Engaged to Die Read online

  Max said briskly, “You can interview her tomorrow.”

  Billy rubbed his face. “Yeah.” He sounded uncertain. It was late. He’d have to roust Mavis from their house to serve as a matron at the jail. “All right. Miss Martin, I’ll see you at nine o’clock in the morning at the police station. You are not to leave the island.”

  Chloe put fingers to her trembling lips and nodded jerkily. She started up the pier. She came even with Annie, stopped for an instant, her splotchy face slack and stricken. “I thought”—her voice quivered—“you were my friend.” And then she bolted into the fog, the sound of her running steps echoing back to them.

  Six

  ANNIE STEPPED OUT of the shower. She reached for the fluffy oversize towel, warm from the heated rack. Normally she preferred a leisurely bath with bubbles that fascinated Dorothy L. This morning she was in a hurry, though she was trying to appear casual and relaxed, as if this were any old day and she was going to the store with nothing more in mind than completing inventory.

  Max whisked the razor through shaving cream. His eyes met hers in the steamy mirror, then dropped to take a leisurely inventory. “Hmm, nice.”

  She grinned. “Thank you.” Max could always be counted on…

  “Annie”—he carefully curved the blade around his chin—“you won’t do anything…” He finished shaving, scooped up a hot wet washcloth, patted his cheeks and turned, blue eyes intent. “…rash.”

  So much for her attempt to pretend it was business as usual. She tossed the towel on the tile counter and slipped into a bra and panties. “I don’t know what you mean by rash.” She made an effort to sound reasonable. After all, she was reasonable. She hadn’t read the statements she’d gathered up last night. Yet. “If you’re asking whether I intend to see what I can find out about Jake O’Neill, well, sure.” She placed her hands on her hips. “I have to do what I can. You heard Chloe last night.” Annie’s voice wobbled. “She thinks I betrayed her. She said she’d thought I was her friend. Well, I am her friend. If Billy arrests her today, he’s making a big mistake. When we got to the pier, just for a minute I’m sure she thought it might be Jake.”

  Max pulled on his T-shirt. “Or she was putting on a good show.”

  Annie grabbed the hair dryer. She flicked it on high and blew her blond curls into a flyaway mop, a hair-style that made her feel ready for a Himalayan trek. And the noise drowned out Max. As soon as she finished, she swiped her hair with a brush and hurried into the bedroom.

  Max was almost dressed. He slipped on a V-neck navy sweater. “Annie, you need to butt out. It won’t help Chloe for you to get crossways with Billy.”

  Annie selected a peach velour pullover, a nice contrast to her gray wool slacks. She slipped it on, looked at him with suddenly mournful eyes. “What will help Chloe?”

  He was at the door. His answer was quick, forceful. “The truth.” His look was skeptical. “If she’s innocent.”

  “Okay.” Annie stepped into gray suede loafers.

  “That’s a deal. You look for the truth. So will I.”

  “Chloe?” Annie stepped inside Death on Demand, closed the door. There was no sound but the thump of Agatha’s claws as the black cat trotted up the center aisle. Annie flicked on the lights. The store still glistened in its holiday finery, evergreen swags along the walls, holly garlands and bunches of mistletoe on every end cap. Potpourri scented the air with the smells of roasting apples and cinnamon. In the chill January morning, the store had a frowsy feel of spent expectations like discarded wrappings crumpled for throw-away. Instead of her usual flare of cheer, Annie felt let down. Of course, she’d not really expected that Chloe would answer. Chloe was due at the police station at nine o’clock. Last night on the pier, she’d made clear her disappointment in Annie. She probably wouldn’t come back to work even if she wasn’t arrested. But Annie intended to make sure that Chloe knew she could count on Annie’s friendship. Surely Chloe would understand that, painful as it was, it was absolutely essential that she not be forewarned of Jake’s death.

  Annie had a sudden quick memory of a Christmas several years ago and Chloe’s present to her, offered diffidently as if it weren’t worthy enough. Annie had unwrapped the little package to find a slim tan book, no more than five and a half by eight inches in size, a slender twenty-five pages in length. Chloe had murmured, “I don’t know if you’ll like it. I found it last summer at a garage sale.” Annie had looked at the title in faded gold: Writing Is Work, by Mary Roberts Rinehart. Annie still had the book, the exposition of how and why the famed queen of crime created her books, a straightforward, unpretentious, and fascinating essay. Annie had not known the little volume existed, but Chloe had found it among castaways and kept it to bring to her friend half a year later. Annie had taken to heart so many of Rinehart’s observations. There was a favorite, which she often shared with visiting authors, “Of one thing the reader can be certain: the more easily anything reads, the harder it has been to write.”

