by Carolyn Hart
Annie swallowed. “I’m Annie. I’m a friend of Pammie’s.” Pammie. That’s what the bird called his owner. And he had learned it from Pamela.
Annie looked around the small living room. Lace doilies protected the arms of the sofa and chairs. All the pieces were old, the upholstery worn. The braided rug was clean but faded. Framed prints, not paintings, hung on the walls. A rose china antique clock sat on the mantel. There was the shabby aura of gentility underlain by poverty.
It was the first time Annie had ever been in Pamela’s house. “Some friend,” she said aloud.
Whistler pattered into the living room, stood close.
The parrot cocked his head. “Have a happy, happy day.”
Annie blinked back tears. She knew the bird had heard the phrase many times from Pamela, smiling, her sweet voice a caress. Oh golly, something had to be done about the bird and the dog. But, almost as though she heard Emma’s raspy voice—“We need to hurry”—she reminded herself that she wasn’t here to feed pets, necessary though that might be.
Annie whirled, headed back to the kitchen. Whistler came right behind her. His nose poked against her leg as she stood in front of a big wall calender. She made a thumbs-up when she saw the spaces for each day filled with Pamela’s neat printing.
Annie pulled a notebook out of her purse. The kitchen seemed untenanted and still, the only sounds the whirr of the old refrigerator and the tick of the wall clock. She avoided looking at the neatly folded tea towels and the flowered apron draped over a white kitchen chair.
Pamela had marked her schedule on the calendar, the times of appointments and the names of persons visited. Annie tapped her pen on the pad. Whatever Pamela saw or knew, whatever it was that set death on her trail, the triggering event most likely had occurred within a day or two of the cruise. The envelope with the cruise ticket was tucked in her mailbox on Sunday. That had the air of a hurried decision. Or possibly the free ticket was left at the last minute to prevent Pamela from speaking to Annie about the gift. Annie checked the names listed in Pamela’s neat printing on Friday and Saturday. However, to be on the safe side, she wrote down everyone listed for the past week.
There was at least one overlap between the names on the calendar and the cruise passengers: Meg Heath. Annie shook her head. Wheelchair-bound Meg Heath could not have been involved in the attack on Pamela. Meg, in fact, could never have reached the second deck.
Annie sat at the kitchen table. Last night she’d taken up the sheets listing the passengers, tucked them in her purse. They were still there, a little crumpled but intact. She quickly checked the names taken from Pamela’s calendar against the passenger list. There was only one match: Meg Heath. To be sure, she read the names again….
From the living room came the forlorn cry, “Where Pammie?”
Whistler turned, clicked across the floor.
Annie slowly folded the passenger list, put the sheets in her purse along with the notebook. She got up, frowned at the calender—she’d had such high hopes—then returned to the living room.
“Have a happy, happy day.” The parrot hopped from one stand to another.
She looked into coal-black eyes. She had to do something about the bird. She bent to smooth Whistler’s fur.
The rose clock on the mantel chimed the hour. Already eight o’clock. Emma had imbued her with a sense of urgency, of time fleeting, of someone somewhere in danger. Emma was confident that Pamela had discovered something dangerous in her regular rounds and that all Annie had to do was insinuate herself into the lives of those Pamela had served.
Annie yanked her cell phone from her purse, punched Emma’s number.
“Hello, Annie.” Emma had Caller ID, of course. “What did you find?” The calm assumption that much had been discovered further demoralized Annie.
“If Meg Heath’s wheelchair had wings, I guess we’d have our murderer.” Annie knew she sounded sour. “Emma, this is a bust. I’ve checked out everyone Pamela saw last week—she noted everything on her wall calendar—but the only name that matches the cruise list is Meg Heath. Daily visits to Meg Heath at nine A.M. were the only constant. She went lots of places that aren’t tied to a particular person. Ten o’clock Communion on Wednesday, Bible study on Thursday. She was on Altar Guild duty last week. I could possibly round up all those names, but this means your idea of Pamela seeing something at somebody’s house doesn’t work out. Maybe we’re totally off on the wrong foot.” And maybe, Annie realized with a sweet sense of release, no one else was in danger.
