Laughed 'Til He Died

by Carolyn Hart

  At Ingrid’s nod, Annie rattled off, “The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, The Circular Staircase, The Murder of Rog—”

  The phone rang. With a glance at Caller ID, Annie broke off to answer. “Hi, Laurel.”

  Her mother-in-law’s husky voice thrummed sadness, like a low guitar chord. “The situation is desperate.” There was indistinguishable noise in the background.

  Annie sat up straight, cappuccino and famous mysteries forgotten. “Where are you?” Annie envisioned flames spiraling skyward or an armed intruder and Laurel locked in a closet.

  “Where hearts overflow and all things are known. Oh, if it weren’t so sad, I would suggest this motto be emblazoned on the plate glass of beauty shops everywhere.” In a more practical voice, she added, “At Beatrice’s.” Beatrice Kingsley’s beauty shop had been on Main Street, if not since time immemorial, for a good long while. “Annie, I have discovered Jean’s heartbreak…”

  MAX WELCOMED THE coolness of his office after the sweltering mugginess at the Haven. He felt somber, wishing he could have better helped Darren and Freddy as they struggled with sorrow. As for Click’s presence in the nature preserve, that might always remain unexplained. Max was pleased there seemed to be no likelihood Click had been involved in any way with drugs. His fear for the Haven could be dismissed. But Jean Hughes’s problem remained. There was a chance he might be able to make a big difference.

  His intercom buzzed. “Got what you asked for. File name Prentice.”

  “Thanks, Barb.” Max swung to his computer, clicked the file.

  PAULINE PRENTICE

  Retired English teacher. Single. Sixty-three. A native of Charleston who came to the island as a young teacher and never left. She lives quietly, though reputed to be well-to-do. Local gossip has it that she inherited several million dollars from her late brother, a Chicago lawyer who never married. Henny Brawley taught with her and says Pauline is the epitome of rectitude, charming in certain milieus, especially those favoring demitasses and antimacassars, and totally lacking in humor, commenting once that Mark Twain seemed to champion disrespect for authority. Duh.

  Max grinned, attributing the editorial comment to Barb.

  On the Haven board, Pauline serves with an attitude of noblesse oblige. Her reaction to Jean Hughes’s appointment has been one of disdain. Henny Brawley believes Booth engineered Jean’s appointment not only for the convenience of having his mistress on the island but with the express purpose of irritating Pauline, who clearly finds him boorish. Pauline treats Wagner civilly but coolly.

  Max frowned. He thought the chances of Larry Gilbert supporting Jean lukewarm at best. As for Pauline Prentice, she’d opposed the original appointment. Why would she change her mind?

  Max reread the dossier. He pulled the phone near and tapped a number.

  Henny Brawley answered on the first ring.

  Max gave a silent thank-you for cell phones. Most people were never out of touch.

  “Hey, Max.” Henny’s voice was warm. “I’ve had a lot of calls in support for Jean.”

  “That’s great, but, as you know, it comes down to five votes. Tell me about Pauline Prentice and rectitude.”

  Henny spoke with thought and deliberation, concluding: “…Always fair. There’s a chance.”

  “Thanks, Henny. See you tonight.”

  With a decided nod, Max dialed the international number. He needed for Pauline Prentice to switch her proxy from Booth to Henny or Frank. It was that simple. Then there would be three votes for Jean, two against her.

  A polite voice answered and replied that Signorina Prentice was in residence and a moment, please.

  While Max waited, he pictured a line of cypresses lining a dusty road to an Italian villa. He glanced at his legal pad: Pauline Prentice’s villa…ten kilometers from Florence…overlooks the Arno Valley. It was almost noon here. Around seven there.

  “Hello.” The high, clear voice was formal.

  “Miss Prentice, this is Max Darling on Broward’s Rock.” He had met her at several Haven functions. “I’m a volunteer at the Haven. Last spring I spoke with you about the sailing program. I’m calling now about the board meeting next week.”

  “Yes?” She was courteous, but reserved.

  “I’m sure you are aware that Booth Wagner wants the director fired.”

  There was a faint sound that might have been a disdainful huff. “Mr. Wagner told me that he deeply regrets his unfortunate sponsorship of a woman clearly unqualified to be the director. I made my position clear at the time.”

  “Henny Brawley is convinced that Booth proposed Ms. Hughes for the job because he knew you would object to her background and he wanted to score off of you because you apparently find him less than charming.”

