by Carolyn Hart
Max curled the lips of the feral hog in disgust, rapidly added a cell phone smashed by a flying hoof. “Damn shame,” he agreed.
“And when they can be useful, the damn things are always turned off or you hit a dead pocket and it won’t work. I’ve been calling Annie but all I get is voice mail.” Emma was clearly irritated. “I’ve left messages on her home phone, at the store, and on her cell. Now, here’s what I want her to do—”
Max wrote swiftly. When the call ended, he looked at his notes, grinned. Shades of E. Phillips Oppenheim.
Annie circled the block. Where had all these cars come from? But she could look at the license plates and tell. Most of them were from Georgia and South Carolina, but every third or fourth came from Ohio. Her eyes widened at one all the way from British Columbia. There was a hardy traveler. A downside to living on a resort island in summer was the search for a parking spot in the little downtown. Annie glowered. It was a gorgeous sunny day. Why didn’t they go to the beach? However, as a merchant she never faulted tourists for shopping. Maybe a bunch of them would end up at Death on Demand today, as she herself should as soon as possible. Ingrid was probably wondering where she was. But Ingrid always managed. She’d ask her husband, Duane, to help out if the crowds got too thick. Annie thought with pleasure of customers flocking into Death on Demand, sunburned tourists shoulder to shoulder all buying beach books, hopefully the beautiful and expensive hardcovers.
Her third swing around the block she found a spot a street away from the offices of the Island Gazette. She parked, fumbled for a couple of quarters for the meter. By the time she reached the newspaper office she was dripping with sweat. Just short of the front door, she stopped and stared intently into the window of the shoe store. Hmm, pretty yellow slingbacks…She cut her eyes toward the Gazette front window. All she wanted to do was bop in and buy last Friday’s paper as well as the Sunday issue, find out if there was something in the newspaper that the murderer wanted to make certain both Pamela Potts and Meg Heath never saw. But once inside the Gazette offices, she’d be sure to see either Vince Ellis, the owner and publisher, or Marian Kenyon, star reporter and, more to the point, human antenna. Marian would demand the skinny on everything that had happened on the mystery cruise. Marian had very likely already picked up the drumbeat that Annie was certain Pamela was a murder victim. Annie was in no position to describe her morning. It wasn’t her place to announce the death of Meg Heath, much less the fact that the police were investigating an overdose of Valium. Billy Cameron would understandably oppose such a revelation.
Annie turned, walked away from the Gazette door. She was hotter than beach sand by the time she reached Parotti’s, the down-home restaurant and bait shop. She scanned the newspaper racks near the entrance, scrounged four quarters from the bottom of her purse, and bought a Sunday paper. There were no Friday issues left.
She breathed deeply when she stepped inside. She loved the fascinating mixture of odors: fish bait, sawdust, beer on tap, and good old all-American french fry grease. The din was familiar and cheerful: swing on the jukebox, the rumble of animated conversation, the slam and bang of pans from the kitchen. When she first came to the island, Parotti’s was a fisherman’s delight with the best in chicken necks, mullet, mackerel, and live shrimp or minnows for bait. The food was mostly fried. Since Ben Parotti’s marriage to Miss Jolene, who had owned a tea shop, there’d been a civilizing influence and now quiche was available as well as fried clams, oysters, and shrimp.
Unlike winter, when the old wooden booths and scarred wooden tables were sparsely filled, Parotti’s was jammed today, every spot at the bar taken and a long line of people sitting on a narrow wooden bench to the left of the entrance.
Natty in a green sport coat, cream-colored polo shirt, and white slacks, Ben strode toward her, menus in hand. Not, of course, that she ever needed a menu. His welcoming smile slid into a sad frown as he segued from café host to owner of the Island Packet excursion boat. “Heard the bad news about Pamela Potts. Damn shame. I got to say again”—and his tone was combative—“she sure hadn’t no call to be on the other side of that chain. But whether she fell or got pushed, like you say, it’s a crime she’s gone.”
Annie’s eyes brimmed. She blinked, reached out, patted his arm. “Thanks, Ben.”
“Nice lady.” He folded his lips, shook his head in tribute. “Anyway”—he brightened—“got your table ready. Max gave me a call.”
