by Carolyn Hart
“Thank you for coming.” Annie willed tears away. She’d thought she had herself firmly under control. There had been too much emotion in too short a time, the icy horror of Max’s disappearance and the hours that crawled past, each one more frightening than the last. She’d thought he was dead, beloved Max lost to her forever. She pushed away the memory. That was time she didn’t want to think about, never wanted to relive. The blinding relief when he was found had been succeeded by anger over his arrest, an impotent fury at the unseen forces that had placed Max in jeopardy. Now was the moment for calm. She needed every ounce of concentration she could summon.
“Of course we came.” Emma’s matter-of-fact tone was as good a tonic as a sea breeze on a muggy day. “I’ve been looking at several options, but you said you had a plan.” There was only the slightest hint of surprise. After all, it was Emma who plotted. Annie merely sold books.
“I intend to get into the Whitman house.” Annie spoke confidently, then stopped. Was it fair to ask her friends, her best friends in all the world, to connive in committing crimes, including conspiracy, theft, and misrepresentation?
Henny clapped her hands together. “Way to go.”
Emma raised an inquiring eyebrow. “Do you have a friend on good terms with the family?” Her blue eyes narrowed as if scanning a mental Rolodex.
Annie’s head shake was definite. “That wouldn’t be much help anyway. I want to stay there.”
Ingrid twined a strand of frizzy hair around one finger, a gesture she made when nervous or uncertain. “I don’t know if that’s wise. If the murderer is someone at the house, you’ll be in danger.”
Henny removed her glasses, frowned in thought. “It does look as though the murderer has to be an intimate of the household. From everything we’ve gathered, Vanessa had no social life beyond that house. It’s equally clear there was a carefully calibrated plan to ensnare Max. The effect has been to remove any scrutiny from her everyday life. So far as we’ve been able to determine, the men she saw most often included Jon Dodd; the daughter’s fiancé Kyle Curtis; and the next-door neighbor, Sam Golden. If we’re right and one of those men was involved with her, that house would be very dangerous to a snooper.”
Emma waved a stubby hand in dismissal. “Annie, I’d already thought about gaining access to the house. It isn’t possible. The staff has been there for years. Mrs. Dodd doesn’t use an outside cleaning service. More private that way. The lawn care is done on a weekly basis and I doubt that would provide any opportunity for meaningful contact. I’m afraid we’ll have to depend upon the information we can glean elsewhere. But”—her smile was bright—“we have gathered a great many interesting facts. And some fascinating minutiae. For example, Lillian Dodd lived in Brazil for several years and speaks Portuguese. Jon Dodd collects letters written by famous Americans, including Ulysses S. Grant and Amelia Earhart. Heather Whitman’s favorite game is Parcheesi. She’s dated Kyle Curtis since ninth grade. Kyle’s dad dumped his mother for another man. Sam and Martha Golden, the next-door neighbors, don’t bother to knock when they come over. Sam cheats at cards. Martha carries vodka in a perfume bottle in her purse.” Emma patted a several-inches-high stack of legal pads. “And more. Much more. So even if we can’t get into the house, we’re making progress.”
“I’ll get in.” Annie knew there was a certain bravado in her statement, but she wasn’t going to back off. If everything broke her way…“Handler Jones’s investigators found out a lot about Vanessa. According to her former roommate here on the island, Vanessa kept a diary—”
Emma nodded. “Yes. I remember that.”
“—and I intend to find it. Handler Jones also told us about Vanessa’s sister.”
Henny slipped on the half-glasses, flipped open a notebook. “Genevieve Willet. Husband on SS disability, back injury from working as a longshoreman. Recently diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Two children: Doug in junior high, Susie in second grade. Works in a medical records office and on weekends as a nurse’s aide.” Henny’s dark eyes softened. “A hard life.”
Annie pointed at the folder in front of her. “Jones said she’s avoiding contact with everybody.” The out-of-touch sister. Annie’s plan depended upon that. “Jones told us the Dodds had their lawyer contact her, arrange for the shipment of the body when it’s released by the medical examiner.”
Emma poured Pepsi over ice, watched the soda fizz and bubble. “He’s right in all particulars. Firm of Jackson, Montrose, Ruley and Ruley in Charleston. Young Jason Ruley’s handling the details.”
