by Carolyn Hart
Billy rattled the sheet, his face pleased. “This is good stuff. I’ll send it out. We still don’t have an ID on him.”
Max settled back in the straight chair next to Billy’s metal desk. “I’ve got a lead, Billy….” Max concluded with the room number at the inn.
Billy picked up the phone, punched. “Chief Cameron here. I need information about a guest who was staying at the inn…” He looked toward Max.
Max didn’t need to check his notes. The maid had remembered that five-dollar tip. “Friday night for sure.”
“Friday night. Room 108.” Billy turned on the speakerphone. He pulled a notepad nearer, waited with pen in hand.
“Room 108.” The voice was young. “Friday night. Robert Smith. Home address: 1583 Peachtree Street, apartment 103, Atlanta. Mr. Smith was here for two nights, checked out by video”—there was a slight pause—“at two-oh-seven A.M. on Sunday. Left the charge on his Visa.”
Max and Billy exchanged glances. The man lying dead near Ghost Crab Pond on Saturday night certainly wasn’t enjoying the convenience of video checkout early Sunday morning. Obviously the murderer had retrieved his victim’s room key along with his wallet and all identifying contents. It was simple for the murderer to enter the side door of the inn using the electronic key card, hurry down a deserted hallway to the room. It wouldn’t take long to toss the dead man’s belongings into a suitcase, use the video checkout, and return to the victim’s car.
Billy tapped his pen on the desktop. “Is the room currently occupied?”
“Oh yes, sir. We don’t have any vacancies.” A sigh.
“I’ve got people in line—”
“Give me the credit card number. And connect me with Freddie Whipple.” In a moment, the number scrawled on the pad, Billy had the hotel manager on the line.
“Freddie, we may have traced a homicide victim to the inn. We think he was staying in Room 108 Friday night. I want to check the room for fingerprints.”
Max understood Billy’s plan. Even though the room had been cleaned on Sunday and was currently occupied, there might be vagrant prints on the television remote, the television cabinet, the bedside table, the door panels. It was worth checking out. Even a partial match would identify the victim as Robert Smith, and the full powers of a police investigation could be focused on the visitor from Atlanta.
Robert Smith. Max glanced down at the print. Well-dressed, sporty. Probably called Bob. Or Bobby. There were several hundred thousand Bob Smiths across America. Who was this Bob Smith, and why had he come to the island?
Billy punched the intercom on his desk. “Mavis, round up Lou. We need to look for some prints over at the inn. A guest there this weekend may turn out to be the guy shot out at Ghost Crab Pond.”
Max was at the door, lifting his hand in farewell. Now it was up to Billy and his staff to find out about Bob Smith. He said good-bye to Mavis at the front counter, stepped out into the asphalt-melting, Calcutta-humid heat of late afternoon. He cranked up the air-conditioning in his car. He felt like a sun-parched camel. Maybe gazpacho for dinner? A Caesar salad with grilled chicken? Of course, Annie would want lots of anchovies. In any event, a salad would be something cool….
Cool. Bob Smith looked like a cool guy. Max turned one vent so the flow hit him directly in the face. As he started to pull away from the curb, his gaze stopped at the bright blue newspaper display case of the Island Gazette. Marian Kenyon would be furious if he didn’t alert her. He pulled out his cell phone and turned it on. One message. His eyes widened in surprise as he listened to Annie’s buoyant voice. Tot up a coup for Emma Clyde. He thought about Marian Kenyon’s stark description of Saturday night at Ghost Crab Pond and knew that Pamela was lucky, lucky to have survived the fall from the Island Packet and lucky to have friends like Emma Clyde, Doc Burford, and Henny Brawley. Max wondered if they might be persuaded to give a blow-by-blow account of their success in spiriting Pamela off island. Marian could do a bang-up story. In any event, Marian would definitely want to know that the dead man had been seen at Meg’s house and that he might be Robert Smith from Atlanta. Max punched in the number of the Gazette.
Annie banged through the front door of Death on Demand. She felt as if she were returning from a far journey. But wasn’t she? This morning she’d grieved. Now she celebrated. There was no greater distance than that between heartbreak and happiness. “Ingrid?” Annie started down the central aisle.
Ingrid Webb hurried from the back of the store clutching a copy of Simon Hawke’s Much Ado About Murder. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her face forlorn. She stopped, lifted a corner of her book apron to rub at her eyes. “It’s so awful about Pamela.”
