Dare to Die Read online

  Annie understood. Henny was a retired teacher, a past president of the Friends of the Library, and a World War II veteran. No doubt she’d created this window display. Okay. Death on Demand always supported the library. Besides, it would be churlish to be miffed by such obvious enthusiasm and dedication to superb mystery fiction. Annie brightened. No doubt the great mysteries set during or after World War I would be part of Henny’s presentation. She’d be sure and stock more copies of the books displayed and add Carola Dunn’s delightful twenties mysteries with their link to the Great War.

  Annie’s smile slipped away. For an instant, she’d been immersed in her own wonderful everyday world. If only she could be caught up in thinking about ordering books and not drained by the words that now never seemed far away: She came in the rain. Alone. On a bicycle.

  Annie took a deep breath, remembering Laurel’s chirpy instruction to lift her arms and embrace the world, breathing all the while, and smiling.

  Annie assumed a relaxed posture and curved her arms above her head. How did it go? Reach up and pull down a cloud. That was the ticket, envision clouds, fluffy white-as-divinity clouds.

  The door opened, the bell jangling.

  “Dearest Annie.” Laurel’s husky voice had never been warmer. “An excellent beginning. I was watching through the window. You are burdened and tai chi can lift that burden.”

  Annie stepped inside and found herself in the central hallway of her beloved bookstore with Laurel executing graceful motions and murmuring, “More fluidity. Let us hold our arms as if we embrace a ball, one of those gloriously light beach balls with the dearest red-and-yellow stripes….”

  Mesmerized, Annie made her best effort to gather clouds, bathe in the spring, and shrug shoulders like a big bear despite fending off Agatha, who seemed to take flowing arms as a personal affront. Annie had a little difficulty with Stork Spreads Its Wings, but came back strong as she grasped a sparrow’s tail.

  Agatha crouched, green eyes gleaming, mouth open in excitement, tail flicking.

  Without missing a beat, Laurel stroked Agatha’s arched back, made a soft cooing sound.

  Agatha sat back and began to purr. She lifted a paw.

  Annie was adamant with herself. Cats did not do tai chi.

  The purr intensified.

  Annie shot her cat a resentful glare.

  “Now, now, dear Annie.” Laurel’s smile was beatific. She moved as gracefully as, well, as a stork spreading its wings. “Breathe deeply, let go of all tensions, be free of petty emotions.”

  Annie didn’t want to appear petty to her mother-in-law. She managed a smile, likely not beatific. In passing, while stepping over a log, she gave Agatha a pat.

  Agatha’s paw swiped out.

  Annie jerked away.

  “Smoothly, dear child, smoothly,” Laurel murmured.

  Annie concentrated upon being smooth, envisioning a milk-shake dappled with caramel. And yes, she did feel better, more relaxed, less stressed when they concluded. Agatha even jumped up on the cash counter to be adored.

  Laurel beamed approval. “You have great promise.”

  Annie’s antenna wriggled. Was that Laurel-speak for: Sweetie, you’re lousy, but there’s always hope?

  “Great promise.” Laurel was emphatic, clapping her hands together. “Let’s celebrate. You’re going to love the changes to the coffee bar.” She sped down the center aisle, gracefully, of course.

  Annie followed, trying to retain smoothness. Changes?

  Laurel set to work behind the counter. “Jamaican sodas are perfect after exertion. The hibiscus tea is already brewed.” She poured from a pitcher into a glass filled with ice. She turned to an expanded array of syrups. “I’ll add a splash of passion fruit syrup and soda.” She splashed, stirred, and garnished the tall glass with an orange slice. “Here you are.”

  Annie would have preferred an espresso topped with whipped cream, but refusing would have been churlish. Was there a pattern here? Annie tasted the tea hesitantly and found the flavor unusual, but compelling. “Delicious. It will be a wonderful addition to our menu. Laurel, you and Henny have done a great job. I certainly appreciate the help while Ingrid’s been gone. I know you will be happy to learn that Duane’s back and I can take over here.”

  Graceful hands waved like sun-kissed clouds. “Perish the thought. Henny and I are here to shoulder any burden. You have too much to do to return now.” Laurel beamed. “I spoke with dear Max. He told me of your wonderful plan to honor Iris. He said tomorrow afternoon you planned to go to Savannah to the mission.”