“Meg Heath.” Emma’s tone was thoughtful. “I saw her last night. I was impressed that she came. Heart trouble. And very little vision left. You know she has macular degeneration—”
Annie hadn’t known.
“—and she can’t read anymore. But she was there. With her entourage.” There was the faintest emphasis on the final noun.
Annie was exasperated. She understood the import. No one in Meg Heath’s group would have any difficulty climbing to the upper deck. Obviously Emma intended to cling to her theory. Which, Annie decided, was as full of holes as a rusted bucket.
Oblivious to—or disdainful of—Annie’s resistant silence, Emma plowed ahead. “You said Pamela’s been visiting Meg every weekday at nine in the morning.”
Annie was impressed by Emma’s quick recall. But she had to protest. “This is building a house out of straw.” Everybody knew it took only a quick puff from the wolf to knock down a flimsy structure. Annie felt very wolflike. “There’s no reason to fasten on Meg Heath and her family any more than anyone else Pamela saw this last week.”
Emma was obdurate. “Meg was on the cruise. Pamela was at her house every day last week. And there’s money there. I always like money as a motive.” Her voice was clinical. “Start—”
A piercing whistle erupted. Whistler barked, a series of high shrill yaps.
Startled, Annie looked up at the parrot.
“Where Pammie?” The voice was so like Pamela’s that Annie took a step back.
“Annie?” For once, cool unflappable Emma sounded perturbed. “What was that?”
“Pamela’s parrot. He’s gorgeous”—the parrot ruffled his feathers—“but I don’t know what to do with him. I can’t leave him here. I could call Laurel…” But she felt hesitant. What would two strange parrots say to each other? Do to each other? Of course, they lived in cages. Still, the possibility of acrimony—if parrots were anything like cats—seemed all too likely. Sad as Annie felt for the bereft bird, she knew full well that not even a cage would offer protection from either Agatha or Dorothy L. “But she has Long John Silver and I doubt strange parrots mix well. Pamela has a dog, too. A little terrier.”
“Oh.” A thoughtful pause. “I’ll swing by. Pick up the bird and the dog.”
“You will?” The minute the words were out, Annie realized the relief in her voice was too apparent. Perhaps even insulting.
A low chuckle. “You don’t see me as Lady Bountiful?”
“Not at all.” Annie knew she was talking too fast, which always got her in trouble. “I mean, of course, yes. You—” Oh damn, Emma didn’t go out of her way for others. She was brilliant, clever, incredibly productive, but her world revolved around her work. If she was in the middle of a book, everything else went on hold. “I’ll do it,” she would say, “when the book is done.” Annie was almost sure she’d just started a new book. Annie’s face creased. “Aren’t you just starting a book?” As soon as she spoke, she clapped a hand to her mouth.
The parrot said, “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear, what have I done?”
Annie glared at him.
The spectacular bird gave a raucous laugh. Whistler jumped and barked, another series of excited yaps.
“On page twenty-two.” Emma was amused. “I know. The books always come first. Almost always. But Pamela…Did you know I was once the recipient of her goodness?” Emma’s usually crusty voice was reflective, gentle. “I had eye surgery last winter. Pamela came every
morning and read the paper to me. With great deliberation and a tactful consideration of which stories I wished to hear and in what order. Lord, she can”—a pause, then careful amendment—“could be maddening. I expect that’s one service she—” Emma’s words broke off.
Annie clung to the cell phone. She had a sense of rapid thought and calculation on Emma’s part.
“Annie, my God, we may have found it. Meg has macular degeneration. She can’t read. I’ll bet anything she depended upon Pamela to read the newspaper, letters, whatever.” Emma’s words came as fast as boulders crashing down a hillside, picking up speed and power, battering any obstacle in the way.
“Look at it! Pamela was there Friday. I’ll bet you a case of Jose Cuervo, Pamela read the Thursday paper—”
Annie nodded. The Island Gazette was an afternoon paper Monday through Friday. The Sunday morning edition went to press Saturday evening.
“—to Meg. Pamela wasn’t there Saturday but there’s no Saturday edition of the Gazette. That means this morning”—Emma’s voice was excited—“she would catch up on both the Friday and Sunday issues.”
