by Carolyn Hart
“Buckets of rain. Tropical storm number whatever. Water still standing in the ruts. I took a good look at his shoes. Whiter than Casper in a spotlight.” Her bright eyes locked with Max’s.
Max got it. “He didn’t walk there. You haven’t mentioned a car.”
“No car there. Just the body. But he must have come in a car. If he’d been on a bike or scooter there would have been mud splashes on those white pants.” Marian brushed back a wiry curl, still looked unkempt as a sheepdog. “There are tire tread prints. You can see where a car backed and turned. Interesting thing is that no effort was made to obscure those prints. However”—she paused for emphasis—“there were a couple of places on the track near the body where the ground looked like it had been swept over with the fronds of a palm tree. Now why”—she propped her pointed chin on a fist—“would anybody clean up footprints and not worry about the car treads?”
Max sketched the outline of a car. “Because there is no link between the car and the murderer?”
“That’s my take.” Her tone was approving. “Either the car belonged to the victim or maybe it was a rental car.”
“A tourist?” Max frowned. “What’s a stranger doing out there?”
Marian punched a fist into a palm. “Following directions.” Her voice was silky. “Let’s say our dandy guy is on his way somewhere with a passenger. That passenger knows the island damn well. A stranger wouldn’t have a clue that the road dead-ends at Ghost Crab Pond and is, as a matter of fact, damn remote and a perfect spot for homicide. I see it this way. The victim picks up somebody. We don’t know who or why, but the passenger gives directions. Go this way. Turn here. The car fetches up at the dead end. The road runs east-west up to the pond. The body was on the south side of the tracks. That makes me think the victim was driving. He stopped the car, got out. Why? Maybe the passenger got out first, saying he’d check to see if they were going the right way. Maybe instead he—or she—came around the car, pulled a gun, ordered the driver out, shot him. Then the killer picked up a handy frond, dusted out all the footprints, got in the car, drove like hell.”
Max tapped his pen on the pad. “No ID on the victim.”
“According to police, there was no wallet, nothing in his pockets but some change. Of course, that suggests robbery was the motive.” She pursed her lips.
“His clothes were expensive.”
Max looked skeptical. The island had its share of crime, but holdups resulting in murder weren’t the norm. “It could have been a drug deal gone wrong”—that kind of crime occurred everywhere along the coast—“but I don’t think a holdup is likely.”
“Probably not. Anyway, I’m sure Billy’s got his prints, sent them out. But…” Her shrug was eloquent. There might be a military record, perhaps even a police record. Matching up prints would take time and luck. “I’d say for sure he wasn’t a local. I don’t claim to know everybody on the island, but I know most of the gentry. I’m betting he was a tourist. If he was a tourist, hell, he could have come from anywhere. Billy sent out a bulletin with the description. Unless somebody turns in a missing persons report, he may always be the mystery man of Ghost Crab Pond.”
Max shut his notebook. A tourist. The island was crammed now with vacationing families. But somebody might have noticed a handsome older man in a striped blazer and white trousers. Max pushed up from the chair. “You say he looked like an older Jeff Kent? That gives me an idea.”
Slash Pine Road twisted and curled through the maritime forest, ending at a stand of cane. This was nature in the raw, the woods as early explorers found it, wild and overgrown, huge pines swaying in the breeze, dead trees poking out of ferns and tangled bushes, live oak limbs meeting overhead to create a dim tunnel swarming with flies, gnats, mosquitos, horseflies, and bumblebees. Annie peered through milky green light and spotted a faint break in the cane, possibly a path. Reluctantly she stepped out of the car, flapped her hands to dispel a cloud of no-see-ums. The hot air hummed with the distinctive rasp of cicadas and chirp of crickets. Pine straw blanketed the ground. There could be snakes. In fact, snakes were a certainty, everything from scarlet kings to cottonmouths. She edged slowly forward, watching the ground, stepping slowly and cautiously. It was only fifteen or twenty yards on the path to the edge of the Sound, but she grudged every step. What was Emma up to?
