Walking on My Grave

by Carolyn Hart

  She pushed back her chair. Agatha watched with sleepy green eyes as Annie crossed to the coffee bar. She needed a boost. She paused in front of the fireplace to admire the watercolors hanging above the mantel. Each pictured a scene from a mystery novel. The first customer to identify each author and title received a free (noncollectible) book and coffee for a month. As proprietor, it was her pleasure to choose the books. She loved humor, and these books were guaranteed to make readers laugh.

  In the first watercolor, a striking young woman in a gypsy dress and an elegant thirtyish blonde in a kimono stared at a heap of dull glassy pebbles lying on a bunk in a luxurious ship cabin. The younger woman looked puzzled and disappointed, but her older companion, who had an air of sophistication, was excited and fascinated.

  In the second, a white picket fence gleamed in the moonlight. Four surreptitious figures, each clutching a suitcase, peered over the fence at the unlighted wing of a huge old house. There was an aura of stealth in their posture.

  In the third, a sour-faced woman in a business suit teetered on the ledge of a fifth-floor window above a busy street. She clutched a rusty drainpipe with one hand, the other gripped her handbag. A crowd clustered on the sidewalk, faces upturned. Two constables dealt with a traffic jam as gawkers stopped to watch.

  In the fourth, a beautiful dark-haired woman lying in a hospital bed stared at an attractive blond nurse, a tall, distinguished man with horn-rimmed glasses and a pipe, a short, pudgy, balding man with a paunch, and a sandy-haired man with a worried face.

  In the fifth, a slender middle-aged Asian man stared out the fourth-floor window of a frowsy building at a rusty green crane and the wrecking ball swinging toward the adjacent office windows. Below, a potbellied man with a dirty yellow hard hat and a clipboard appeared to be directing the demolition.

  Annie filled a mug. When she settled again in her chair, delectable brew in hand, she was smiling and not only because of the watercolors. She gazed around the table. Although she sold books and didn’t publish them, creating pamphlets might be fun. She wondered if the creative trio had illustrators in mind. Laurel excelled at sketches and might already have drawings for her chapbook. Annie reached over Agatha to pick up a pink manuscript box tied with red ribbon and topped with an emerald bow. She untied the ribbon, lifted the lid, pulled out a sheet, and read the author’s introduction:

  MERRY MUSINGS

  MODEST MAXIMS FOR HAPPINESS

  by

  Laurel Darling Roethke

  Merry Musings offers maxims guaranteed to make any life happier. Each is a Signpost on a road that twists and turns, climbs, descends to depths, winds upward once again to touch trailing clouds. Live with élan.

  Annie turned the page, nodded approval at Laurel’s illustration, a burst of fireworks in a splendid shower of red, gold, and green. Merry Musing One: Catch a falling star before it knocks you flat.

  Annie pondered. At first glance, the maxim seemed simple. But was it? She had the old familiar sweep of uncertainty she often felt when dealing with her mother-in-law. Was Laurel saying each person must be aware of possibilities, make the right move at the right time? Was she saying—? Annie shook her head. That way lay bewilderment.

  Annie replaced the sheets in the pink box, reached around Agatha for a gray folder with a gold-embossed title: Detecting Wisdom. Emma, of course, was pleased to share Marigold’s dictum: If you can imagine it, it can happen. Much as she loathed Marigold, the point was well taken. Quickly, she reached for the sheets prepared by Henny. The introduction to Classic Crime was pure Henny, unassuming but potent: A tribute to memorable mysteries.

  Annie scanned the list. She felt, as always, a tiny chill at The Franchise Affair by Josephine Tey. Henny’s comment: The Franchise Affair strips away the comfortable assumption that ordinary, decent people aren’t vulnerable to accusations of evil.

  As Annie turned over the next sheet, Agatha rolled over on her back, clamped her paws on either side of Annie’s right wrist. The cat’s green eyes glittered.

  “You’ve already eaten—”

  The first tiny tip of claws pricked Annie’s skin.

  “My mistake.” Quickly Annie began to sing, “Chow time for Agatha, chow time for Agatha.”

  In a smooth undulating move, Agatha loosed her grip, was on her paws, and launched the five feet from the table to the top of the coffee bar.

