by Carolyn Hart
Ves Roundtree. She was his only hope.
• • •
Fred Butler, his round face expressionless, methodically counted out twenties. His hands moved a shade slower than usual, a calculated response to the customer’s rudeness. “Nine hundred and sixty. Nine hundred and eighty. One thousand.” He took his time as he slipped the bills into a white envelope, pushed the envelope across the wooden counter to a tall, slender woman with upswept dark hair and a supercilious stare, her attitude one of impatience. “Can I do anything else for you, Mrs. Crain?” His tone was bland.
She scooped up the envelope, the emerald on one slim finger gleaming in the beam from the overhead light. She flipped through the bills, turned away without speaking, her Jimmy Choo high heels clicking on the marble floor of the bank.
Fred hated the way he felt diminished. Most of the rich women on the island were nice. Not Viola Crain. She often looked through those she considered her social inferiors or gazed in disdain as if observing some lower life-form. Fred wished he could tell her that someday he’d be rich, too, and, when he was, he’d . . . What would he do? He didn’t live in her world. But when he was rich maybe he could join the country club. Or maybe he’d go to Mexico. Americans—rich Americans—lived like princes there.
He looked at Estelle, the other teller, nodded toward an inconspicuous door. She gave him her usual sweet smile. In the right kind of world, people like Estelle would be rich, not Viola Crain. He put the See Next Window sign out and moved quickly. He turned the knob, slipped through the opening, closed the door behind him. He hurried to the break room and poured a mug of coffee. The bank had good coffee. He picked up a glazed doughnut from a half-empty box open on the counter. At the Formica-topped table, he took an end seat. He dunked the doughnut in the coffee, took a bite. The sugar lift was immediate.
He swallowed coffee, felt better. When he was rich, he wouldn’t be ignored by people like Viola Crain. People treated you differently if they knew you had money. Or were going to get money. They’d all been nice to him at the dinner in Rufus’s memory. When he was rich, he’d enjoy the best of everything, go to a fabulous Caribbean resort. Images of coconut palms swaying in a breeze and azure water soothed him. They would all live high after Ves Roundtree died and the estate was divided.
He didn’t understand why Ves kept on working after her brother left her all that money. Or why she hadn’t moved to Rufus’s mansion on the beach. Instead, she rented out the luxurious home during the season to rich Yankees. He felt his usual spasm of irritation. If she had moved out of the family home, he could pursue his plans without worry. But she hadn’t moved. She continued to live in her antebellum home, so he had to slip around her property while she was at her shop. He for sure didn’t want Ves to find him in her backyard. She had a sharp tongue. Worst of all, he would have to explain. He’d rather die. As for her brother’s money, it would be a long time coming, and by then he was positive he could soon be rich all on his own.
He finished the doughnut. As for Ves, wallowing in all that money, why did she think people wanted to know about money they wouldn’t see for years? He wasn’t the only one who felt that way. Maybe Ves meant it nicely when she had them all to dinner at her house, the ones who would be rich when she died, but it was a reminder that she wasn’t old, that she had years to enjoy all that money. The evening was stiff with uneven bursts of disjointed conversation. Those anointed by Rufus to someday share in his largesse were there. Katherine and Bob Farley, the artists; Jane Wilson, Rufus’s secretary’s daughter, and her boyfriend, Tim Holt; local financial adviser Adam Nash; Curt Roundtree, Rufus’s playboy son; and Gretchen, Rufus’s ex-wife. Ves included Gretchen Roundtree and Jane’s boyfriend at the dinner even though they weren’t in the trust.