The mudflat stretched a hundred yards at low tide, steaming beneath the hot summer sun. Annie steamed, too, sweat beading her skin. She took a deep breath, savoring the distinctive gassy smell. The stench appalled tourists, who were sure a sewage main had broken. Annie knew the odor for what it was, the richness of decay and growth that made the marsh a haven for blue crabs, shrimp, oysters, and wading birds. Fiddler crabs scurried like commuters racing to the subway. A weathered pier poked out to the water. As far as she could see, she was the only human creature for miles. A sailboat scudded far out in the Sound, its white sail puffed by the wind.
Annie looked behind her. The cane rippled in the breeze. She faced the water and bent forward, listening to the crackle of the fiddler crabs and the occasional squelch as air bubbles popped in the muck. There was no sound of anyone approaching by land or by sea. Frowning, she climbed the rickety steps to the pier. Occasional boards were missing on the narrow walkway. She skirted the hazards, hoping the ramshackle, obviously abandoned structure wouldn’t collapse beneath her. She stopped at the far end near a ladder. The water here was deep enough for a boat to moor. She shaded her eyes and gazed out into the Sound. Should she stay on the pier? Despite the breeze, it was hotter than a griddle in a short-order kitchen. If she returned to the woods, the buzzing insects would swarm for blood. Hers.
Her cell phone jangled in her purse. Annie grabbed it, pulled it out. If Emma had further instructions, she was going to get an earful in response.
“Hello.” She intended to sound crisp, but surly was nearer the mark.
“Dear Child.” The appellation was affectionate. “I detect stress. Hostility. I see you now”—Laurel’s husky voice was soothing—“perturbed, uncertain. Sweaty?”
Annie pushed back a tangle of damp hair. Okay, it was August, so why shouldn’t she be sweaty? Laurel didn’t have second sight. She didn’t know Annie was marooned at the end of a pier in a marsh. Of course she didn’t. “What can I do for you, Laurel?” Her lips felt dry. Her throat ached for water. Why hadn’t she bought a bottle of water on the ferry?
A sweet laugh. “One for all and all for one. It is a fine motto not simply for the Musketeers but for all of us. I see my task as bolstering your efforts to discover the truth about the deaths of Pamela and Meg. We all knew our dear Pamela quite well, her intensity and devotion and serious nature. It is easy to see how Pamela, in the pursuit of duty, might have put herself in danger. Clearly, Pamela’s most recent activities involved Meg Heath. I have”—and now she was brisk—“continued to explore Meg’s relationships. I spoke at length with a nurse—-Eileen Moody—-who attended Duff Heath during his final illness. Eileen recounted to me an exchange that occurred a week before Duff died. He had been in and out of awareness. One afternoon, he awoke. Meg was sitting beside him. Duff looked up and said, ‘We had a good run, didn’t we?’ Meg smiled. ‘Very good.’ He was quiet for a moment, then asked, ‘Not the best?’ She took his hand, held it with both of hers. ‘A very good run. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.’ He got a funny look on his face, kind of a sad smile, then he murmured, ‘Nothing except Tony.’ She didn’t say anything for a long time. Finally, she bent close. ‘You are by far the finer man.’ He closed his eyes, drifted to sleep. Eileen said Meg held his hand, stayed there, tears slipping down her cheeks.”
Annie was no longer aware of the glare of the sun or the itch of insect bites. She was at the bedside of a dying man and a woman with tearstained cheeks.
“Actually”—there was a note of wonder in Laurel’s voice—“I’ve always counted white lies a kindness. Although Mark Twain perhaps had a clearer moral view.”
Anni
e was not a Twain scholar. “Which was?”
“Twain said, ‘One of the most striking differences between a cat and a lie is that a cat has only nine lives.’ But”—Laurel was thoughtful—“in the case of Meg and Duff, the effect was quite the opposite.”
Annie wished for a sixteen-ounce cup of icy water. She pulled her sticky blouse away from her skin, tried to sort out the images of cats, white lies, and a tearful Meg holding Duff’s lax hand. “What effect?”
“The reason Eileen Moody remembers that exchange so clearly is because there was no lie. Meg wouldn’t tell Duff she loved him more than Tony. Not even as Duff was dying.” The final words drifted soft as a sigh. The connection ended.
Annie dropped the cell phone back into her purse. She knew Laurel meant well, but nothing about Duff Heath, his life or his death, pertained to the murder of his widow.
Except money.