  Agatha meowed sharply.

  Annie reached down, scooped up the elegant cat. “Agatha, I’ve got to help Chloe. She thinks I’ve abandoned her.”

  Agatha squirmed against Annie’s grasp, twisted free, and loped away, claws clicking loudly in the silent store.

  Annie hurried to the coffee bar. Agatha was hungry. If thwarted, she’d begin to nip, and her incisors were sharp as a razor. Annie placed the book bag containing the statements on the coffee bar. She opened the cabinet and picked up a box of dry cat food. “Sweetie, stop fussing. I’m getting your bowl ready as fast as I can.” Was Chloe frightened to go see Billy? Would her aunt go with her?

  Agatha crouched, tail flipping.

  Over the rattle of pellets, Annie said glumly, “I’ve never felt so rejected. Billy Cameron needs help and I am suddenly invisible. Max warns me not to be rash. Chloe looks at me like I’m Benedict Arnold.” She measured coffee, frowned. “Benedictine Arnold? Anyway”—she turned on the coffee machine—“as far as Chloe is concerned, I’m a louse, a rat, a turncoat. Agatha, I feel awful.”

  Agatha hunched over her food bowl.

  Annie reached for the book bag. Her mind was made up. She was going to read the statements from last night. Max would be appalled, but Annie promised her frowning conscience that she would be exceedingly careful not to compromise Billy’s efforts. There should be no conflict if she sought the truth. Annie slid the soft sheets of fax paper onto the counter of the coffee bar and counted nine statements. Virginia Neville hadn’t written one, and Annie hadn’t made a copy of her own. Which should she read first? That was easy. Start with unbiased information. Quickly Annie sorted the sheets. She poured coffee into a mug—Unfinished Crime by Helen McCloy—and slipped onto a stool at the coffee bar. She began to read:

  Edith Cummings

  Jake O’Neill came into the drawing room about seven-thirty. He kissed Virginia Neville’s cheek. Assorted members of the Neville family looked as though they were contemplating puking on the spot, but good manners prevailed. In fact, Susan Brandt chatted with the betrothed couple, and pretty soon everybody was smiling. Sort of. Virginia and Jake visited with some people. She stayed in the drawing room, holding court, and he left. I saw him in the main hallway about eight-thirty. I was two feet from him when Chloe Martin came in the front door. Wow. When she saw him, she fizzed like a Fourth of July sparkler. Incandescent. He looked like he’d run into a wall. Dazed. His head swiveled in every direction. It didn’t take an astrophysicist to figure out he was checking for Virginia. He rushed up to Chloe and grabbed her hand. They hurried down the hall and ducked into the study. I looked around downstairs for Annie Darling. She’d been hunting for Chloe earlier. I didn’t find Annie and I decided to look upstairs. She was there. I told Annie what had happened. I didn’t see Jake O’Neill—or Chloe Martin—again.

  Annie put down Edith’s statement. The times might matter. Annie hurried to the storeroom and found a fresh yellow notepad and pen. Back at the coffee bar, she wrote o
n her pad:

  TIMETABLE

  All times approximate

  7:30 P.M.

  Jake in drawing room.

  8:30 P.M.

  Jake in main hall.

  8:30 P.M.

  Chloe arrives, sees Jake in hallway.

  8:35 P.M.

  Jake and Chloe in study.

  Annie recalled her own search for Chloe. She had looked upstairs and down, then taken up a post on the second-floor porch and left the porch only briefly. In any event, Annie hadn’t seen Chloe arrive. She sighed, wondering if it would have made any difference if she’d seen Chloe and hurried downstairs. She picked up another sheet.