Yeah, it was a weird night. He particularly remembered Katherine Farley. She was dramatic in a vivid red-and-yellow dress, flamboyant against the gray walls of the small dining room and the shabby elegance of the old and worn Chippendale dining table. Candles wavered when Ves moved in and out of the kitchen to bring the food. In answer to a question from Bob Farley, she said a seafaring Roundtree had brought back a portion of a Buddhist altar screen that hung over the sideboard. Bob had paused and leaned against his cane to admire the screen before he moved stiffly to his chair at the table. Bob recalled a trip he and Katherine had made to the South Putuo Temple in Xiamen and how he’d love to go back, but he and Katherine were planning a great adventure in Kenya for the fall. Jane Wilson, the daughter of Rufus Roundtree’s deceased secretary, listened enthralled as Bob talked about travels, his eyes alight with excitement. Jane was a nice-looking girl, an eager face, curly brown hair, big blue friendly eyes. Her boyfriend spent much of the evening describing some kind of real estate project to Ves, who only occasionally turned to Katherine on her left. Curt Roundtree often looked admiringly at Ves and adroitly drew her out about her shop and her recent trip to Egypt. Adam Nash tried to act like a bon vivant. Fred thought his mellifluous voice was smarmy as he meandered on and on about a Broadway show he’d seen last month and the Degas exhibit in Atlanta. Gretchen Roundtree had been nice to him, but he’d never felt comfortable, not all the long evening. He didn’t care that the estate was growing, even more money than when Rufus died. He wanted money now. He gulped the rest of the coffee. He intended to have money now. No one was going to stand in his way, though he’d be careful. Very careful.
• • •
Fog curled around a fountain midway to an antebellum house. A marble statue of Diana the huntress faced the back porch. One marble hand held a bow, the other a portion of an arrow pointed skyward. No lights shone in the two-story white frame house. A mourning dove made a low throaty call.
A figure in dark clothing lifted an arm, checked the time. A few minutes before five. Ves Roundtree usually arrived home at a quarter after five. There was plenty of time. The visitor eased through the fog, head swiveling from left to right, backpack shifting from the movement. Confident no one was near, the visitor climbed the back steps, crossed to the door. A gloved hand tugged a ring of keys from a pocket, tried several until one fit. The door opened. The intruder stepped inside, slid the backpack free, closed the door.
In the hallway, gloved hands opened the backpack, lifted out the necessary materials. There was no sound but the ticking of the grandfather clock as the intruder worked swiftly. Perhaps only three minutes passed and the materials were put away, a zipper pulled, and the backpack once again in place. The back door was opened cautiously. The fog was lighter now. A rapid descent of the steps. The figure crossed the yard to a stand of bamboo, stopped in its shadow.
• • •
Ves Roundtree drove fast, but traffic was sparse on Sunshine Lane. She turned into her long drive, a graveled lane that ran a hundred yards with dense foliage on either side before rounding a curve. The trees thinned here and she could see the house. She relished privacy. Her nearest neighbor was a twelve-foot alligator in a pond a quarter-mile deep into the woods. The van rattled as she stopped a few feet from the stand-alone garage. She needed to take the van, twelve years old now, to Petty’s Garage to see if he could do something about the rattle.
She turned off the motor, opened the door, used the hand grip above the door as she slung to the ground. She’d make some spoon bread, reheat chili from earlier in the week. The evening stretched ahead, quiet, comfortable, uneventful. The week had been tiring, prompting her to choose a bright outfit today, a turquoise knit top and gray trousers and matching turquoise heels. She always wore teetering heels to work. They made her feel young and buoyant.
She moved fast, as she always moved, a tight, tense blur of energy, rushing up the back steps. Her heels clattered on the wooden porch. The door opened, closed.
• • •
The chill drizzle didn’t take the shine from the morning for Annie Darling. Although she was careful in placing her steps, she felt her usual Monday-morning happiness, a new
day, a new week, and at the end of the slick boardwalk the best mystery bookstore north of Delray Beach, Florida, her own wonderful Death on Demand. She never tired, not in summer, fall, winter, or spring, of stopping in front of the plate glass window.
She admired the rocking chair with a pink-and-blue afghan casually draped over the armrest, perfect to suggest contentment with a mystery on a drizzly February day. The new titles were tantalizing: Cometh the Hour by Jeffrey Archer, Jane and the Waterloo Map by Stephanie Barron, A Turn for the Bad by Sheila Connolly, Here Comes the Bribe by Mary Daheim, No Shred of Evidence by Charles Todd, Time of Fog and Fire by Rhys Bowen, The Killing in the Cafe by Simon Brett, and Fool Me Once by Harlan Coben.