Annie thought again about straw houses. “Emma, do you honestly think there was something published in the Gazette that is so dangerous to someone that they murdered Pamela to keep her from reading it aloud to Meg Heath?”
“Something like that.” Her tone was assured.
Annie wanted to say, “Come on.” She didn’t.
The parrot emitted a rude sound. Whistler erupted with frantic yelps. Annie flapped a hand at them. She hoped Emma hadn’t heard or she might reconsider her generous offer to come by for them.
Emma had. “Tell that bird to get his beak on straight or I won’t come and get him. And he’s obviously a bad influence on the dog. As for you, Annie, trust me on this one. It’s a quarter after eight. Pamela would have arrived at Meg’s at nine o’clock. Get over there now.”
Annie spoke aloud to her inner adult. “You are a grown woman. If you decide to make a detour on your way to Meg Heath’s house, more power to you.” Still, she felt a quiver of unease—why was she such a ninny when it came to dealing with Emma Clyde?—as she swung the wheel of the Volvo and headed up the familiar lonely road that ended at a weathered gray wooden house on stilts with a magnificent view of the marsh and Sound.
For starters, it made sense to talk to Henny. She knew practically everybody on the island, and Annie was sure she’d have an opinion about Meg Heath and her family. There wasn’t time to call Max and ask him to scour the Net before Annie waltzed up to Meg’s front door, pretending to be something she wasn’t. And, okay, she had to be honest with herself. She was in no hurry to reach the Heath house. Annie didn’t have a particle of faith in Emma’s fanciful linkage of Pamela, the Gazette, and Meg Heath. Talk about a stretch…
Early morning sunlight speared through the live oak branches, dappling the gray road with an intricate mosaic of dark and light. Spanish moss hung still and straight. It was already warm, the sultry, heavy heat of August, the air thick with moisture, an ever-present reminder of coming storms. This was tropical storm season at best, hurricane season at worst.
Annie came around a curve and was relieved to see Henny’s old black Dodge. She needed Henny’s input. Maybe Henny could help persuade Emma that the Heath house was a dead end. They should focus on the night of the cruise, contact passengers, try to find those who had seen Pamela, perhaps noticed her in conversation. It made sense to start with Cole Crandall. He’d been stationed on the very deck from which Pamela had been pushed.
Annie parked next to the Dodge.
The front door opened. Henny backed out onto the deck, her yellow-and-white striped shoulder purse banging against her side. She was pulling a wheeled black suitcase. A carry-on bag hung from her other shoulder.
Annie hurried up the wooden steps. “Henny, where are you going?”
Henny closed the front door, checked to be sure the lock caught, turned. She looked fresh and summery in a yellow cotton tunic and slacks and white sandals. She brushed back a lock of silvered dark hair. “Oh, Annie, I have to be gone for a few days. I just got off the phone with Emma. It’s so awful about Pamela.”
They came together in a swift embrace.
Henny patted Annie’s shoulder as they stepped apart. Her dark eyes were sad. “I wish I could stay and help. I have a friend off island who’s just out of the hospital and needs some care. I got the call this morning.”
“I understand.” Annie picked up the black suitcase, carried it down the steps.
“Thanks, Annie.” Henny was right behind her, her car keys jingling. But there was an odd defensive tone in her voice.
Annie tried not to let her disappointment show. Obviously, Henny felt bad to be leaving. Annie managed a quick smile. “I’m glad I caught you before you left.” She waited as Henny unlocked the Dodge trunk, then swung the suitcase inside. “Do you know Meg Heath?”
“Sure. We’ve worked on a lot of projects together. But she’s been sick for about a year.” Henny gave her a sharp look. “Is that where Pamela’s been helping out?”
“Yes. I’m on my way there.” Annie wished she didn’t have a nervous feeling she should be there right this minute. What difference could a quarter hour make? “Apparently she has macular degeneration—”
Henny was nodding.
“—and Emma has this crazy idea that there’s something in the Gazette that somebody didn’t want Meg to know about.”