  Henny Brawley

  Jake O’Neill painted my portrait last summer. It is customary for past presidents of the Women’s Club to sit for a portrait when their term is finished. The paintings are displayed in the Women’s Club building. The painting was done at my house. The first day he came, he walked around the living area and looked at everything. My house is really one long room with windows that overlook the marsh. There are bookcases everywhere. One row of bookcases marks off my bedroom. In the living area, there are many framed photographs and inexpensive knickknacks that are meaningful to me. No silver, no crystal. Wildflowers in a pottery vase. Finally he turned and said, “You don’t have stuff.” I said, “No. No stuff.” “Why not?” he asked. I said, “Stuff doesn’t matter.” Just for an instant, he looked bitter and angry. “It does to most women. I knew a girl once….” He turned away and started putting up his easel. I heard him mutter, “She married for money. But two can play that game.” It was a few weeks later that he became engaged to Virginia Neville. I thought at the time it was a recipe for disaster. But I also thought it was Virginia who would suffer. As for tonight, I was getting my wrap from the cloakroom about ten to nine when he went through the back door. I didn’t see him again.

  Annie added a line to her pad:

  8:50 P.M.

  Jake goes out back door of gallery.

  Pamela Potts

  I would never wish to embroil anyone in a police investigation. However, the request has been made for all who have any knowledge of Mr. O’Neill to come forward, and I have always endeavored to do my duty. I certainly want to make it clear that I never participate in gossip. In fact, I only have this information because I was personally involved….

  Annie sipped her coffee, brisk, dark, perfect Colombian, and skimmed over the rest of the paragraph, which was vintage Pamela, serious, humorless, well-meaning, and repetitious. Ah, here was the meat.

  …and I feel that I must report what Elaine Hasty said about Jake O’Neill. I truly regret having to repeat such shocking words, but I am afraid her remarks indicated extreme hostility. However, this kind of information may help the authorities as they seek to determine the character of Mr. O’Neill. Elaine works for her father, and I have often had contact with her when arranging banquets, such as the Celebration of Candles and the Low Country Wine Tasting and the Ladies of the Leaf Christmas Tea. Most women in island organizations know Elaine.

  Annie nodded. Elaine had been part of the staff when the Friends of the Library had its Christmas luncheon at the Neville Gallery.

  Elaine pitches for the island women’s softball league. I believe she is still in school, going part-time and working on a hospitality degree at the technical college. She is a pretty girl with dark hair and a most interesting face. Arresting, actually. Dark eyebrows, flashing green eyes. High cheekbones. Thin coral lips. In fact, she has almost the look of a cat—

  Annie felt the softness of sleek black fur against her arm. She looked into enigmatic golden eyes, heard a throaty purr.

  “No, Agatha. Pamela’s not writing about you. But you know what? She’s right.” Elaine did have a look of wildness and the exotic beauty of a feline. Annie felt a quiver of excitement. She recalled seeing Elaine replenishing the buffet last night. But Elaine was not among those who responded to the request for information about the dead man. Maybe, just maybe, Pamela in her dogged, serious way was onto something.

  —but she’s really very nice. However, at the Ladies of the Leaf Christmas Tea Elaine was slamming plates about in the kitchen and she broke one and cut her hand. I took her to Melba’s sewing room. The tea was at the home of Melba Wintersmith. Melba is…

  Annie skimmed. She slid over Pamela’s painstaking description of Melba, Melba’s house, the party, Elaine’s injury, and Pamela’s expert ministrations.

  …and I was shocked when Elaine sobbed and said she wished she could cut Jake O’Neill to pieces. She wished his heart would spurt blood just like her hand. She said he didn’t deserve to live, that she hated him. He’d said he loved her, but that was all a lie. As soon as I finished the bandage, she ran out of the room and banged out of the house.

  Of course, that is a very extravagant manner of speaking. Oh dear, I am tempted not to bring this to the attention of the authorities. However, I am here, and it would be quite odd if I didn’t turn in a statement. At times one almost has to believe in fate. I had not planned to attend this evening, and then the fog prevented my taking the ferry to the mainland. As you know, the ferry doesn’t run when the fog…

  Annie dismissed Pamela’s consideration of fate and searched through the remaining sheets for Tony Hasty’s statement.