  Annie hurried. Not that her cat bullied her. Of course not. As she poured dry food into the bowl, the front bell rang.

  Slow, uneven steps sounded in the central aisle. Ves Roundtree, right arm immobilized in a sling, limped toward her. Ves normally moved swiftly, reddish curls quivering with energy, bright green eyes jerking from face to face, narrow beringed fingers gesturing emphatically.

  Annie hurried to pull out a chair. “What happened?”

  Ves nodded her thanks as she eased carefully onto the chair, obviously uncomfortable. “A bad fall.” She glanced at the table, saw the gray folder, pink manuscript-sized box, and slim sheaf of sheets. “You look busy.”

  Annie gave a careless wave of her hand. “Nothing that won’t keep.” Annie knew Ves Roundtree moderately well. Ves’s store was at the far end of the boardwalk. She and Ves were active in the Island Council of Retail Merchants. Ves was the current treasurer, Annie the secretary. In good weather, they played tennis on Wednesday afternoons. Ves had a wicked forearm, the arm now cradled to her side. This wasn’t the Ves she knew, a woman always in a hurry, bright, so bright she could seem metallic, impatient, never one to curb her tongue, yet a cool thinker on the court, playing each shot to her opponent’s weakness.

  “I’ll get some coffee.”

  “No.” Ves was abrupt in her usual fashion, focused on a goal, not one to waste time. Her reddish hair was drawn back in a bun that emphasized the jut of her cheekbones and the bony point of her chin. “You’re sure you have time?”

  Annie didn’t glance at the clock. It was probably a quarter to eleven, and she’d hoped to call Max and meet for lunch at Parotti’s Bar and Grill, but Ves looked upset and worried. Annie gave her a reassuring smile. “Nothing is urgent on a sea island in February. I’m awfully sorry you fell, but if you have to have an accident, now is the time. I don’t imagine you have many customers this time of year either.”

  Ves’s stare was hollow. “I didn’t have an accident.”

  Annie sank into the chair opposite Ves. The blunt words hung between them.

  Ves talked fast. “I get home about a quarter after five in the winter. There isn’t much to do at closing time. I parked in the drive last Thursday. I didn’t bother to put the car in the garage. I was in a hurry.” A pause, a tight smile. “I guess I’m always in a hurry. Somebody was counting on that. When I get home”—she took a quick breath as if pushing back from a precipice—“I go upstairs to change. The house was just as it always was, a little cool, quiet enough that I could hear the tick of the grandfather clock in the entry hall. I go in the back door and walk to the front of the hall. The house is old and the stairs run right up straight without a turn. There’s no carpet on the treads. The steps are wooden. Some of the treads have a kind of hollow in the center. I was almost to the top, maybe four steps, maybe five, and it was as if I stepped on ice. It happened fast. I stepped and my foot slipped. I fell backward.” She took another breath. “I ski every January. I close the shop and go to Breckenridge. That’s where we always went when I was a kid. I’m a good skier. That saved me. I know how to fall. I turned myself to the right and grabbed at the banister. My hand whacked against the rail, but I hung my fingers around a baluster, caught, held on. I landed on my hip. It hurt like hell. My wrist was bent, but I didn’t let go. I huddled there for a few minutes. Finally I got up on one knee and then I was able to stand. I managed to get down the stairs. I grabbed my purse with my left hand, went out the door. I got to the car, drove to the emergency room. Broken collarbone. Dislocated sho
ulder. Sprained wrist.” The clipped words stopped. Her voice was harsh. “I should have been dead.”

  A slip on slick stairs. A fall. A fortunate twist and grab. “You say it wasn’t an accident.” Annie’s voice rose a little.

  “I’ve had the same housekeeper for fifteen years. Gladys cleans every Monday. She runs a dust mop on the stairs. Those steps are never slick.” Ves’s lips twisted. “There was no slick step when I went downstairs Thursday morning. There was no one with a legitimate reason to be in my house that day. I didn’t spill anything. How did the step turn into a skating rink? Someone made it happen. But there’s something worse.” Her eyes bored into Annie’s. “Someone was waiting outside, watched me come out, get to the car. My appearance must have been a damn big disappointment.” The last jerky words were grim.

  “You saw someone?” Annie scarcely breathed the question.