Annie rushed forward to hug her. “Oh Ingrid, she’s alive and going to get well. They moved her to a hospital in Savannah and somebody got it wrong.”
By the time they’d exchanged glad hoorays and Annie, noting interested faces of several of the island’s most gregarious women, had explained in a clear and carrying voice that Pamela had no idea who’d struck her on the mystery cruise and, further, didn’t know a thing about the handsome mystery man who’d visited Meg Heath Friday morning, she and Ingrid were settled at the coffee bar with whipped cream–topped cappuccinos.
Ingrid pushed steel-rimmed glasses higher on her nose. “I don’t quite see how that kind of mistake could be made, but”—she lifted thin shoulders in a shrug—“I read the other day about a basketball player who went into the hospital for an operation on a sore bone in his left foot and woke up minus that bone in his right foot.”
Annie lifted her mug in a salute. “No harm done for Pamela.” In fact, fatal harm had been avoided. The attack on the mystery cruise had been intended to eliminate Pamela as a witness. The odd episode in the hallway near the back entrance to the ER clearly meant the murderer was on the prowl. Pamela would have been very vulnerable in the hospital. But for now, she was safe, and Annie wanted to reclaim her normal life. Let Billy deal with the deaths of Meg and her visitor. “So”—Annie licked away a whipped-cream mustache—“how’s everything gone today?”
Agatha padded toward Annie, green eyes glittering. “I fed her a little while ago.” Ingrid sniffed. “She didn’t eat a bite.” Ingrid was unsympathetic to trying different food when Agatha evinced disdain for a serving. Food, Ingrid insisted, was food.
Annie knew better than to resist. Agatha obviously was in no mood to trifle with an absentee owner who was putting in a late appearance without proper indications of remorse, abasement, and adoration. Annie put down her mug and stepped behind the coffee bar to pour a fresh—and different—dry cat food into Agatha’s bowl.
Agatha’s tail whipped. She sheered toward Annie’s retreating arm, showed fangs, relented, and settled at the bowl. She crunched the pellets, but her tail still flicked.
Annie cautiously and circumspectly patted her sleek black cat. “Why do I love you?” But she knew. Agatha was elegant, unpredictable, fascinating, and occasionally affectionate.
Ingrid’s tone was dry. She loved dogs. “Agatha shredded the ferns in the cozy area. And I swear she tried to topple the display of the Rita Mae Brown books. And we had a busload of tourists from the Church of the Servant in Chastain. They bought every last one of Mignon Ballard’s new angel mystery. Duane got on the Web”—Ingrid’s husband not only handled most of the duties as manager of the residential cabins where they lived, he was a whiz at finding obscure titles for bookstore customers—“and found those reprints by Rue Morgue Press of the ghost mysteries by Manning Coles.”
Annie put down her mug, studied her clerk. Ingrid was not laconic, but she didn’t chatter. And she hadn’t answered Annie’s question. “What’s wrong?”
Ingrid downed the rest of her mug, reluctantly faced Annie. “You look awfully tired.”
Annie didn’t doubt Ingrid’s appraisal. It had been a long day after a horrific night. But her relief at reaching the bookstore was quickly ebbing. “Tell me.”
“I didn’t want to bother you.
” Ingrid jammed her fingers in wiry iron-gray curls. “Duane says I could never pull off a crime, that I’m as transparent as a politician. But I’ve read so many mysteries I should be able to outwit anyone.” She sighed. “It’s no big deal, but you’ve had a lot of phone calls. I thought maybe they could wait until tomorrow.” A frown bunched her eyebrows. “But one of them…” Just for an instant she looked embarrassed. “If I were a gothic heroine, I’d come all over faint and bleat something about being overwhelmed with a sense of impending doom.” The tone was lighthearted. Her face was not. “Anyway,” she rushed ahead, brisk and factual, “here’s the list.” She pulled a sheet of scratch paper from her pocket, handed it to Annie.
Ingrid’s printing was small and precise:
Calls
Young man. 11:03 A.M. Didn’t leave name. Abrupt, demanding. Called back at 1:20 P.M., 3:06 P.M., 4:38 P.M. Never left name. Caller ID identified caller as Jason Brown. Isn’t that Meg Heath’s son?