Annie tried to ignore the sullen glances from the waiting customers. A burly tourist called out, “Thought you didn’t take reservations.”
Ben was unruffled. His crusty voice was mellow for him. “This here’s a reg’lar, mister.” He led her to a table in full view of the front door and pulled out a chair for her. If looks could kill…
Annie slipped into the chair, glad to focus on the here and now. She whispered, “Ben, aren’t you afraid you’ll lose business?”
“In August?” His raspy chuckle sounded over Fats Domino’s “Blueberry Hill.” “They keep coming. Don’t matter how long they have to wait. Course we got the best food on the island.” He was a satisfied gnome who was master of all he surveyed. “So what’ll it be? The usual?”
“Yes. But I’ll wait and order when Max gets here.” She put down her purse and opened the newspaper. She scanned the front page: lawsuits over building covenants, the latest political news, a report on the excavation of the Monitor, and, at the bottom of the page, a boxed inset in boldface type:
HOMICIDE VICTIM
Shortly before press time Saturday night, the unidentified body of a man estimated to be in his seventies was found shot to death near Ghost Crab Pond in the forest preserve. Police said he wore a blue-and-white-striped blazer, pink linen shirt, and white trousers. Anyone with information about him or the crime is urged to contact the police.
Another murder? Annie felt a tingle in her mind. A tingle. That’s what happened in the mind of Frances and Richard Lockridge’s madcap sleuth Pam North when she had a hunch. Annie had a hunch. She spread mental wings over it, protective as a mother hen. By golly, maybe Emma was right. Maybe Emma’s imaginative certainty would prove to be justified. Because this was definitely an unusual story in the Gazette, the kind of story Pamela would have been certain to read to Meg Heath. Almost as if she’d been a part of their morning news hour, Annie imagined Meg’s burbling laughter and imperious instruction, “Scandal, my dear. That’s what I like to hear.” So, yes, had Pamela been at Meg’s this morning, there would have been—with several gasps of dismay by Pamela—a perusal of the most exciting news in the paper. Murder trumps lawsuits, politics, and the watery end of the first armored warship.
Annie felt a misgiving. What possible connection could there be between this elderly victim, Pamela Potts, and Meg Heath?
Annie grabbed her cell phone. Wait until she told Emma. It was too bad she hadn’t gone into the newsroom. They would know a lot more now about the murder victim. She clicked on the cell. Two sharp peals signaled messages.
Annie called up the first message. Her mother-in-law’s husky voice was reflective: “As I told dear Maxwell, I am rather in the guise of a scientist seeking to study an elusive butterfly. They are such elegant creatures, swooping silently through the air, lovely and graceful, and quite predictable once the observer determines the flower that attracts that particular species. I rather see Meg Heath as a zebra, hovering over a passion flower. Passion.” The noun was rich with meaning. Annie had a vision of moonlit nights and lovers meeting. “Ah, what passion attracted Meg? Oh”—a trill of laughter—“men, of course.” The implication was clear. What was life without men? “But there are other passions. I believe I’ve found a glimpse of Meg’s heart. Before her health began to fail, she was very active in island social events. I’ve been calling friends, asking for reminiscences of Meg—”
Annie gave a short exasperated sigh. So much for her effort to keep a lid on public revelations of Meg’s death until there was an official announcement fr
om the authorities. But Annie wasn’t responsible for Laurel, and Billy could speak to Max’s mother if he didn’t like her activities.
“—and I was told of a book review Meg presented at a Ladies of the Leaf meeting, a biography of one of the theater’s grande dames. In the course of an exciting and far-flung career, the actress had left her daughter for long periods with her mother. In the discussion that followed, there was a great deal of criticism of what would be described by some as abandonment. Meg championed the actress. At one point she lifted her head and faced them all, saying, ‘Choices have to be made. My children grew up with my mother, yet I didn’t have the excuse of plays or films. I had to be a wanderer.’ My friend told me some of the women never felt quite the same about Meg after that. But Meg was willing to accept responsibility for her actions. I think she was always willing to admit to the truth in her life as she understood it. I suspect”—and Laurel’s tone was tinged with sadness—“we all can wish we had her courage.”