  Ves shivered. “I saw no one, but I’m sure someone was there, watched me struggle to the van, and, as soon as I left, hurried inside and cleaned up the step. I don’t know what was used. Furniture polish maybe. Beeswax maybe. All I know is when I came home from the hospital, I climbed those stairs with a flashlight. I checked every step. The fourth one from the top was clean and dry, not a trace of dust. I ran my hand back and forth, didn’t pick up anything. None of the steps”—her voice was heavy—“were slick.” She stared at Annie. “I know what happened. I can’t prove anything.” Her tone was flat. “Something made the step slick. That’s why I fell. I’ve gone up and down those steps for years. Sure, I wear high heels, I move fast. But I didn’t trip. My foot came out from underneath me.” She gazed at Annie in despair. “You think I’m nuts.”

  “Of course not.” Annie tried to be reassuring. “Obviously something made you fall. Your shoes?”

  A tight humorless smile. “I looked at them. I thought if there was something slick on the steps, there should be some residue on the sole of my shoe, but I had walked outside and across the yard. I went to the hospital. By the time I looked, the sole was normal. Then I thought maybe some of the polish, if that’s what it was, came off the shoe onto lower steps. Funny thing is, they were really clean, too, but they were last dust mopped Monday. There wasn’t a trace of dust on any step.”

  “Did you call Billy?”

  Both she and Ves knew Billy Cameron, the chief of police. Billy was big, stolid, steady, careful, a good man, a good policeman. Ves was an island native. Billy knew her, knew Annie.

  Ves turned both hands palms up. “What could he do? There’s no evidence of a crime. I know something was put on the step that made me fall, but the step was clean when I came home from the hospital. Billy’s a policeman. He needs facts. How do you suppose he’d feel if I gave him a list of names and said one of these people wants to kill me?”

  Annie pictured pragmatic Billy Cameron. Billy believed in facts. Accusing people of attempted murder required facts. Ves had no facts. She had claims. A step was slick. Later the step wasn’t slick. Annie didn’t look at Ves’s feet, but she knew the style of high heels—very high—that Ves preferred. Any man might be forgiven for thinking high heels could cause a fall. Ves spoke of a list. A list? Ves scarcely seemed like the kind of woman to be surrounded by mortal enemies. “A list?” Annie knew she sounded incredulous. A list of would-be assassins plotting death for Ves seemed absurd.

  Ves gave a weary head shake. “I shouldn’t have come. I guess I wanted to tell someone and you’re always reasonable and we’ve worked together a lot lately on plans for the boardwalk shops this summer. That doesn’t mean you want to hear about my troubles.” She pushed back her chair, lurched unevenly to her feet. “I shouldn’t have bothered you. There isn’t anything you can do.” She turned away.

  Annie started after her. “Ves, wait, you can tell me.”

  At the front door, Ves looked over her shoulder. “It’s all right. I need to think it through. It isn’t fair to involve you.” She opened the door, gave Annie a twisted smile. “Never mind.”

  The door shut behind her with finality.

  • • •

  As he came through the front door, Max Darling gave a thumbs-up to Ben Parotti, gnome-sized owner of Parotti’s Bar and Grill. Ben looked natty in a blue blazer, striped shirt, and khaki trousers. He’d worn overalls until he met Miss Jolene, owner of a mainland tea shop. Transported to Broward’s Rock after their marriage, Miss Jolene added style and class to the rustic restaurant: vases with flowers on the tables and the addition of quiches and gelatin salads to the menu. Unchanged was the attached bait shop, coolers with squid and chicken necks, and sawdust floors.

  “The missus coming?” Ben’s gravelly voice was genial.

