the water frothed. Max shot into view, one arm in a tight lifeguard grip around Pamela. He treaded water, breathing deeply. Pamela’s head lolled back and forth.
Annie’s cheer melded into a triumphant roar from the onlookers.
A lifeboat smacked into the water. Two crew members wielded the oars, synchronizing the rise and fall as they pulled through the water.
Annie’s heart steadied into a slower rhythm. Max was fine. He could tread water as long as necessary. But Pamela was clearly injured. Annie hung over the railing when the boat wallowed next to Max and his inert burden. It seemed to take so long, the careful easing of Pamela’s limp body up and into the lifeboat, then Max clambering in the back. By the time the lifeboat was alongside the hull, a swing with a stretcher dangled near the water. Max held the swing steady as the crewmen gently strapped her onto the stretcher. Then there was a slow and careful ascent as Pamela was hauled aboard.
In a moment more, a sopping Max was beside her and she clung to him, not caring that he was wet, caring only that he was there, safe in the tight circle of her arms.
“I’m okay, honey.” He was impatient. He gave her a squeeze, stepped back, looked toward the clump of people gathered around the stretcher. “Pamela’s unconscious. Or…” The sentence trailed off.
Annie stood on tiptoe, craning to see. The boat engine rumbled as the Island Packet began a slow turn in the water. Max, still straining for breath, looked over the massed heads. “Billy’s doing CPR. That means she’s still alive.”
Annie hoped that was true. She would try to believe that was true.
“He’s stopped.” Max’s voice was grim. He folded his arms, frowned.
Annie wanted to shout and cry and push back time. Pamela must have been so proud of her costume. She obviously was having a wonderful time tonight. How could cautious, careful, prudent Pamela have tumbled overboard? Dear Pamela, serious, kind, good, well-meaning, and literal. What rhyme or reason was there? But accidents happen to everyone. Oh damn, damn, damn. Pamela had been so excited to be on the cruise, so grateful to Annie. But it wasn’t Annie who’d sent her a ticket. Annie had forgotten all about finding Pamela, explaining the mix-up. Now it was forever too late. Poor Pamela, so grateful for kindness. How tragic that her exciting evening had ended like this. And how heartbreaking for her to lie there with no one near who cared for her. Sometimes people came around if they just kept working on them….
Annie tried to push through the crowd.
Max caught her arm. “Annie, they need room. We shouldn’t try to get closer.”
Her throat ached as she pushed out the words. “He mustn’t stop.” Tears brimmed. “If he’ll just keep on—”
The word swept through the onlookers like sea oats rustling in the wind. “She’s breathing…breathing…breathing….”
Annie lifted the megaphone. “I have wonderful news. Police Chief Billy Cameron successfully performed CPR on Pamela Potts, who was rescued”—Annie’s glance at Max was proud, but his quick head shake precluded mention—“after falling overboard. Pamela is breathing well but remains unconscious.” Surely Pamela would be all right. Surely she would…. “We ar
e returning to the harbor where an ambulance will take her to the hospital. I know everyone joins with me in wishing Pamela a speedy recovery. Please feel free to continue with the mystery events as we return to shore. As a special thank-you for your understanding our shortened outing, I’d like to invite everyone to attend a free watermelon feast next Saturday afternoon on the boardwalk in front of Death on Demand. We will announce the winner of our jewel theft mystery. And Pamela Potts will be our special guest of honor.” Please God.
Annie clicked off the megaphone and turned. “Max, let’s go see.” She headed for the steps down to the saloon where they had taken Pamela.
He stood in the door frame, blocking the way. “Sorry. Off-limits.” He was young, muscular, cocky, and good-looking, with smooth olive skin, greenish eyes, and dark hair. His yellow polo shirt was a tight fit, his khakis fashionably baggy.
Annie peered around him. A teenage boy was stationed at every entrance. Billy had utilized his newly acquired cadre for more serious work than the search for a nonexistent pickpocket. Aft, a scarecrow-thin six-footer in a red and white rugby shirt stood with a jutting jaw and folded arms. Port, a sharp-featured, bony boy nervously paced. Starboard—Annie knew at once—was Sylvia Crandall’s son, a tangle of brown curls framing a heart-shaped face. His brown eyes had the nervous look of a spooked horse.
In the center of the saloon, people clustered near a table. Billy Cameron, big and imposing, glanced at his wristwatch. It was odd to see Billy in a Hawaiian print shirt and blue jeans. She was accustomed to his khaki uniform. Ben Parotti had shed his green blazer. He stood with thumbs hooked onto orange braces, his gnome face glowering. Mavis Cameron bent over the table, her light brown hair falling forward, screening her face. Father Patton had a thoughtful, considering look on his face. His arms were folded across his chest.
Annie called out, “Billy. Hey, Billy!”
Billy turned. “Annie.” His voice was tired. “That’s okay, Stuart. Let them in.”
The teenager stepped back to let Annie and Max enter, firmly closed the door after them.