Annie planted her elbows on the table. “That’s right. No one from the family is in direct contact with Genevieve Willet. They have no knowledge of what she’s doing or thinking. So here’s my plan. Genevieve hadn’t kept in close contact with her younger sister and now she’s distraught over missing so much of her life in recent years. She wants to gather up all of Vanessa’s belongings, bring them home. She especially hopes to find Vanessa’s diary. Her family situation is such that she can’t travel to Broward’s Rock herself. One of Vanessa’s oldest friends from high school was at the house last night. She’s between jobs and she volunteered to drive down here and pick up everything. She’s promised Genevieve that she’ll talk to everyone Vanessa saw on a regular basis, bring home a scrapbook of memories and recollections. It’s a two-day drive from Chicago. Vanessa’s friend left early this morning. She’ll arrive late tomorrow afternoon.”
Henny grinned at Annie. “You’ll be tired from the drive, I expect. Who contacts Lillian Dodd? I’ll be happy to call.”
Emma was judicious. “The plan has merit. But there are obstacles. You’ll need Illinois license plates for your car—”
Henny chimed in. “And an Illinois driver’s license—”
Emma pulled her stack of legal pads nearer. “I have some ideas about the license plates and the license as well. Actually, consider that statement struck. Never say aloud or put in writing or e-mail anything you wouldn’t want running on the news ticker at Times Square.” Her voice was a purr. “I know I have Lillian Dodd’s cell number in here.”
Ingrid glared around the table. “Stop it. All of you. This is insane. Fifty years ago, sure, anybody could show up anywhere and claim anything. But this is the twenty-first century. You’ll never get away with it.”
Annie looked into Ingrid’s worried brown eyes and knew Ingrid was frightened at the prospect of Annie trying to step into Vanessa’s life. If Annie found out too much, she would be in terrible danger.
Henny frowned. “Ingrid’s right to object.” She waved her hand at the materials piled atop the kitchen table. “We’ve discovered a great deal. Maybe we should concentrate on winnowing through the reports. Surely we can narrow the list of suspects. Right now we’re looking at men Vanessa saw regularly at the Whitman house. Jon Dodd. The daughter’s fiancé. The next-door neighbor.” Her face brightened. “There may be a simple way to find our quarry. Vince is running a notice in the Gazette asking for information about Vanessa’s activities the last few days, with special note of her companions. I’m going to make up a flyer with Vanessa’s picture and flood the town with it.”
Annie reached over, squeezed Henny’s hand. “That’s a great plan. I’ll add a reward. Offer ten thousand.” Ten thousand. A lot of money to someone. A pittance for Max’s life.
Henny looked upbeat. “If Vanessa was involved with a man, somebody has to have seen her with him. If we keep looking, we’ll find some trace somewhere. All it takes is patience.”
“We can’t be patient.” Annie looked bleak. “The Dodds are closing the house, going to Cape Cod this weekend.”
Emma’s blue eyes glittered. “Smart as hell. Somebody is. Frame Max and get out of town. So if you’re going to get the lowdown on these people, it has to be now.”
Henny pushed up from the table. “Okay, Emma, find that phone number for Lillian Dodd. Your cell registers Unknown Caller when you call someone with caller ID, doesn’t it?” She answered her own ques
tion. “I know it does. Funny. Chicanery is so much harder in many ways with all the modern inventions. Like Ingrid said, fifty years ago you could show up anywhere, say you were anyone, and it would be hard to disprove. Now there are electronic barriers everywhere.” She gave Annie an admiring glance. “That’s why Vanessa’s friend is driving, right? You can’t get a plane ticket as—what’s your name?”
Annie knew the decision had been made to support her without a word being said or a poll being taken. Emma and Henny had signed on. And Ingrid was picking up the box from the floor. Annie had a quick memory of the chapel, Billy’s tired voice, and the glorious reds and blues of the stained-glass window. “Georgia. Georgia Lance.” Saint George defeated his dragon. Now she must defeat hers.