  “On her way.” Max felt inner happiness spreading across his face. Annie was on her way. He walked to their usual booth, sat where he could see the door. She’d swing through in just a moment, dusty blond hair, steady gray eyes, slim and lovely, kindness in her gaze. His Annie. That was still a miracle to him. They’d met in New York, seen each other across a crowded room. He’d known in that instant that she was his. He’d followed her from New York to Broward’s Rock when she inherited a mystery bookstore. In her serious way, she’d decided they weren’t well suited. He was rich. She was solidly middle class. He was relaxed. She was intense. He defined himself by what mattered to him, people in all their quirky variety, sun and sand and sea, laughter, moments of ease to remember good days and envision better days. Annie epitomized the work ethic, so many tasks to do, so little time in which to do them. He didn’t have to work, felt no need to achieve, but to please her he opened Confidential Commissions and, truth to tell, he enjoyed helping people solve odd and unusual problems, the more odd and unusual the better. At the moment, he had no clients. Maybe Annie would agree to close Death on Demand during the February doldrums and they could take the train from Raleigh to New York, see some plays—

  The door opened. Annie saw him, and her face came alight for a moment, followed by a worried frown. She rushed toward the booth.

  He stood, reached out. “Hey, what’s up?”

  Words tumbled, not in her usual happy fashion, but in tight, tense spurts. “Ves Roundtree’s in big trouble . . . a list . . . the more I think about it, the scarier it is . . . she told me not to worry. How can I not worry?”

  He looked down. “A deep breath.” His voice was soothing. “One. Two. Three.” He touched her elbow, guided her into the booth, slid onto the opposite bench. “Start at the first.”

  “The morning started off so quietly. And then . . .”

  He listened with an inward smile. Annie was incapable of shortening a report into a crisp summary. She didn’t leave anything out, including the literary aspirations of the Incredible Trio.

  Ben stopped for their order. He didn’t bother with a pad.

  Annie paused in midsentence. “My usual.”

  Ben glanced at Max. “Grilled flounder, coleslaw?”

  Max nodded.

  As Ben turned away, Annie called out, “A double shot of Thousand Island on my fried oyster sandwich.” She swung back to Max. “Anyway, I’d just taken a peek at the copies they left when Ves Roundtree limped in.”

  When their food arrived, Annie ate as she described Ves’s appearance and her accident. She concluded, “Worst of all, Ves said she had a list of people who wanted her dead.” Annie’s gray eyes were stricken. “Ves is nice.” Warm emphasis. “How could anyone want to kill her? The idea that she has a list of people who want her dead is awful. Imagine how you’d feel”—her gray eyes were huge—“if you thought people wanted to kill you.” She put down her sandwich.

  This was also Pure Annie. Whatever happened, she could put herself in another’s spot and understand their sadness or anger or, in this case, terror. He tried to picture lurking assassins, had no success. His world was always sunny-side up.

  Max reached across the table, placed his hand over hers, realized
she was shaking. “You believe her.”

  Annie gazed at him straight, spoke slowly. “She doesn’t make things up. She doesn’t exaggerate. She doesn’t read fiction.” A slight tone of astonishment. “She reads about the Tang dynasty and monetary policy and how crows make tools.”

  Max looked into gray eyes filled with uncertainty and anxiety and understood. In the past she’d often tried to help friends and sometimes she’d been foolhardy, and once she disappeared. The last had shaken him, rocked his world. He’d demanded that she promise never again to become involved in other people’s problems. It was a promise she’d tried to keep, hadn’t kept. He’d realized she wouldn’t be Annie if she turned away from someone in need.

  His Annie. Kind, brave, generous. Those steady gray eyes implored him. “I guess,” he said gently, “you better go see Ves, find out what’s going on.”

  • • •

  Annie drove straight to the boardwalk, hurried to Trinkets ’n Treasures, Ves’s shop. The front window was dark. A Closed sign hung a little askew on the knobby arm of a wooden chair that might once have been in a monk’s spare cell. Ves likely hadn’t opened today because she was uncomfortable from her injuries.

  Back in her Thunderbird, Annie drove a little too fast, hoping no wandering deer chose this lousy afternoon to cross a road in front of her. It took only five minutes to reach Sunshine Lane and turn into a narrow drive shadowy beneath tree limbs that interlocked. As she came around the last curve, she was relieved to see lights shining on the lower floor of Ves’s house. Huge live oaks rose in the front yard. On a misty overcast February day, the gray Spanish moss wavering in the breeze added a melancholy, slightly sinister aura.

  The two-story white frame house had upper and lower piazzas with three Ionic columns on either side of the short flight of front steps. Annie pulled up in the single drive and parked behind Ves’s van. Out of the car, she walked swiftly on an oyster shell path to the front of the house and climbed the steps. She knocked on the front door.