by Carolyn Hart
They settled at the kitchen table. Annie took a huge bite of the just-out-of-the-oven roll made with freshly grated nutmeg, brown sugar, apple juice, plump raisins, and chopped pecans. Heavenly!
Dorothy L., excited by the postmidnight revelry, jumped onto the table, eying Annie’s plate.
Annie made a halfhearted attempt to push her off the table.
Dorothy L. evaded her hand and scampered to Max. She ducked her head against his arm, purred.
Max stroked thick white fur. “Sweet girl. Good cat.” His tone was just this side of a coo.
Annie wrinkled her nose. “You indulge that beast.” But fair was fair, and Max often made the point that Annie was a slave to Agatha despite the black cat’s tendency to bite the hand that petted. Dorothy L., he was fond of stressing, never bit. Annie decided the cinnamon rolls and hot chocolate were too divine to permit fussing about Dorothy L.’s presence on the table. With the innate perception peculiar to cats, the feline strolled back toward Annie. Annie took another bite, licked exquisite icing from one finger, then reached out and patted Dorothy L. Just one big happy family gathered around (and on) the kitchen table.
Peace, it was wonderful.
“Oh, Max.” She reached out and grabbed his hand and it didn’t matter that both of them had sticky fingers from the buns. “I’m so glad to be home. What a night. Listen—”
Max refilled their mugs with hot chocolate, tumbled miniature marshmallows onto the foam. As Annie talked faster and faster, she rose, pushed back her chair, and began to pace. Max slouched, taking occasional gulps from his mug, listened intently. He didn’t say a word, but his face was skeptical.
Annie paused in midharangue about Billy’s failure to recognize the significance of the missing envelope. “You don’t get it?”
Max rubbed his knuckles against his bristly chin. Without replying, he got up, retrieved Annie’s purse from the counter. He brought the brightly patterned canvas bag to the table and carefully eased out the contents: billfold, checkbook, coin purse, car keys, cell phone, crumpled Baby Ruth wrapper, small packet of Kleenex, lipstick, compact, eye shadow, four stamped envelopes ready to mail, two bank deposit slips, a grocery list on a note card, Selma Eichler’s new paperback, a pen, two pencils, a road map, a receipt from Belk’s…He held up a wedding invitation still in its envelope. He didn’t say a word.
Annie gripped the back of the kitchen chair. Expressions fleeted across her face: chagrin, amusement, acknowledgment, determination. “Doesn’t mean a thing. I put the envelope in my purse so I’d have the address at the store when I bought the gift. And okay, I’d forgotten it was there, ditto the candy wrapper, ditto the map. Ditto whatever. Yeah, I get your point. Pamela could have put the envelope in her purse. And I guess her purse is in the Sound. But”—she flung out a hand—“I never sent her a ticket. And if she hadn’t gotten a ticket, she wouldn’t have been on the cruise, and if she hadn’t been on the cruise—”
“—she wouldn’t have fallen in the water.” He stacked their dishes, carried them to the sink, glanced at her. “Or been pushed overboard,” he amended. “Okay. But you have to admit that everything you’ve told me has a reasonable explanation. The ticket may have been a perfectly innocent gift. She may simply, as Billy suggested, have assumed you sent it. She may have slipped, hit her head, and fallen from the boat. Tonight at the hospital, someone may have accidentally turned off the lights. Henny may be mistaken that the knob turned.”
“The oyster shells?” Annie pulled out the chair, plopped in it.
“Like Billy said, some kid brought in a pocketful and dropped them. You know they’re everywhere.” He picked up the dishcloth, turned on the water.
Annie lifted her voice. “What did Henny hear?” She reached for her mug, finished the cocoa.
There was an odd tingling sound. They both looked at the cool air register.
Max grinned. “Something in the air-conditioning. Or some odd machine behind a closed door made some beeps. Who knows?” He began to rinse their dishes. “A funny noise and the lights went out. Guaranteed to hot up the imagination.”
Annie popped up, brought her mug, bent to open the dishwasher. She picked up the rinsed dishes, slotted them in place. “So you think I should blow off the whole thing?”