She could hear in her mind Emma’s gruff pronouncement: I always like money as a motive. But that was simply Emma being a mystery writer. Meg’s estate was willed to her children and her secretary. Meg hadn’t had long to live. So far as Max had been able to discover, neither of Meg’s children was in dire financial straits. Claudette’s holdings had been much diminished, but she didn’t appear to be in any urgent need. So the money didn’t matter.
What did matter?
Annie closed her eyes. Pamela knew something or saw something….
A faint thrum sounded.
Annie’s eyes popped open. She stared out at the pea-green water. A motorboat surged around the point and headed toward the pier. A lanky man in a T-shirt and faded jeans slouched in the bucket seat, his face shaded by a straw hat. Years of sun reflected from salt water had reddened his fair skin to a permanent pink. The boat pulled up next to the ladder, idled. He threw out a line, tied it, stood with one freckled hand curled around a step. “You got the word?” His drawl was as slow as a possum’s stroll.
Annie was not amused. Emma was obviously harking back to the days of old-time thrillers. Had she recently reread William Le Queux or F. Van Wyck Mason? Whatever, Annie knew she’d remain hot and chigger-bitten at the end of this isolated pier if she didn’t play the game and offer up the password. Annie snapped, “Avenger.”
He nodded, steadied the boat. “Come aboard.”
Max held a colored pencil above the computer-generated color print of the Astros second baseman Jeff Kent. The smiling athlete wore a soft gray business suit. Max tinted the hair—
Marian fluffed her wiry curls. “More hair. Lots of it. Thick.”
—and mustache silver. He added strokes, three, four, more until Marian nodded in satisfaction. Max selected another pencil, delicately shaded lines onto the smooth face, darkened soft pouches beneath the eyes.
“Oh hey, that’s good.” Marian pointed at the eyes.
“Make ’em brown.”
Max complied. A blue pencil alternated with white to achieve the striped blazer. He stopped twice to sharpen the white pencil before he finished transforming the trousers and shoes.
Marian’s dark eyes squeezed in concentration. “I got it. The part—” she tapped the thick mane of white hair—“was on the right side. See, I was looking down so it was my left. But he parted it on the right.”
Max erased, adjusted, made the change, handed the altered print to Marian.
The reporter’s expression was curious. Her usual sardonic gaze softened. “Yeah. Damn close. This is how he might have looked if I’d met him when he was alive. Death has a dampening effect, you know. But yeah, this is amazing.” She peered up at Max. “What are you going to do with it?”
“Ask around.” Max gestured with the pencil. “That blazer would attract attention.”
Marian lifted her shoulders, let them fall. “Tourist season, Max.”
He understood. All God’s children, black, white, yellow, and brown, jammed the island in August. This annual flood of easy spenders delighted the shopkeepers and astonished the residents who fled the muggy island for Cape Cod or the Rockies. Vacationers’ attire included everything from solar topees to thongs, but the victim when alive might have been attractive enough that most women would notice him. And it was women Max intended to ask.
The motorboat chugged up to a pier even rattier than the derelict structure that poked into the Sound at the end of Slash Pine Road. A sleek white motorboat was moored at the end. Annie squinted against the sun. The name was painted in crimson: SLEUTH. Emma Clyde had already arrived. “Why?” had to be the question of the hour. A cabin high on stilts sat in solitary splendor at the edge of the marsh. The densely vegetated island had an aura of isolation. Annie guessed this was one of the many small islands that were mostly uninhabited and used for hunting.
Her silent companion held the boat steady and gestured at the ladder. “Ms. Clyde’ll take you back.”
As Annie clambered up the ladder, the motor roared as he gave his boat full throttle to bounce out of the cove. Annie’s footsteps echoed on the wooden pier. She walked fast despite the heat. When she reached shore, she followed a sandy path that curved around a grove of pines.
As she looked up at the weathered cabin, the screen door opened and Emma stepped out. Her ice-blue curls frizzed from the damp heat and her thin cotton caftan drooped against her, but she looked triumphant.
Annie climbed to the porch. She was too hot and tired to vent her irritation. “Water?” It was almost a croak.
“You bet. No electricity, but we have an icebox. Reminds me of being on safari. Come on in.” She held open the door. “I’ll get you some water in a minute. But first…”
Annie stepped into dimness. A familiar voice called out, “Have a happy day.”