Annie wondered what long-ago memory troubled Laurel. It was easy for Annie to be sardonic about her mother-in-law’s five marriages and her mesmerizing attractiveness to men, but Laurel’s search for love, for connection, for belonging was evidence that beyond her bright smile, sunny disposition, and gaiety lay profound loneliness.
Laurel’s brightness was never quenched for long. “So, Dear Child, I know you recall The Three Musketeers—”
Annie concentrated, trying hard to bridge the gulf between a declaration of truth at the Ladies of the Leaf book club and the tale of adventure by Alexandre Dumas.
“—and perhaps you recall the passage: ‘D’Artagnan admired by what fragile and unknown threads the destinies of nations and the lives of men are sometimes suspended.’”
Fragile threads…Annie held tight to the cell phone. The phone was real. She felt the hard plastic case in her hand. Imaginary threads shimmered in her mind in shades ranging from palest gold to midnight black. They were imaginary, but perhaps the reality they suggested—the consequences of an individual’s thoughts, beliefs, and actions on the outcome of fate—was as pertinent to a modern death as the long-ago machinations of a lover to affairs of state.
“If we can find the proper strand, all will be known.” The connection ended.
The proper strand…Annie glanced again at the boldface box on the front page of the Gazette. But first…She punched for the second message:
“Annie, Emma.” The raspy voice was gruff. “Cell phones are a pestilence, but why the hell don’t you have yours on? Been trying to get in touch for hours. Well, for a while. In any event, Max said he was having lunch with you. Here are your instructions—”
Annie’s eyes slitted. Did Emma think she was Leslie Ford’s Colonel Primrose ordering Grace Latham about?
“Take the two P.M. ferry to the mainland. Drive south for three-point-four miles. Turn left on Slash Pine Road. Go to the end of the pier. You will be met. Password: Avenger.” Click.
Annie was torn between irritation and fascination. Emma was undoubtedly the rudest person she’d ever known. But she was also canny, clever, and mad as hell about Pamela’s murder. Okay, okay. Annie punched the Save button. She could follow orders, even though she hated to leave the island just when she was making some progress.
Was she making progress? What did she really know? She dropped the cell phone in her purse. As she grabbed her notebook, the front door opened and Max walked in, a smile on his face and a folder under his arm.
The smile was for her.
Seven
THE MOMENT EXPANDED beyond ordinary time, encompassing past, present, and future. It took only seconds for Max to walk to the table, his face alight with anticipation, but into that brief span Annie packed memory and emotion and thankfulness. Perhaps the sadness in Laurel’s voice permeated Annie’s mind like the memory of a fragrance, triggering a wash of emotion. The rumble of sound that was Parotti’s in summer faded. It was as if Max moved in a circle of love, everything excluded but her. He came toward her as he had on the night when they’d first met, with easy confidence and charm and determination. What a difference that night had made. He’d taken her hand, held it, and she’d not been surprised. Perhaps she’d known in that first instant that they would always be linked, although she’d resisted his charm in the early days. In fact, she’d run away from New York, fled to the island to escape him. He’d followed with his unfailing good humor and—for her—total commitment.
They were so different. He came from a background of privilege. She’d known months when macaroni and cheese was all she could afford. Max elevated the pursuit of pleasure to an art form. Annie made To-Do lists with joy. He was a dilettante; she was a taskmaster. He coasted; she struggled.
Together they loved.
Annie pushed back her chair, rose. They’d met so many times for lunch at Parotti’s, during sultry summers and sun-drenched autumns, misty winters and azalea-bright springs. She’d taken those luncheons for granted, absorbed with the urgencies of the moment, the lost book order, the upcoming author signing, the tennis match she’d won, her hopes for him to work harder, worry about his mother’s startling enthusiasms. But at this moment, she knew what mattered: the two of them together, come what may, heart to heart, hand in hand. She moved into his arms, welcomed the containment of his embrace.
“Love you,” she murmured.
“Always.” His lips were warm against her ear.
The café sounds swirled around them, “Moonlight Serenade” on the jukebox, the clatter of dishes, the swell of voices, and in particular one high-pitched observation, “Honeymooners, of course.”