Max reached for the dishwasher soap, filled the container. He clicked the dishwasher shut, punched the button. The soft whirr began. He looked at her, a slow smile curving his lips. “I’ve been wrong before. And it won’t hurt to nose around, especially if there’s nothing to it. I’ll do what I can to help.”
She flung herself into his arms, happy, grateful, relieved. Yes, she would have gone on by herself. But it was nice to know she wasn’t alone. “Okay, first thing tomorrow—”
“Tomorrow. Yeah.” There was an odd tone to his voice. “Well, there’s something else you need to see to. First thing.”
Annie stepped back, looked up into sympathetic eyes.
“I hate to worry you tonight.” He caught her hand. “When I got home, there were a bunch of messages on voice mail, mostly people checking on Pamela. I wrote down the names and erased those calls. Except for Laurel’s. And”—his brows drew down—“Pudge’s.”
Annie massaged one temple, then pushed the play button.
“Annie, my dear.” Laurel’s husky voice was a delicate mixture of solemnity and encouragement. “Remember that it is darkest before the dawn—”
Annie raised an eyebrow. So what else was new?
“—but it is precisely at that moment when one must think most creatively. As Aesop so cogently advised: Beware lest you lose the substance by grasping at the shadow.” A pause. “My dear, look beyond.”
As the message ended, Annie contrasted the trite beginning with the challenging ending. Shadow…Dammit, what was this creativity thing? It was time and time past to ignore Laurel. Yet…Annie sighed. Why did she have a feeling that something of utmost importance had been said? She demanded of Laurel’s son, “Look beyond what?”
Max laughed. “I assume that’s a rhetorical question.” He inclined his head toward the phone. “Here’s Pudge.”
As she listened, Annie glanced toward a half dozen snapshots in clear plastic frames scattered on the counter. There were similar clusters of snapshots everywhere in their house, in a bookcase in the family room, atop the piano in the living room, on a butler’s table in the entryway, on windowsills in the bedrooms, on the desk in the upstairs office, old pictures and new, family members and friends. The snapshot she now studied was a favorite, her father at the bookstore holding a Death on Demand mug, his broad face alight with a carefree smile, Agatha draped comfortably on his shoulder. Trust Pudge to charm her mercurial cat, just as he charmed everyone he met. She never saw a picture of Pudge without smiling, cherishing always his look of hopeful expectation, a man who was sure that this day, this moment, this place was going to be wonderful and special. Lately that hopeful look had been absent, the lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth deeper.
“…sorry about the trouble tonight.” His pleasant tenor voice sounded tired, strained. “I hope Pamela’s okay. But accidents happen and you mustn’t feel responsible. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.” A pause.
The pause went on so long, Annie looked questioningly at the recorder.
“Uh…” There was a sense of uncertainty. Pudge cleared his throat. “Annie, I wonder if you will do me a favor. I mean, when you have time. If you could”—a deep breath, then the words pelted her—“talk to Rachel, ask her to be nice to Cole. That’s Cole Crandall, Sylvia’s son. Oh hell, I don’t know if it’s fair to ask you. Or Rachel. But she’s such a great kid. She likes everybody. Anyway, Annie, if you can help, it would mean the world to me. I’m feeling kind of down about the whole thing. I—oh, well. Let me know.” The connection ended.
Annie slowly returned the receiver to its holder. She picked up two clear plastic frames. One held the picture of her father, the other a snapshot of a dark-haired
girl looking up at a laughing Pudge, her thin face adoring. Rachel had added so much happiness to their home. She’d decided to stay with Annie and Max when Pudge moved to Annie’s tree house. But it was Rachel who took the most pleasure in helping decorate the tree house. And Rachel always marked off the days until his return when Pudge was off island on one of his adventurous journeys. Oh my, oh my.
After the dishes were done and they’d crept silently up the stairs, careful not to awaken Rachel, and Annie lay against the warm, familiar curve of Max’s body, she listened to the even cadence of his breath as he slept. She yearned for sleep, but her mind was beset by worry, her muscles too weary to relax. Tomorrow, what would she do tomorrow?
Rachel thudded down the stairs, backpack flapping. She skidded into the breakfast room, stared at the clock with wide eyes. She looked thinner than ever in her oversized clothes. A lacy blouse cascaded over denim pants that dragged on the floor, hiding all but the tips of her sneakers. “Oh golly.”