  Silence.

  Max continued, hoping she didn’t cut the connection, but very likely she was not only honorable but averse to rudeness. “Miss Prentice, it is true that Jean came to the island because she thought he loved her. However, Booth had told her he was separated from his wife. After she came and discovered that he was lying, she broke off with him. Moreover, she had no idea he had fabricated a résumé for her. She gave him her true résumé.” Max felt as though he was dropping the words into a well so deep there wasn’t even a faint echo of a splash. “She admits she doesn’t have the administrative background for the position, but she plans to take some accounting courses online. Frank Saulter has offered to help organize her office. On the plus side, attendance at the Haven is up by a third. The kids like her. A lot.”

  “Why have you involved yourself in this controversy, Mr. Darling?” Her Charleston accent, smooth and mellow as bourbon, didn’t soften the sharpness of her question.

  “Ms. Hughes asked me to help her. My wife and I,” Max wanted to be sure this was understood, “feel that she deserves to keep the job. This morning my wife and I went to the Haven…” Max quickly described Click’s death and his own efforts to be sure no drugs were involved. “Ms. Hughes was very helpful and confident there is no drug problem. She organized a farewell to Click at the lake. I think you would have been proud of her effort.”

  Silence.

  Max cleared his throat. “Henny says you are fair.”

  “That is gracious of Henny. Pray tell me. Does she intend to vote for Ms. Hughes’s reappointment?”

  Max tried to contain his excitement. He kept his voice even. “She will vote to renew Jean’s contract, as will Frank Saulter.”

  “Chief Saulter, too.” There was the faintest warming of the glacial voice. “In that event, I shall notify Mr. Wagner that I am rescinding the grant of my proxy and that my proxy will be exercised by Mrs. Brawley in support of Ms. Hughes.”

  MAX WAS ON his feet and striding to the door, a gunslinger’s swagger, as he punched his cell. “Hey, Annie. Meet me for lunch at Parotti’s. I’ve got great news.” He clicked off. This news had to be presented in person. If he had a trumpet, he would blow it.

  Chapter 4

  Annie loved stepping into Parotti’s Bar and Grill. Summer or winter, sunny or gray, Parotti’s never failed to please. When Annie first came to Broward’s Rock, Parotti’s had been down-at-the-heels even though always clean and with the best home-cooking on the island. The heady smell of live bait, sawdust sprinkled near the open coolers, beer on tap, and hot grease pleased customers who came for food, not ambience. However, when bristly chinned (long before it became fashionable) Ben Parotti, partial to bib overalls, met the ladylike owner of a mainland tea shop, Miss Jolene, romance blossomed. Now clean-shaven Ben was spiffy in Tommy Bahamas casual wear, and Parotti’s offered quiche as well as fried and grilled fish, blue-and-white checked cloths on the tables, and carefully situated fans to diminish the rank reek of bait.

  Ben moved to greet her. “Got flounder so fresh it could swim to the table. Max is already here. Wants his grilled.”

  Annie hurried to their favorite table near the 1940s jukebox. She dropped into her chair and smiled at Ben, who never bothered
to offer them menus. “Fried flounder deluxe with a side of guacamole.” Annie’s Texas roots appreciated this recent addition to the menu. The resulting meal would be blissful: flounder perfectly crisped, hot fresh French fries, heavenly hush puppies, and guacamole with just the right amount of lemon.

  Max’s order, grilled with cole slaw, was no surprise, nor was the chiding frown he gave her.

  She gave him a bland smile. “If God had intended for all food to be grilled, He wouldn’t have invented grease.”

  As Ben headed for the kitchen, she leaned forward, eager to hear Max’s news before she shared her own. She always took happy over sad if she had a choice.

  Max turned two thumbs up. “Jean’s job is safe. We have the votes. Henny, Frank, and, thanks to an international call successfully placed by yours truly, Pauline Prentice. Here’s what she said…”

  Annie listened with delight. “That’s absolutely wonderful. Because,” and her smile slipped away, “I have news, too, and it isn’t good. Laurel called me from Beatrice’s. Beatrice volunteers at a hospice. She does hair for people who are terminally ill.” Annie took a deep breath, remembering the sob Jean had muffled as she spoke of Click, saying, “I don’t know why it’s always the nicest people who die young.” Now Annie understood that raw emotion. “Jean’s younger sister lives with her. Her name’s Giselle. She has terminal cancer. She’s dying. She’s twenty-four.”