Wayne Reed. 4:05 P.M. Asked you to contact him at his office or home when convenient. Said he wished to speak to you in regard to Meg Heath. Sounded grim.
Whisperer.
Annie was not a gothic heroine, but her gaze jerked toward Ingrid. “Whisperer?”
“Came up Unknown Caller. Can’t even guess as to sex. Could have been a man or a woman. The call came just a few minutes ago, a faint voice—like someone was hunkered over a phone and trying not to be heard—asking if you were here.” Ingrid gripped her empty mug. “I had the strangest feeling. I know that’s silly—”
“No, it’s not.” Annie wasn’t ready to dismiss Ingrid’s response. In fact, she felt a prickle of her own. Who was trying to get in touch with her and afraid to speak out loud? That’s what it came down to, wasn’t it? Someone was afraid. She looked into Ingrid’s eyes and knew her sensible, everyday, practical clerk had found the call frightening.
Ingrid frowned. “I shouldn’t have told you. There’s not a thing you can do about it unless there’s another call. I don’t suppose you saw anyone today who might be trying to catch you?”
Annie flicked through her day like clicking the images in a stereoscope: the Heath house, Parotti’s, the pier at Slash Pine Road, Doc Burford’s hunting cabin, Emma’s speedboat, the ferry. Slowly Annie shook her head. She looked down at Ingrid’s neat printing:
Whisperer. 4:22 P.M. Asked if you were here. Static in the background. Cell phone? I said you weren’t in and offered to take a message but the connection was broken before I finished.
Her face troubled, Annie folded the list, put it in her pocket.
“Another cappuccino?” Ingrid reached for Annie’s mug.
“No.” Not even her favorite drink, divinely inspired so far as Annie was concerned, would provide a lift now. She glanced at her watch. Almost five. “I’m going home. Will you close up this evening?”
“I was planning on it.” Ingrid nodded in approval.
“You look exhausted, Annie. Go home and relax.” Ingrid was forceful. “Forget all this. Have dinner with Max and Rachel and—oh golly, I just remembered. There was one more call.” Ingrid took both the mugs, stepped to the sink behind the counter. She turned on the water, squirted soap, began to wash. “Pudge rang up a little while ago. He didn’t leave a message. Let’s see”—she was casual, unconcerned—“he asked if you were here and then he muttered something about you promising to take care of something but you were probably busy and he didn’t want to bother you, that he’d catch you tomorrow.”
Annie forgot about the list of calls, even the whisperer. She wanted to go home. She wanted to put this day behind her, savor Pamela’s return to life, leave the search for the murderer of Meg Heath and the natty stranger to Chief Billy Cameron. But—and she reached for the phone book to find an address—she couldn’t go home yet. She had a promise to keep.
Rachel slammed the plate onto the breakfast room table. She didn’t stamp her foot but the effect was the same. “Stuart is a world-class jerk! It’s pathetic”—disdain dripped from her voice—“how Cole Crandall snuffles after him like a dog who’s been kicked but comes back for more.” She walked to the counter, grabbed silverware for the place settings.
Max diced tomatoes, pushed them next to the mound of cut green peppers and onions. He was no authority on teenage girls. He found Annie’s volatile stepsister interesting, fun, endearing, but a little unnerving in her prickly demeanor, rather like a cat that purred one instant, bit the next. He had a sudden image of Agatha. Annie was always quick to explain away Agatha’s unpredictability, saying, “All she needs is love.” Max wished—he glanced toward the ceramic clock above the sink—that Annie would get home soon and divert Rachel from her diatribe against Cole Crandall.
The table set, Rachel plopped onto the step stool. She sat with her knees bunched near her chin, arms wrapped around skinny legs bare beneath chambray shorts. Glossy black curls framed her thin, angular face. Her scowl was scornful. “Don’t you think that’s stupid?”
Max temporized. “I’ll bet Cole was embarrassed.”
Rachel considered his suggestion. Some of the anger seeped from her face. “Yeah. Well, maybe.” The moment of empathy evaporated faster than water sprinkled in a hot skillet. “He doesn’t have the guts of an inchworm. Why didn’t he tell Stuart to go jump in the Sound? It was so bad. Everybody’s milling around after school—you know, sometimes we all hang out for a while in the parking lot. Stuart went on and on about Cole missing out on all the action when Pamela went overboard. Stuart acted like Cole was some kind of idiot that he didn’t see a thing that happened. And what did Cole do?” Her tone was scathing. “He got this funny look on his face and muttered something like he wished he’d never gone on the cruise.” Abruptly Rachel popped down from the step stool, her face as lugubrious as a tragedy mask. “Me, too. I wish I hadn’t. There was Pudge and that awful woman hanging all over him.”