Annie’s eyes jerked to the right. Pamela’s parrot preened in a cage near a wall adorned with trophies of the hunt—the head of a massive buck, two mourning doves, a rabbit, quail, and three ducks. Annie found the display off-putting. She preferred her wildlife alive. Nails clicked on the wooden floor and Whistler pattered up to her, nuzzled one hand with a moist nose. Henny came forward smiling, hands outstretched. Despite the heat, Henny sparkled. She’d changed into a crisp white blouse, tan walking shorts, and tennis shoes. She looked sporty and comfortable. And happy.
Annie’s eyes widened. “I thought you were going to stay with a sick friend.”
Henny stepped out of the way, gestured toward the bed in the far corner of the one-room cabin. The spread was pulled back. Its folds stirred in a ripple of breeze from the battery-powered fan swiveling back and forth in front of an aluminum tub filled with ice.
Annie’s eyes adjusted to the dimness. She saw bunched-up pillows, the white gauze of a bandage, lank blond hair, a wan face, puzzled blue eyes—
“Pamela!” Annie scarcely breathed. “Oh, Pamela.” Annie hurried forward, glad tears blurring her vision. She dropped into the straight chair next to the bed, picked up a limp hand.
Henny was close behind. Her soft murmur pierced Annie’s shock. “…just awakened a few minutes ago. I’ve brought her medicines up-to-date. She doesn’t know about Meg Heath, and I haven’t asked about last night.”
Pamela blinked uncertainly. The hand in Annie’s grasp suddenly tightened. Pamela’s gaze moved from Annie to Henny to Emma. She stared past them at the rough interior of the cabin. “Where am I?” She struggled to sit up.
Emma bustled closer. “Henny, give me a hand.” The two of them helped Pamela to sit up against the pillows. “Relax, Pamela. You’re going to be fine. You got banged on the head. This is Dr. Burford’s hunting cabin. He thought it would be a good place for you to recover.” Emma spoke as if patients with head wounds routinely ended up in their doctors’ hunting cabins.
Annie glared at Emma. “You could have told me.”
Emma raised a cautionary finger to her lips. “Later.”
Annie understood. This was no time to tell Pamela she’d been declared dead with the connivance of the chief medical examiner and whisked away because her life might still b
e in danger.
Pamela yanked her hand free from Annie’s, lifted it to gingerly touch the dressing on the back of her head. “Ouch. I don’t understand.”
Emma, Henny, and Annie looked at one another. Emma frowned, pursed her lips. Henny looked uncertain. Annie hesitated. For an instant, the only sound in the rustic room was the whistle from the parrot’s cage.
Pamela twisted to look. “Rhett Butler?” Amazement mingled with delight.
The bird cocked his head. “Pammie better?”
The terrier bounded to the bed, stood on his back legs, yipped. He wriggled with eagerness, his high bark a celebration.
“Whistler.” Pamela’s voice was weak but the joy in her face made her look stronger, better. She reached out to stroke his wiry fur.
Emma tugged at his collar. “Sit.”
Pamela started to shake her head, winced. “My head hurts. What happened to me?”
Annie scooted the chair forward. “You had a fall last night on the mystery cruise.” Absently, Annie accepted an ice-cold bottle of water, already uncapped by Emma, and drank it down without taking her eyes off Pamela’s pale, drawn face. “Can you tell us what happened?”
Pamela looked bewildered. “I don’t know.” She sounded frightened, bewildered.
Emma spoke gently. “Let’s take it step by step. Why did you go on the cruise?”
A sweet smile curved pale lips. Pamela’s blue eyes looked toward Annie. “Annie, that was so generous of you. I went out to lunch after church on Sunday. Jared Wheeler took me. I don’t know if you know him. He moved to the island last fall and he is such a nice man. He bought the house next door to mine. It was such a lovely day. We went to the inn and it was the most wonderful brunch I’ve ever been to. The specialty was blue crab and scallop cakes. The array of vegetables was amazing. I wish I had the recipe for the candied yams. I think there might have been some prunes—”
Annie folded her fingers tightly together to keep from strangling Pamela. “Pamela, what about the cruise?”