Henny’s eyes glinted. She patted the side of her carry-on bag. “I’ve got Sunday’s paper with me. I’ll look it over carefully. As for Meg Heath, I like her. Wealthy widow. A bit different from most. She’s had an adventurous life, lived in England for a long time, had a house in Majorca. She was a model when she was young. She’s been married several times. As I heard it, she and one husband had an old yacht they refurbished and sailed around the Mediterranean for a year or so, taking passengers and cargo. But it was her last husband who had all the money. They came here when he retired, built a fabulous home. Right on the ocean. It’s an amazing house. Meg was active in a lot of charities until she got sick. She’s smart, funny, strong-willed. Last night she was having a grand time even though she looked like death warmed over, white as alabaster.” Henny’s dark eyes gleamed. “She loved the mystery play. She had lots of questions for the actors. Good questions.” Henny slid behind the wheel, rolled down the window to look up at Annie. She frowned. “Speaking of questions, what have you got in mind, Annie?”
Annie smoothed hair blown every which way by the on-shore breeze. “I don’t have anything in mind. Emma told me to go to the Heath house and worm my way in as a substitute for Pamela. I’ll try to find out what she and Meg talked about on Friday and I’ll offer to read the Gazette and see if anything gets a big reaction from Meg. And I need to find out about her, as Emma termed it, entourage.”
“Oh.” Henny’s answer was quick. “I saw them. They didn’t look like they were having a lot of fun. Her daughter, Jenna, had her usual I’m-too-good-for-all-the-peasants-around-me attitude. Meg finds her boring. Her son, Jason, is a good-looking playboy who doesn’t have a clue that men are supposed to work.” Henny’s tone was dry. “Meg adores him. And of course, Meg’s secretary, Claudette Taylor. She’s rather retiring, but I don’t think she misses anything. I got to know her on the spring festival committee. I don’t know if it will come to it, but if you need to know what’s going on in that house, talk to Claudette.”
Dust puffed from the oyster shells crunching beneath the wheels. The old live oaks on either side of the road met overhead to create a dim and ghostly tunnel. Annie braked as a doe and her fawn bolted across the curving road and plunged into the shadowy maritime forest. She eased the car forward, came around a curve. Her eyes widened. The house was like nothing she’d ever seen before, masses of windows in a two-story white steel framework high on metal supports. The sand dunes and sea were clearly visible through the open spaces. The rooms—actually modul
ar bays suspended in space—were open to view, the rattan and white furnishings as indigenous as sea oats, except for one corner where the blinds had yet to be opened to the day and the sun and sea.
The dread Annie had felt in coming vanished, replaced by anticipation. Annie admired Meg Heath, a customer with charm and verve and taste, but she didn’t know her well. Any woman who shared sky and sea and sand on an equal plane with gulls and pelicans was worth knowing well. The innovative house was a sure indicator of imagination and insight.
Near the front entrance—a corkscrew stairway to the suspended first floor—a bronze arrow inscribed Parking pointed to a line of palms. Annie turned left, found a parking area large enough for a half dozen cars hidden behind a line of pine trees. A white Mercedes and a black Camry were the only cars there. Annie parked next to the Camry.
She hurried across the oyster shell drive to the stairway. She was reaching for the bell pull when the wail of a siren sounded, coming nearer and nearer, louder and louder.
Siren shrilling, red lights flashing, an ambulance swung into the drive and headed straight for her.
Five
THE AMBULANCE ROCKED to a stop next to the circular staircase. The med techs climbed out, moving fast, a sharp-featured, broad-shouldered woman and a pink-faced giant with a mop of frizzy purple hair drawn back in a puffy ponytail.
The woman strode quickly to Annie. She poked glasses higher on a beaked nose, stared with cold green eyes. “Which way?” The big young man carried a square black case. Silver rings on one ear glinted in the sunlight.
Before Annie could answer, footsteps clattered above them on the metal platform outside the front door. “Up here. Hurry.” The call was sharp and anxious.
Annie lifted her gaze.
Claudette Taylor bent over the railing. Ginger hair streamed onto the shoulders of a blue-and-white-striped seersucker robe. She flapped a hand, urging speed.
The techs brushed past Annie, started up the curving staircase.