  Annie’s voice wobbled. Hot tears burned her eyes. She knew that kind of death. Her mother, sweet and kind and funny and bright, had died much too young, when Annie was in college.

  Max reached across the table, took her hands in his. “I didn’t know.” His face folded in a tight frown. “Don’t you suppose Booth knows? He brought her to the island. He had to know something of her situation.”

  Annie looked grim. “If he knows, he’s an even bigger jerk than we thought.”

  Ben was at the table with their plates. He served them, refilled their tea glasses, but remained standing by the table. “Guess your ears have been hot today.”

  Max stopped with a forkful of flounder midway to his mouth. “Somebody talking about us?” His tone was easy, but his blue eyes were intent.

  Ben shifted the tray under his arm. “Everybody who’s anybody downtown comes here for coffee around ten. Not that I eavesdrop on customers, but when they’re all talking loud and fast and I’m bringing coffee and serving up Miss Jolene’s fresh turnovers, I can’t help overhearing. That’s why,” he spoke with quiet pride, “I know what’s up on the island. And it sounds like you got everything set for a big bust-up tonight at the Haven. Jed Maguire—”

  Jed Maguire owned Maguire’s Drugstore. Annie played tennis with Jed’s wife, Aileen.

  “—said everybody’s talking about the phone campaign you got going to honor the Haven director but some people aren’t sure about Miz Hughes in the job, much as they like you. The mayor, you know sometimes he don’t seem to cotton to you much, Max, he’s laying bets that you come a cropper. Frank Saulter took him up on it, said he’d back you over Booth Wagner any day. Frank plunked down a twenty and said he’d take five-to-one odds. I would of bet too but Miss Jolene don’t hold with gambling. I don’t even buy lottery tickets anymore.”

  Annie would have jumped up and hugged Ben, but she knew his craggy face would turn crimson.

  Max grinned. “Drop by tonight. There may be some fire-works after the talent show.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.” For an instant, Ben’s usual aura of geniality faded. “That Booth Wagner’s getting too big for his britches. He came up on the bridge the other day when I was making the run to the mainland and told me to goose the Miss Jolene, she was too slow for his taste, that he liked his boats and women fast even if I didn’t. I can tell you I didn’t take kindly to him talking like that.” Ben, who treated his wife always with great deference and respect, looked like a porcupine in full bristle. “I told him next time when he wanted to cross he could find himself some water wings. He told me he could do better than water wings. The next week Reg—” He stopped, took a breath. “Somebody—”

  Annie didn’t doubt Reggie Bates, owner of the island’s one bank, had been indiscreet.

  “—said Wagner was talking about buying a hydrofoil and it would cut the trip to the mainland in half. Why, a hydrofoil’d cost him a quarter of a million. There’s no way he could make a profit. But he’d put me out of business. ’Course, anybody can boast.” But Ben’s voice was thin. He gave an abrupt nod and swung away toward the kitchen. Annie poked a salted French fry into a mound of peppered ketchup. “A quarter of a million dollars because Ben blew him off?”

  Max squirted lemon on his flounder. His face was thoughtful. “If money’s no object and spite is your aim, anything’s possible.”

  “It doesn’t seem rational.” Annie shivered. Was spite a strong enough word for the misery Booth seemed willing to inflict upon those who in any way opposed him?

  Max looked past Annie at the door. “Speaking of the devil…”

  Booth Wagner stood just inside the door, his gaze sweeping the room. As always, he looked on top of the world, golden ringlets tight as a Viking’s helmet, freshly sunburned, likely from golf, and island-casual in his favorite attire—a loose Hawaiian shirt, white slacks, and sandals.

  His eyes stopped at their table. With a satisfied smile, he walked toward them.

  Annie tensed. “He looks like a hammerhead moving in for the kill.” She always pictured sharks with let-me-eat-you smiles.

  Max gave her a reassuring look. “We’ve got the hole card.”

  He started to rise as Booth reached the table, but, without asking, Booth pulled out a chair, dropped into it. “Word’s out that you’re in Jean’s camp.” He shot an appraising glance at Annie. “Have you ever heard about other women, honey?”

  Annie laughed though she would have liked to slap him once. Hard. “You’re the expert.”

  “Pretty good.” His laugh rumbled, but his eyes glittered. “Anyway,” he leaned back, tilting the chair, looking big and amused, “it’s real nice that you two are working hard to show appreciation for Jean. ’Course, it won’t do any good.”