Outside, a horn blared.
“Oops, there’s Lisa. Got to go.” She leaned over the breakfast table, grabbed a cinnamon roll. “Mmm.”
Annie thrust a paper napkin at her. “Rachel, you haven’t had breakfast. Breakfast is an essential—”
Rachel waggled the roll as she raced toward the front door. A slam and a bang and she was gone.
“—beginning to the day.” Annie waved the napkin at Dorothy L., whose front paws were on the table.
“Don’t be a pig. You’ve already eaten.”
Max placed a bowl on the table. “Papaya.” He bent down, nuzzled the back of her neck, gave Dorothy L. a pat.
Annie’s favorite fruit. And favorite husband. “Thank you.” He knew her thanks included more than food. She dished up slices of the succulent fruit. “So Rachel’s outta here. That was deliberate.”
“Missing breakfast?” Max sliced a microwave-warmed cinnamon roll.
“Yep.” Annie welcomed the distinctive taste of papaya. “She didn’t want to talk to us about last night. Or the cruise. Or Pudge and Sylvia. Max, I don’t know what to do.”
Max’s smile was sunny. “It will come to you.” He lifted the newspaper. “Looks like Tiger’s on the prowl again. If I could hit a ball that far…”
Annie finished the fruit, reached for her coffee. It was all very well for Max to be confident that Annie could smooth over Rachel’s roiled emotions. Annie wasn’t at all certain she could. First she must talk to Pudge, figure out what he really wanted.
Sylvia.
Annie blinked. Her subconscious had whipped out the answer just like that. Maybe that simplified—
The brisk knock at the back door came without warning.
Annie looked at the clock. Ten after seven. Who would—?
The door opened. Emma Clyde stepped inside, her heavy face bleak and drawn. Her orange caftan swirled. A triple loop carnelian necklace hung almost to her waist. Her dress was the color of a summer sunrise, the beads the richest red of dawn, but her face looked like night.
Annie felt a sudden emptiness. She struggled for breath. She pushed back her chair, stumbled to her feet, hoping, yet in her heart knowing…
Emma marched inside, sandals slapping on the parquet floor. “Wanted to tell you myself. Dr. Burford called me. Pamela died shortly after six this morning. Intracranial bleeding. Pressure on the brain stem. There wasn’t a thing that could be done.”
Dead. Pamela dead.
Pamela with her smooth blond hair and wide-spaced, serious blue eyes and maddening, kind, bone-literal mind. Gone. Never to call Annie for another casserole. (“Annie, I know I can count on you for two.”) Never to raise her hand with an earnest question at Bible study. (“Did the fish come out of the bottom of the basket or was a piece taken and instantly replaced?”) Never to pronounce the obvious as if it were an astonishing revelation. (“Dogs are nicer than a lot of people.” A thoughtful pause. “Except for pit bulls.”)
Annie clasped her hands together, realized Emma’s brisk voice hadn’t stopped. “…taken care of everything. I’ve spoken to Father Patton. He told me she wanted to be cremated. That’s all arranged for. The memorial service will be next Saturday. That will allow time for her cousin to come. The cousin lives in Australia. I told him I’ll contact her.”
Max got out a cup and saucer and a plate. “You know how sorry we are.” His blue eyes were dark with sadness and with concern for Annie and Emma. He knew how much they laughed—had laughed—about Pamela, but he understood how much they genuinely cared for her. “Hey Emma, you look beat. Have some breakfast.”
Emma plunged her hands into the pockets of her caftan, stood like a monolith near the table. “No thanks, Max. I’d better get home, make the other calls. I need to let Henny know we won’t need the Altar Guild at the hospital.”
“Dead.” Annie felt as if the word, hard and painful, were lodged in her chest. “Have you talked to Billy?”
She nodded. “There will be an inquest.” Emma’s blue eyes were thoughtful. “I told him about Pamela’s fear of heights. So he’s thinking it must have been a freak accident. He plans to ask the Gazette to carry a statement encouraging anyone who saw her go overboard to contact the police. Like he said, he wants to find out as much as he can. But he told me he’s now leaning toward asking for a verdict of accidental death.”