  Annie put down her glass. She came in the rain. Alone. On a bicycle.

  “Oh my dear. I know.” Laurel came around the counter, slid onto the next leatherette stool, took Annie’s hands in hers. “Such sadness. But you made her welcome.”

  Annie looked into Laurel’s kind blue eyes. Last night Laurel had reached out to Iris. “You did, too.” Though it often seemed to Annie that her mother-in-law was never quite of this world, Laurel had a shepherd’s instinct and she gathered strays with warmth and caring.

  Laurel’s eyes had a faraway gaze. “I understand being alone.”

  Annie heard an undertone of sorrow. Laurel had been much married, sometimes widowed, sometimes divorced. She attracted men from nine to ninety with her beauty and a vibrant delight in life that lifted everyone around her.

  Laurel looked into her glass, as if remembering. “Iris was standing beneath the willow by herself. I asked her to join me. We walked to one of the faraway tables. We had a lovely visit. She told me about growing up on the island. When she was little, she loved to go to Blackbeard’s Beach because she thought treasure was buried there. She dug and dug but she mostly found bottle caps and bits of plastic. Once the water brought in a perfect sand dollar. Since it was dead, her grandmother let her keep it. They bleached it and she painted it pale purple and called it Pansy. She was Iris and her shell was Pansy. She said her grandmother told her that was God’s way, to bring unexpected treasures when we’d given up.”

  Annie pictured a suntanned little girl and a purple sand dollar on a string around her neck. Annie blinked away sudden tears. “Laurel, you gave Iris back some happy days.”

  “I hope so.” Laurel looked grave. “I’m afraid”—her fine brows drew down into a thoughtful frown—“that something upset her later. I saw her walking toward the pavilion and her face looked old, old and drawn. I almost started after her. Oh, how I wish I had. A group came between us, and I lost track of her.” Laurel sighed. “That was the last time I saw Iris. I called Billy and told him.” She looked sad. “He asked if I noticed her after dinner talking to anyone or going into the woods with someone. I wasn’t able to help him.”

  Annie gave Laurel a quick hug. “You’ve helped me. Now I have a happy memory for Iris’s poster. When I go to the mission, I won’t find out about happy days, but I’ll find out about her courage. I’m sure of that. I’ll pick the best of everything for her poster.”

  Laurel brightened. “Going to the mission is a wonderful idea.”

  Annie tensed. Laurel was quick to share thoughts, emotions, and information to all comers, especially if she felt praise was due. Clearly she wouldn’t hesitate to tell everyone, friends and strangers alike, about Annie’s plan to create a spirit poster for Iris and how Annie and Max were traveling all the way to Savannah for information. If word got back to Billy Cameron about their Sunday afternoon plans, Billy might wonder how Annie knew about the mission. He would by now be well aware of the contents of Iris’s purse and would certainly have talked to Brother Doyle. There wouldn’t be any harm in Annie and Max talking to Brother Doyle. However, it would be better if Billy didn’t know about their trip. If Billy put two and two together, Annie would have some explaining to do, especially since she and Max had solemnly promised not to get involved. She didn’t think the idea of a spirit poster would impress Billy.

  Annie bent near, whispered. “That’s a secret. Don’t tell a soul.”

/>   “Oh.” Laurel’s eyes glowed. “I understand. There’s more to this than appears on the surface. Oh, my dear, wild horses shan’t drag a word from me. My lips are sealed.” She crossed her arms, glossy pink nails lightly resting on the shoulders of her pale blue silk blouse.

  Annie gulped more tea. She’d gone from bad to worse. Laurel now believed she and Max were involved in the investigation. Maybe Annie should confess, explain that she’d entered Cabin Six and discovered the address of the mission. She gazed into eyes filled with admiration. Laurel would be enchanted with a surreptitious entry and even more convinced Annie and Max were seeking clues.

  The bell at the front door sang.

  Annie dropped from the coffee stool. Maybe it would be a customer. She’d get Laurel involved. If she and Annie plunged back into the everyday business of selling books, Laurel would see that Annie wasn’t involved in the investigation of Iris’s murder.

  She was midway up the central aisle when she saw the post-woman, a newcomer to the island who’d been, as she enjoyed telling everyone, a carrier in Minneapolis, where the elements made mail delivery as difficult as any polar expedition, but she surmounted every obstacle with her determination and dedication to the United States Postal Service. Her name was Helen and she took herself and her job very seriously.