  Max was direct. “Numbers don’t lie, Booth. Three votes to your two. If you can count on Larry.”

  “Yep.” Booth’s tone was admiring. “I got to hand it to you. You’ve got three votes. Pauline sent me a fax. It was clever of you to call her. Just out of curiosity, the old bitch loathes Jean. How did you persuade her to change her vote?”

  “I pointed out how much attendance has increased, and she found it interesting—” Max thought this was a fair interpretation of Pauline’s silence as he spoke, “—when I told her that you arranged for Jean to get the job because you thought it would offend her.”

  “You should have seen Pauline’s face the first time she met Jean!” Booth’s wide mouth spread in a delighted smile. “Priceless, as they say. Not surprised she’d go your way. If there’s anyone she cottons to less than Jean, it’s me.” He shoved back the chair, towered over the table, big, burly, and commanding. “The question’s moot now. We’ll have to start a search for a new director.”

  Annie looked at him sharply. He sounded utterly confident and, even more maddening, amused.

  He radiated confidence. “See you tonight.”

  Max came to his feet. “Hold on. The vote is next week.” But Max had the expression of a sailor who sees an approaching torpedo.

  “Oh. By damn. I forgot to tell you. Dumb old me. Jean’s announcing her resignation tonight.” Booth’s false consternation ended in a belly laugh. “Be real nice for her to get the good send-off you’ve put together. Everything works out for the best, doesn’t it?”

  ANNIE GLANCED AT Max’s set face. He was driving too fast. She braced against the door as the Jeep squealed around a curve. “If he’s right,” Annie didn’t have to define the pronoun, “there’s no hurry.”

  Max glanced at the speedometer, eased his pressure on the gas pedal. “H
e’s too sure of himself. Somehow he’s forced her to quit. I have an ugly feeling that whatever he’s done, we can’t change anything. But I’m going to try.”

  Leaving the Jeep in a swath of shade from a huge pittosporum shrub, Annie hurried to keep up as Max strode across the dusty ground. Annie glanced toward the lake. Shouts sounded as racing kayaks swerved around a marker and headed for the dock. The lake was the same and yet so different from that moment when they stood on the dock and gently threw roses in Click’s memory into still, green water.

  Inside the old wooden building, they found the director’s office door open but the room was empty and the light off. As they turned away, a chunky young woman with frizzed brown hair, small gold-rimmed glasses, and a serious expression stepped out of a side room, her arms full of plastic ukuleles.

  Max lifted a hand in greeting. “Hey, Rosalind, we’re looking for Jean. Annie, this is Rosalind Parker. She’s a college intern this summer. Rosalind, my wife, Annie.”

  “Hello, Max. I’m glad to meet you, Annie.” Brown eyes looked at them worriedly. “The little girls—” she glanced at Annie, “—the girls five to nine are first on the program. Actually nobody can really play the ukulele. But they’re cute as can be in grass skirts. Of course,” she was quick to add, “they have their T-shirts and shorts on underneath.”

  Max smiled. “Everybody will love them. Where’s Jean?”

  Rosalind’s eyes rounded. Her lips parted in an O.

  Max looked at her sharply. “What’s wrong?”

  Rosalind clutched a ukulele that tried to slip free from her stack, and the strings thrummed. “Jean’s gone for a while. Can I help?”

  Annie felt a jolt of concern. The intern’s distress was obvious. Something was wrong.

  Max was direct and demanding. “Gone where?”

  The strings thrummed again. Rosalind looked miserable. “I’m not supposed to tell anyone. But you’re her friend. Everyone knows how you’re trying to get the board to keep her. Jean’s wonderful. She didn’t go to college so I hear the board wants to get rid of her, but all the degrees in the world don’t give someone a good heart.” Her face was flushed and her voice shook. “Now everything’s falling apart for her. She got a phone call just before lunch and she came out of her office and her face was gray, like dirty sand. She went home to have lunch with her sister, but she hasn’t come back. She never takes this long. I’d go after her, but I can’t leave here. Someone has to be in charge and there is so much to do with the program tonight and we’re going to practice the alligator act in a few minutes. It’s the cutest thing, we’ve used tape that shines in the dark on green cloth, and when the alligators come on stage, the lights go off and you see these wavy stripes and everybody chants a poem I wrote: ‘On the night when alligators prance, Abby Alligator got the first dance. With a wink and a happy glance, grab a partner and take a chance.’” She beamed.