Running steps clattered as Rachel raced out of the kitchen, thumped up the stairs. Dimly Max heard the slam of her bedroom door upstairs. He finished chopping the tomatoes, began to slice a crisp garden-fresh cucumber. Everything was going to be swell for the gazpacho, but dinner wasn’t going to be a jolly meal unless Annie worked some magic with Rachel. Rachel…Max considered the invitation tendered by Annie to Pudge and Sylvia and Cole. How Annie hoped to persuade Rachel to welcome these guests was beyond his understanding. Once again he glanced at the clock. Almost six. Where was Annie?
Annie braked for a tawny red doe and her half-grown fawn, his spots almost gone. The dusty road curved and twisted toward the ocean through a thick stand of pines and live oaks crowded by ferns and shrubs. The wilderness to her left was part of the island nature preserve.
She drove slowly. How should she approach Cole Crandall? Oh sure, she could talk to him about the excursion boat, but that wasn’t the point. The point, unfortunately, was for Annie to perform a miracle resulting in a congenial family gathering at the Darling household Friday evening. She pictured Cole, sullen, resentful, and defensive. How should she begin? I’m Annie Darling and my father’s Pudge Laurance, the guy who’s hanging around your mom, and you don’t like him but he’s really swell. That wouldn’t do. My stepsister’s Rachel Van Meer and she thinks you’re a real creep. Scratch that. The car nosed around a huge live oak, and there was the Reed house. Quickly, quickly, she needed inspiration.
She pulled into the drive, looked up at one of the island’s boutique mansions, a two-story modern stucco with an ocean view. In today’s market, it had probably cost a half million. Annie marveled every weekend when she saw the real estate section of the Sunday paper. Prices of homes and condos had risen astronomically in recent years. What had sold for a hundred thousand ten years ago might now fetch nearly a million. She feared the building boom in the Southeast coastal regions was out of control. She studied the Reed house. It looked awfully new, which most likely meant Wayne Reed had paid a bundle. She hoped he could afford to lose his investment. If a Category 3 storm ever hit the isl
and full force, the storm surge would undoubtedly wreck this house. Most of the island would be under four feet of water. Old homes built on high foundations and cabins secure on pilings would survive.
“Come on.” She spoke aloud, knowing that her mind was skittering from the real estate bubble to hurricanes to avoid the intractable challenge she faced. All right. All she could do was her best. She had a good excuse to talk to Cole. She could tell him Pamela was going to recover. It would be interesting to ask if Cole had remembered seeing anyone on the deck before Pamela’s fall. From there, she would segue to Pudge and dinner at the Darling house. Segue—a lovely word suggesting a smooth transition. Oh yeah, she would have to be a verbal gymnast to achieve this one. Cole, you did such a good job keeping your eyes open on the second deck, and I saw your mother, and she was with my father—yes, Pudge Laurance is my father, didn’t you know?—and we’re going to grill hamburgers…. Drat. Was Cole as hostile to Rachel as she was to him? Would it do any good to mention Rachel? Annie would have to feel her way, emotional antennas twirling like radar gone berserk.
She parked beneath a spreading live oak and left her car windows down. Closing up a car in this heat turned the interior into a sauna stoked with glee by an imp from hell. She kept to the shade as she walked up a crushed oyster shell path to the single bricked step leading to a narrow porch framed by twin pillars.
Flush on the ground, she thought to herself, ripe for flooding. Then, Stop it, Annie, you don’t care if this house washes out to the Gulf Stream. Think about Cole and what you are going to say to him. Pudge’s heart is riding on your words. That thought was such a burden, the hand lifted to grip the bronze knocker froze in place.
The door banged open.
Annie let her hand fall, took a step back. She recognized Wayne Reed from his campaign posters. He’d run for city council in the last election, losing to Henny Brawley. Annie, in fact, had worked hard for her old friend, passing out campaign brochures, holding a tea at the bookstore, going door-to-door to urge support. At the time, she’d thought Reed’s efforts lackluster. Max’s take had been that the lawyer was running more for name recognition than out of any real interest in the job.