Max laughed. “Sounds good to me.” He gave her another squeeze. “Hey, let’s go home.”
Annie smiled, loving his response. The folder poked into her back. She reached over her shoulder, grabbed it. “Have you found out a lot?” Then she shook her head, blond hair flying, holding the folder unopened. “Max, have you seen the Gazette? I’ve got a wild idea. But it makes sense to me. Did you know Meg was murdered? That’s not official, but she died of an overdose and Billy’s there and—”
“No and yes. No time to read the newspaper, but I talked to Emma.” He pulled out her chair.
Annie sat down, still clutching the folder. “Emma.” Even Annie was amazed at the layers of meaning she loaded into two syllables: outrage, resentment, respect, hostility, fear, and surrender.
Max threw back his head and roared, a peal of mirth that made those nearby smile. Except Annie.
She glared. Her voice was stiff. “If you think it’s funny to be treated like a mouse cornered by Agatha, maybe you ought to jump into the tiger’s cage at the Atlanta zoo.”
Max reached across the table, patted her hand. “I know. Emma’s tough. Obviously you got her message—”
Ben Parotti stopped at the table, waggled menus. “Glad to see you and the missus in good spirits.” He glanced at Annie. “Fried flounder sandwich, heavy on the tartar sauce, coleslaw and fries with iced tea. Unsweetened.” He gave her a thumbs-up. “Oyster season opens in a couple of weeks.”
Annie was passionate about Ben’s fried oyster sandwiches. Flounder was next best.
Ben looked at Max.
Max didn’t need a menu either. “Fish chowder. Pile on the hot smoked sausage.” He looked to see if there was a bottle of tabasco sauce on the table. “And a Bud Light.”
As Ben turned away, Annie called out, “A double order of jalapeño corn muffins.” Annie adored the treats, which were studded with kernels of sweet corn and thick with jalapeño slices. Her glower returned. “Yeah, I got Emma’s message.”
Max scooted his chair closer. “I’ll come with you. A password and a pier at the end of Slash Pine Road. That’s almost as good as a treasure map with X marks the spot.”
There was no denying that Emma had flair. “Oh dammit, I’ll go. She’s probably found out something we need to know. But look at this—” Annie pushed the Gazette toward him, pointed at the boxed inset.
Max looked after him. “Happened on his watch. I know he’s upset.”
“It wasn’t his fault.” Her tone was firm. “Or Pamela’s fault.” Annie pointed again at the front page of the Gazette. “Look at the bulletin, Max.”
Max scanned the paper, gazed inquiringly at Annie.
She picked up a warm muffin, poked a hole, and dropped in a glob of the soft butter. “I’ve got to go see what Emma’s up to, but maybe you can find out more”—she spoke in an indistinct mumble over a mouthful of muffin—“about the dead guy. You can drop in at the Gazette, talk to Marian Kenyon.”
His face puzzled, Max tapped the front page. “What’s the connection?”
She was not quite defensive. “You know how Laurel encourages us to be creative. It may be a reach, but I didn’t find anything else in the paper that anyone could possibly care about. Look at it—” She pointed at the Gazette. “What if”—was she on a creative tear, thanks to Laurel?—“this guy was somebody Meg knew? She was planning a special dinner for tonight. What if this guy was one of the guests?” Annie was determined to find out whom Meg had invited. Did Claudette know the guest list as well as the menu? “What if the minute Meg heard the description of the unidentified dead man, she’d know who it was? What if she talked about him to Pamela and maybe there was something…” She trailed off. It was easy in an Eric Ambler novel or an Alistair MacLean thriller. Somebody had the specifications of a new weapon or there was a cache of gold hidden by the Nazis. Right this minute, with “Begin the Beguine” throbbing in the background, tourists looking askance at the bait barrels, and Ben bringing a steaming bowl of chowder and a mountainous po’ boy fried flounder sandwich to their table, she saw no way to take imaginary threads and bind an unknown homicide victim to the deaths of Meg Heath and Pamela Potts. “Oh, I don’t know,” she admitted. “But it seems strange that an unidentified corpse shows up the same weekend two women are murdered.”