  Helen marched forward, listing a little from the weight of the heavy pouch hung over her left shoulder. Light brown hair safely in a snood, wire glasses magnifying stern brown eyes, thin lips compressed, she clutched a wad of mail in one hand, in the other she held up a single envelope.

  She planted herself in front of Annie. “Postal regulations are clear. It is prohibited for any mail receptacle to be used for nonofficial purposes. And”—she leaned forward, continuing in a hiss—“it is absolutely forbidden for a letter lacking postage to be placed in an official receptacle. Mailboxes must not be used for the transmission of unauthorized material. Such acts undermine the sanctity of the mails. It is the responsibility of the owner of the mail receptacle to prohibit such illegal acts. Moreover,” Helen’s voice rose higher, quivering with outrage, “this letter lacks not only a stamp but there is no return address. It is your responsibility to inform the author of this missive as to the proper use of mail receptacles.”

  Annie wasn’t irritated. Instead, she felt a little spurt of happiness. How nice to deal with ordinary, everyday nonsense. She kept her face attentive and grave. “I will definitely see to it.” She held out her hand for the letter.

  Helen yanked it back. “Forty-one cents postage due.”

  When Helen was duly paid, she once again ignored Annie’s outstretched hand. “All mail,” she said in a grim tone, “will be properly deposited in its official receptacle.”

  A few minutes later, Annie returned from the end of the boardwalk and the rank of pull-down letter boxes for boardwalk merchants. She dropped catalogs, magazines, and assorted bills on the front counter and looked at the envelope with her name printed in tiny capital letters.

  It was sealed. She’d expected to lift the flap and find a casual note. She used the letter opener and slit the envelope. She pulled out a folded sheet, opened it. Small printed letters in all capitals were stark in the center of the page:

  BUCK WALKED INTO THE WOODS WITH JOCELYN THE NIGHT SHE DIED.

  Chapter 8

  Billy Cameron tapped a quart-size plastic bag that held the anonymous letter. “I wish you’d called. I would have picked this up.”

  Annie looked surprised. “You’re busy. I didn’t want to take up your time.”

  He looked at her quizzically. “Didn’t it occur to you that anybody could see you walk into the station? I’m trying to keep you and Max safe. You brought Iris to the picnic. The murderer has to wonder what Iris told you. You know and I know there’s nothing that gives us a lead, but murderers run scared.” Billy was suddenly stern. “Don’t discuss the contents of this letter. But,” he said, frowning, “you need a reason to explain your visit here this morning.”

  He was right. She would have been noticed going into the station. People would wonder and some would ask. She nodded. “I’ll tell everyone you had more questions about the guest list.”

  “All right.” He looked again at the letter. “This may mean the murderer is trying to focus attention on Buck. Or this may be gossip and someone thought we should know but doesn’t want to get involved. I’m sure there’s been a lot of talk over the years about Jocelyn’s death. I think most people believe she committed suicide.”

  Annie wondered if Billy realized what his statement revealed. Clearly, he saw Iris’s murder as the result of Jocelyn’s drowning. “Someone knows a lot about the night Jocelyn died.”

  Billy shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. There are lots of possibilities: The information is true, half true, or a lie. It was sent to help solve Iris’s murder, to divert us from something else, or to cause trouble for Buck Carlisle. Or”—his gaze was again troubled—“somebody wanted to see if you hotfooted it over here.”

  Annie wished she didn’t feel exposed and vulnerable.

  “But you got the note, you came. I’ll deal with it.” He started to rise. When she made no move, he frowned.

  Annie took a deep breath. “Billy, I know something.”

  “Annie, you promised to keep out of the investigation.”

  She lifted a hand to forestall his attack. “I kept my promise. I haven’t tried to find out anything about Iris’s murder.” Or Jocelyn’s. “I’m not horning in on your investigation. Instead,” and she felt buoyed by her decision, “I’m making a spirit poster for Iris. I’m going to talk to people who knew her and find out nice, funny, happy things about her life.”

  Billy’s thick blond brows bunched. “Iris didn’t have a nice, funny, happy life.”

  Annie felt mulish. “Everybody has good things to remember. Everybody.”

  “You’ll steer clear of the sports picnic, what happened there.” It wasn’t a question. It was an order.