Shoppers were few and far between in February. Perhaps she’d call Max at his office next door. Confidential Commissions would be quiet as well. Max’s secretary, Barb, was in the Caribbean. Max usually kept office hours, though this morning he’d murmured something about dropping by the men’s grill at the club since not much was shaking at the office. Max was quite willing to consider any interesting task, puzzle, or question brought to him, but he was equally willing to enjoy peaceful hours without a task. He was probably sharing, in a deprecating manner, of course, his recent hole in one on the third green. Her husband considered downtime God’s gift to golfers. It was up to her to set a good example. Nose to the grindstone. Hew to the course. As if reading were ever a task and not a pleasure. She’d make a pot of Colombian, heat up a blueberry scone, build a fire in the café area, and settle down with one of the new books. Would she see what Molly Murphy was up to or plunge into Harlan Coben’s new novel?
Footsteps sounded behind her. A plethora of footsteps. This was unusual enough at ten A.M. on a drizzly February morning that she turned to look at the hurrying figures. Oh my. A quiet, luxurious morning of reading was no longer in her immediate future.
2
Annie Darling maintained a bright smile. The voices rose, the dulcet tone of her ditzy mother-in-law, Laurel Darling Roethke, the gruff bark of renowned mystery author Emma Clyde, the dry, wry contralto of mystery aficionado and indefatigable island volunteer Henny Brawley.
Laurel’s husky voice had an otherworldly timbre, as if she conversed with a wise faun in a sun-spangled glen. “. . . swirls of red, white, and blue with stars cascading in the center of the cover, and on the first page of my little publication, it’s such a difficult choice, but I believe I will go with A good friend lifts your heart.” Laurel’s gaze was distant as if she saw beyond the room, the island, perhaps the universe.
Emma spoke with blunt force. “I don’t intend to reveal all my secrets in my little booklet, but here’s a particular favorite of Marigold’s: A bad dream is your subconscious knocking on the closed door of your mind. What could be more perfect for a collection of wise observations by my dear Marigold and unflappable Inspector Houlihan?” The mystery writer’s strong square face was pugnacious, daring the others to disagree.
Annie’s gaze was admiring though she secretly loathed Marigold Rembrandt. Emma’s sleuth was an officious busybody with all the charm of a wasp.
Henny was upbeat. “I’ve never flaunted my mystery knowledge—”
Annie suppressed a smile. Henny Brawley and Emma Clyde delighted in sprinkling their conversation with mystery references that demonstrated mastery of the genre. Recently the tone had been sharp edged when they disagreed about the most memorable quote from Agatha Christie’s works. Henny’s favorite came from Towards Zero: A young nurse tells a would-be suicide bitter at being saved, It may be just by being somewhere—not doing anything—just by being at a certain place at a certain time—oh, I can’t say what I mean, but you might just—just walk along a street someday and just by doing that accomplish something terribly important—perhaps without even knowing what it was. Emma was condescending. “Pretty, but peripheral. In Ordeal by Innocence, Hester Argyle says, It’s not the guilty who matter. It’s the innocent. That”—emphatically—“is the essence of Christie.”
“—but I can’t wait”—Henny’s voice was exuberant—“to share my list of favorite mysteries in my pamphlet.”
Annie felt caught in a gossamer web, insubstantial but clinging, immobilizing. Of course, sounds didn’t make a web. No matter, she felt enmeshed. She recalled a summer day on horseback as she trotted around a curve and almost barged into a twenty-foot web hanging between two live oaks, home to an industrious golden silk spider. She’d gazed in awe before turning to ride back the way she’d come. Unfortunately, she didn’t have a horse at hand. There was no escaping her current entrapment and the apparent rock-solid conviction of Laurel, Emma, and Henny that Annie not only ran a mystery bookstore, she was simply a perfect choice to publish pamphlets.
Laurel waved a graceful hand, nails gleaming with the daintiest of pink polish. “My dears, quiet for a moment.”
Emma paused in midbark, raised a demanding eyebrow.
Intelligent, perceptive Henny looked up from her notebook, her expression quizzical.