Emma scribbled on a sheet. “Two Illinois license plates. One Illinois driver’s license, name of Georgia Lance. We’ll pick a street near where the Taylors lived.” She glanced at Annie. “Five feet five. One hundred and fifteen pounds. Gray eyes. Blonde—”
Annie reached over, took the lid from Ingrid’s box. She lifted out a glossy wig, dark as a lagoon at midnight. She slipped it on and was surprised at its lightness. Over her short bobbed hair, the wig felt natural.
Henny bent forward, eyes intent. “I’ll get my makeup kit. I can change the shape of your eyebrows, use a base that will make you look darker skinned. We’ll add some gold-rim glasses. With the makeup, glasses, and wig, you could walk into church and nobody would recognize you. But first things first. All of these details can be managed by tomorrow. Now we need to get in touch with Lillian Dodd.”
Emma ripped a sheet from a notebook. “Here’s the number.”
Henny took the slip of paper and Emma’s cell. She stepped away from the table, her eyes half closed. Sun slanted through the porch window, highlighting the strand of silver in her black hair.
They all were silent, waiting. Henny Brawley had played many roles as a starring member of the Broward’s Rock Players, including Mame in Auntie Mame, Abby Brewster in Arsenic and Old Lace, and Miss Jane Marple in Murder at the Vicarage. Annie watched as Henny, a consummate actress, became a bereaved sister, worn down by fatigue, sorrow, and worry. The muscles in her face sagged, her lips turned down, her shoulders bowed. She looked defeated, emotionally vulnerable, yet hopeful.
There wasn’t a breath of sound as she punched the number.
Annie’s nails dug into her palms. What if the number rang and there was no answer? Henny couldn’t leave a message and ask for a return call. The area code would be wrong. They hadn’t thought about that, prepared for that eventuality. There were so many possible pitfalls and snags. This call had to go through and go through now. If there weren’t an immediate answer, Henny should end the call. Annie opened her mouth to call out—
“Hello? Mrs. Dodd? This is Genevieve Willet, Vanessa’s sister.” Henny’s voice was husky with a breathless quaver. “I’m glad I caught you. I wanted to thank you for the help from Mr. Ruley—”
Annie knew Henny was smart, but every word reinforced that conviction. The implication was that Genevieve Willet had obtained Lillian Dodd’s cell number from the lawyer. Even if Mrs. Dodd called Ruley, the lawyer would be quick to confirm that he’d spoken with the older sister, made all the necessary arrangements. The question of the cell phone number was unlikely to arise.
“—and he’s been very nice, made everything easy for us. The police chief has been in touch too. Of course, we’re shocked by everything that’s happened and I’m at a loss to understand. Vanessa never mentioned the man they’ve arrested. Mostly she talked about your family and friends…” Henny’s voice caught, as if suppressing a sob.
Emma made a circle with thumb and forefinger, raised it high. Ingrid gazed admiringly at Henny. Annie felt her hands begin to relax. Henny was on top of her game.
Henny cleared her throat. “I’m sorry. It’s so hard. But knowing more about Vanessa’s life helps. Her oldest friend was here last night—Georgia Lance—they were in high school together—and we got to talking and I told Georgia how sad it was that I didn’t even have a picture of anyone there or know what Vanessa’s room looked like—she loved the cabin and your house and always said working there was so much fun—and Georgia said maybe she could help. She’s between jobs and she said she’d be glad to drive down and get Vanessa’s things and talk to all of you and bring back Vanessa’s belongings. I wanted to let you know that Georgia left real early this morning. I just had a call from her and she’s hoping to get to Asheville tonight. She thinks she’ll arrive on the island by two or three tomorrow afternoon. Vanessa always told me how kind and generous you are, Mrs. Dodd”—Henny’s voice was hesitant, embarrassed, hopeful—“and how you had some guest cabins there and were always putting people up. I hope it isn’t too much to ask but by the time I came up with gas money for Georgia, well, I’m on a tight budget and she’s out of work right now and it would sure be a help if she could stay a day or two and get Vanessa’s things all packed up for me.”
Now Henny looked at Emma and made a circle with her thumb and forefinger. “Mrs. Dodd, you’re just as nice as Vanessa said you were. Georgia won’t be any trouble and I know you’ll like her. She’s a sweet girl. You’ll find her easy to talk to. I hope you and everyone there will help us out, tell us all about Vanessa’s friends and work. She was awfully happy with you and that’s how I want to remember her. And—oh, I have another call, I think it may be the funeral home—I’ll let you go but thank you again for all your help and your kindness.” Henny clicked off the cell.