  She raised a hand as if taking an oath. “I promise.”

  Billy nodded. “What have you found out?”

  “It wasn’t my doing.” She was delighted to offer proof that anything she learned came to her without her instigation. “Fran Carlisle came to see me.” Annie felt as if she were betraying Fran, but Billy had to know. “If you talk to her, please keep me out of it.”

  “That’s easy enough. Annie,” his voice was reassuring, “stop feeling guilty about everything. Of course you have to tell me what Fran said.”

  Annie felt relieved. “What she said may be important. The anonymous letter writer may have it all wrong.” She described Fran’s emotional visit. “Jocelyn may have been in tears because of Russell Montgomery.”

  Billy’s gaze was cynical. “Maybe, maybe not. For all we know, Fran’s scared that an old quarrel between Buck and Jocelyn will surface so she comes to see you to shift attention to Russell. Maybe there’s no truth at all to the note and it was written to point suspicion away from…others.”

  Annie felt rebuffed. Billy wasn’t going to talk about Jocelyn’s classmates. Yet Annie knew their identities. Fran had remembered the once carefree group of friends: Fran, Buck, Liz, Russell, and Cara. They were at the sports picnic the night Jocelyn Howard died. Jocelyn’s brother Sam, who had also been one of the group, had died of a drug overdose the week before. Annie had no picture of Jocelyn or Sam, but she knew the others. She saw each face as she thought of them, intelligent Fran, likable Buck, dignified Liz, intense Russell, elusive Cara.

  If Billy wouldn’t talk about them, perhaps there was hope that he had a lead to someone else. In any event, Annie wasn’t a player. All she wanted to do was to create a spirit poster for Iris.

  ANNIE LOOKED TOWARD THE HARBOR AS SHE WALKED TO her car. A sloop with gold and green sails scudded near leaping porpoises. Two shrimp boats rode the jade green water in the distance. Seabirds circled above them, waiting for a succulent meal. She reached the Volvo and looked toward Main Street.
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br />   After a moment, she dropped her car keys back into her pocket. Billy hadn’t intended to focus her attention on her friends, but he had. She played doubles with Fran, Liz, and Cara. Max played golf with Russell. It had been special to Max and Annie to have friends who remembered the same movies and songs and TV shows. They were Annie and Max’s friends. They had been Iris’s friends. Wasn’t it almost like an accusation that she hadn’t spoken a word to any of them except Fran—and that had been Fran’s doing—since Iris had been killed?

  There was no law that she had to ignore them. Just because she and Max were staying clear of Billy’s investigation, she didn’t have to treat their friends like pariahs.

  Annie looked across the street. A discreet sign in front of a tabby building announced: CARLISLE, SMITHERMAN, AND CARLISLE, ATTORNEYS-AT-LAW. A maroon Harley with chrome-plated shocks was parked at one side. Buck Carlisle loved raising a dust trail on the island’s back roads. If he was in his office on a Saturday afternoon, he likely was catching up on the week’s work and wouldn’t mind a visit. Annie gave a decisive nod and crossed the street.

  BUCK CARLISLE’S OFFICE WAS SMALL BUT ATTRACTIVE. ANNIE recognized Fran’s unerring taste in the russet glow of the maple desk with matching bookcases. The office furnishings were new and of the best quality. Only the tall, dusty, beige law books were old. Two French windows, uncluttered by drapes or shutters, looked out to the harbor. One of Buck’s hand-turned wooden bowls gleamed in the sun on a coffee table. Annie was always surprised by the delicacy and beauty of Buck’s woodwork.

  Buck made the office seem even smaller with his broad shoulders and stocky build. He sank down on the slate gray leather sofa beside Annie. He was casual in a yellow polo, faded jeans, and running shoes. His brown hair was tousled, his square face open and appealing. He reached out to take her hand, his expression earnest. “Fran said she’d talked to you. I almost called, then didn’t know if I should.” He sounded uncertain, bewildered. “It’s a nightmare. It’s like those awful days after Jocelyn died. We had a terrible time when we were seniors.” His brown eyes were sorrowful. “Jocelyn and her brother died that spring. Iris ran away. I always thought she left because she was trying to forget everything bad. Her mom had died a few years before. People can only handle so much. But now, everything’s crazy.” He looked bewildered. “Why would anybody kill Iris?”