Annie was resigned to the reality that Laurel’s ethereal beauty misled viewers into thinking she was nothing more than a gorgeous blonde. Annie knew better. Her mother-in-law’s Nordic blue eyes held a mixture of sublime confidence and wicked mischief that never failed to send chills up Annie’s spine. What was her Laurel thinking? What was she planning? What had she quite possibly already done?
Silence fell. She and Emma and Henny awaited a Royal Pronouncement.
Laurel’s benign gaze settled on Annie. “Dear child, I sense stress.”
Emma gave a huff. “Stress? I can tell you about stress. Right now Marigold is trapped in a cave with a marauding bear at the entrance and a nest of cottonmouths—”
Annie loved the idea of a bear looming over Marigold. She was also tempted to point out that cottonmouths, aka water moccasins, were North America’s only poisonous water snake and therefore highly unlikely to be found in the depths of a cave, but confronting a bear or even a nest of water moccasins would be preferable to an Emma publicly challenged.
“—and I have to figure out a way for her to escape.”
Henny tapped her purse. “If she carries a small atomizer of mace, she’s out of the cave in a flash.”
Emma’s craggy face pursed in thought. She gave an abrupt nod. “Not bad.” Her tone was grudging.
“Of course”—Henny was quick to apply balm to an even slightly challenged authorial ego—“I know you’d already thought of mace and likely decided for Marigold to use the emergency food kit she always carries in her purse and toss a honeycomb past the bear to distract him long enough to dart to her car.”
Emma’s cornflower blue eyes were easily read. Honeycomb . . . that’s a genius ploy . . . I certainly had almost thought of it . . . was thinking of her purse . . . Henny has obviously read my books carefully . . . she’s a good sort . . . Pleased, Emma beamed at Henny. “I was just trying to decide which action offered the reader more excitement. I think, yes, the honeycomb.” Clearly Emma was now sure she’d created the clever escape route.
Laurel gave her tinkling laugh that reminded Annie of a pixie playing a marimba.
“We’ve had such a good visit with Annie and given her much to think about. We hope she will be excited to publish our chapbooks.”
Henny clapped. “How perfect to call our little publications chapbooks. Chapbook used to be the common term for any small pamphlet whatever the subject, not just poetry.”
Laurel pushed back her chair, came blithely to her feet. “We’ve given her a great deal to consider. She has the look of one—”
Annie felt self-conscious as three pairs of eyes settled on her. Was her velour boat neck top too bright a red?
“—needful of a quiet moment to ponder what we’ve offered. I know we are eager to afford her the solitude necessary for creative genius. I have no doubt”—Laurel’s mesmerizing gaze fastened on Annie—“that Annie
is already envisioning our chapbooks.” A nod at Emma. “Detecting Wisdom.” A nod at Henny. “Classic Crime.” A modest smile. “And my Merry Musings, Modest Maxims for Happiness. I know”—and somehow she was shepherding Emma and Henny down the central corridor toward the door—“we can expect much from our dear Annie.”
Annie remained at the table nearest the coffee bar. It seemed hours since the arrival of the Incredible Trio, as she and Max had long ago dubbed his mom, the island author, and mystery guru Henny. Annie glanced at the wall clock. Actually, their visit had lasted less than a half hour. “Why are you such a wimp?” she demanded aloud. Her psyche was defensive, replied hotly, “It would have been rude to refuse to listen.” “Did you tell them no?” “How could I tell them no?” But her reply was weak. Just as weak as she was. She might possibly hold up against one of them. When they combined forces, she might as well be an effigy on a tomb. She grinned, picturing herself in marble splendor with three chapbooks clasped to her bosom.
Warm fur brushed against her ankle. She reached down, slipped a hand over Agatha’s silky fur. “Do you think I’m talking to you? Of course, I am. Cat’s in charge, right?”
In an instant, her sleek black cat landed beside her, turned twice before she settled into a comfortable ball in the center of the table. A throaty purr reverberated.
Annie bent to nuzzle warm fur. “I’m flattered that you waited until they left before you came out. Of course, you were probably eating, and first things first. Agatha, am I a wimp?” Annie lifted her head. The purr increased. “Kind of you to say so. I agree. When the Trio speaks, it’s wiser to listen.”