  Tony Hasty

  You got to remember the layout of the gallery. Of course, it wasn’t always an art gallery. It used to belong to the Graham family, even before the war. They say Matilda Graham played hostess to the Yankees when they occupied the island and that’s how come the place didn’t get burned down. Anyway, it’s an old place and the stand of pines between the parking lot and the garden has been there forever. You can’t see a thing through those pines, but there’s a path from the garden that comes out in the kitchen parking lot. It’s a back way from the garden to the front road. I was loading up dishes around nine o’clock when this redheaded girl in a green dress comes running along the path. She must have come within ten feet of me. She was crying. Well, it didn’t look right to me. I mean she was real upset. I called out and asked her what was wrong. She didn’t slow down and she didn’t answer. I almost followed her, but I thought, well, whatever it was, she’s on her way out of here, so I let it go. I mean she didn’t look like anybody’d hurt her. Her dress wasn’t torn. I sure would have done something if I’d thought somebody had hurt her. Then Annie Darling—she owns that bookstore on the boardwalk—came flying into the lot and she wanted to know about the other girl. I started to wonder what the hell was going on. Annie said it was some kind of lovers’ quarrel and she and her husband went out front, I guess to hunt for the girl in green. I kept on loading up and about ten minutes after that, here came Beth Kelly. She’s a teacher at the middle school. She looked scared to death. I yelled out to ask what was happening, but she ducked her head like she didn’t want me to see her and kept on going. That’s when I decided to take a look. I got a flashlight out of the van and went through the pines. The garden was dark except for the lights in the trees. Of course the fog was pretty thick, but the lights in the trees kind of glowed and helped you keep to the path. And I had my flashlight. I wasn’t sure which way to go. But there were plenty of people heading for the tent in the north parking lot. I figured if anything funny was going on it would be where there weren’t any people. I decided to take the path to the point because it’s damn private down there. I didn’t see anybody or hear anybody. There wasn’t any sound except for the ocean. I almost didn’t go all the way down to the point. There wasn’t a soul around and it was quiet as a graveyard. But once I start something, I finish it. I kept going, swinging my flashlight back and forth. That’s how come I found O’Neill. Not that I knew who it was then. I mean, I didn’t touch him. I didn’t know it was him until Mrs. Neville saw him and screamed. Poor lady. At the time all I saw was this guy in a tuxedo sprawled on his face with the back of his head stove in. I knew he was dead. I saw a lot of dead guys in Nam. So I ran back to
my van and used my cell phone to call the cops. I looked at my watch. It was fourteen minutes after nine. I didn’t see anybody coming or going.

  Annie added to her timetable:

  9 P.M.

  Chloe runs through kitchen parking lot.

  9:10 P.M.

  Beth Kelly runs past Tony Hasty.

  9:14 P.M.

  Hasty finds body.

  Annie rubbed her nose. Interesting. Hasty claimed he didn’t know the identity of the victim until the police arrived. Hasty didn’t say a word about his daughter Elaine, who obviously knew O’Neill very well indeed.

  Annie returned Hasty’s statement to her pile, plucked another.

  Irene Neville

  So here I am, within shouting distance of a murder, and damned if I didn’t miss it all. I didn’t even hear the sirens when the cops came. I guess there were sirens. We didn’t know anything was wrong until Max Darling came and got us. Everybody’s going to want a blow-by-blow and I must have been on my way back from the tent when somebody bopped Jake. I’d been up there fussing at Gene Hammer, the bandleader. Honestly, if Gene didn’t have the only dance band this side of Hilton Head, he’d have to be a damn sight more charming to get gigs. But we’re stuck with him. If you hire somebody off island, you have to pray there’s no fog. Anyway, I’d promised Carl I’d sweet-talk Gene into playing something besides swing, but Gene is stuck in the forties. He wasn’t even born then. I don’t understand his time warp. We have an old crowd, but not that old! Gene and I started negotiating about eight-thirty. Finally, he grudgingly agreed to play some Beatles. As for anything circa the nineties, forget it. Maybe I could buy the man some sheet music from the current century. Anyway, I got that straightened out, then I went back down to the gallery to find Carl. I knew it was about time for the program to start. I ran into Carl on the path and he’d brought me a glass of champagne. I’d earned it. We went inside the tent and watched Boston who was loving every minute of his own performance. Virginia sidled in and she was obviously looking for lover boy. She wandered around, looking puzzled, and then she left. I guess she went to check the gallery. When she came back, he wasn’t with her. By this time she really looked upset. I got excited, thinking Jake had come to his senses and was going to dump her. But I knew Jake had his eye on the dollar and Virginia’s got the dollars. He never showed up. Now it turns out somebody killed him. I can’t say I’m sorry. He was an arrogant, greedy, spoiled jerk. If he’d married Virginia, you can bet he’d have managed to get his grasping hands on our money. But don’t cast one of us as first murderer. After all, if we wanted the money, it would make more sense to kill Virginia. Anyway, the Neville clan doesn’t go in for murder. But I’m sorry I missed the show.