“Brava!” Emma clapped her stubby hands together in admiration. “There was no time for her to ask for your number. Henny, well done.”
Ingrid’s eyes were rounded in amazement. “Henny, you were perfect.”
Annie jumped up, took two quick steps, and hugged her old friend. “You did it. Henny, you did it!”
Light glowed from ceiling fixtures down the long hallway. The overhead lights in the cells were off. A deep cough rattled in the nighttime quiet. In the next cell a man snored, the gulping, heaving, strangled snore of sleep apnea. A shoe gritted on the concrete hallway. A toilet flushed.
Max turned restlessly on the narrow bunk. He’d never felt so helpless. He’d always approached life with casual ease, not arrogantly sure everything would always work out but confident of his abilities. He could reason. He was disciplined when he needed to be. He was fortunate to be healthy mentally and physically, and he appreciated that good fortune. He loved and was loved, and there was no greater richness in all the world. He knew that ultimately no one can control a car that careens out of control to smash into yours, or the vulnerability of the body to infections poised to attack when defenses are low, or the mindless dangers everywhere in a world gone mad with terrorism. But he’d never envisioned himself accused of a crime with no way to prove his innocence and every new fact discovered more damning than the last.
Max stared at the high window, far out of reach, a pale oblong illuminated by moonlight. This time last week he and Annie had lain in their hammock on the terrace and watched the golden globe of the moon high in a cloudless sky and listened to the chorus of frogs, Annie nestled in the crook of his arm, her body close to his. Annie’s hair smelled sweet. Her skin was soft as magnolia petals. Her lips…
Max clenched his hands into fists. Lost. Everything lost. His life had been taken from him and there was nothing he could do to save himself. He didn’t know the girl, had never seen her before she came into Confidential Commissions. So it did no good to pummel his mind for facts. He knew nothing that could help. He had no memory after his visit to Blackbeard Beach until his painful awakening in the fishing cabin.
Handler Jones had tried to be reassuring, insisting that Max’s lack of knowledge was an asset. The lawyer had further insisted that Max should be content to leave the investigating up to Jones and his staff, although he’d promised to keep Annie apprised of whatever he learned.
Max pushed up, swung his legs over to
the floor. He knew Annie. She would climb a mountain, brave a torrent, face down a serpent, do whatever she had to do. He had to talk to her, tell her to keep away, leave everything to Handler Jones. Somewhere out there, hidden behind a face that smiled, was a murderer who was quick to kill and left no trace.
Annie knew she should be in bed. Tomorrow she was going to need every ounce of energy and intelligence she possessed. But sleep wouldn’t come, not even when Dorothy L. snuggled next to her, her soft throat rattling with a joyous purr. When the luminous dial of the travel alarm showed a quarter after two, Annie got up, leaving the fluffy cat a contented mound beneath the sheet. She fixed a club soda with a squeeze of lime. Dear Ingrid. The small kitchen was well stocked. Annie saw the box of chocolates, wasn’t tempted. Chocolate was for happy days when the world was bright and shining and horror didn’t curl beneath the surface of her mind, implacable and unremitting. She wandered irresolutely around the small living room, the sisal matting scratchy against her bare feet. She’d forgotten her house shoes. But she had enough clothes for a few days, all she would need. She’d taken big trips before, she and Max, a three-week Kenyan safari, a caravan in Egypt, a Baltic cruise. This time she was going alone. She loved guide books with their maps and nuggets of information and starred itineraries. What would be a good title for the materials that had been gathered for her? She turned toward the kitchen table, slipped into the nearest chair. She yanked a legal pad near, scrawled, One Woman’s Guide to Murder. She crossed it out, wrote, A Primer for Death. She shook her head, tried again: Dragon’s Lair. She scored jagged peaks all the way around the words. That’s where she was going, into the den of the dragon, where the scaly beast, eyes glittering with hatred, fiery tongue flickering, awaited her. Georgia Lance on her quest for justice.