“Accidental?” Annie’s voice rose in protest.
Emma nodded. “I think,” she said slowly, “that’s a good thing.”
Annie reached out a shaking hand. “Somebody pushed Pamela. She didn’t jump.”
“Oh, it was murder. No doubt in my mind. But having Billy mount a murder investigation wouldn’t lead anywhere. He would follow the usual procedures, look for enemies. Pamela”—her voice was soft—“didn’t have enemies.” Emma glanced at the coffeepot. “God, I’m tired. That coffee looks good.” She stepped to the counter, chose a bright yellow mug, filled it with steaming Colombian.
Max pulled out a chair at the table.
Emma sank onto the rattan seat, her caftan billowing. She waved ring-laden fingers at Annie. “Smooth your fur, sweetie. Sheathe your claws. Billy will still be looking around, trying to find out more facts. But a verdict of accidental death will be to our advantage. You see, we—or to be more specific, you—can go where Billy never could. Inside homes. To the bedsides of the sick. To the church.” She drank the coffee, nodded in approval. Emma knew coffee.
Max’s frown was instantaneous. “I don’t think I like this.”
Emma and Annie ignored him. Emma was nodding. “Pamela heeded the prayer”—and she quoted softly—“‘and do all such good works as thou has prepared for us to walk in….’” Her face drooped with sadness.
Annie swiped away a hot sheen of tears.
Emma looked steadily at Annie. “You can follow in her footsteps.”
Max folded his arms, frowned. “Let’s be clear on what we’re talking about here.”
Emma looped the strands of the necklace over stubby fingers. She looked old, her blocky, corrugated face ridged as weathered granite. “I may be wrong, but I am afraid. I am afraid someone may be at risk, someone Pamela was helping. We need to hurry, find out everyone she was seeing, try to discover what Pamela learned or saw or did that led to her death. I have to believe that Pamela was on the periphery of something deadly.”
Annie understood. Ignore the shadow. Seek the substance. Look beyond.
“So you want Annie to nose into something that led to murder.” Max’s voice was angry. “Without having any idea where the danger lies.”
“That’s the beauty of an official verdict of accidental death.” Emma drank the rest of the coffee, stood.
“No one will know Annie is investigating. She will simply be taking Pamela’s place as an emissary from the church.”
“Where Pammie?”
The sound of Pamela’s high sweet voice shocked Annie into immobility. She stood in the small foyer of Pamela’s house and held the key she’d lifted from beneat
h the front mat in such a tight grip that her fingers hurt.
“Where Pammie?” The voice, uncannily like Pamela’s, came from the living room.
Stiffly, Annie walked forward and looked through the archway into the small living room. The shades were drawn as Pamela must have left them when she departed for the mystery cruise. The room was dim and shadowy. A spectacular parrot in a silver cage, shiny feathers crimson and green and blue, flapped his wings. “Where Pammie? Johnnie want a cracker.” The bright beady eyes glittered.
Annie started breathing again, smiled as she crossed to the cage.
The parrot tilted his bright head. “Have a happy, happy day.”
The tone was so similar to Pamela’s voice that Annie scrambled to remember what Laurel had told her about parrots. As the result of a memorable Mother’s Day adventure, Laurel had gained possession of an African gray with a salty tongue and a rollicking laugh. According to Laurel, parrots often mimicked the tone of an owner’s voice.
Annie stopped in front of the cage, looked into intelligent, curious eyes. There was water, but no food. “I’ll find something for you.” As she hurried into the kitchen, a loud thump sounded, a flap in the back door popped up, and a terrier bounded inside, barking.
Annie whirled to face the excited dog. She had never met him, but Pamela had proudly told her about the painting an island artist had done of the terrier. “Whistler?” Annie held down a hand and the dog frisked to her. A small cold black nose explored her fingers. “Whistler, I’m sorry.” She knelt and petted the dog, who quivered with eagerness. A rough tongue lapped her chin.
Quickly Annie found dog food and refilled the water bowl. In the refrigerator, she found neatly chopped fruits and vegetables in small plastic containers. She carried some carrots and broccoli into the living room, refreshed the water in the cage. The parrot studied her. “Where Pammie?” The parrot began to eat.
