Dead Days of Summer Page 14

  Annie’s heart lurched. She looked at the dashboard clock: three twenty-six.

  She saved the messages and with fingers that trembled punched the number of the lawyer’s cell.

  “Handler Jones.” He might have been announcing an Oscar.

  “Annie Darling. Is Max there?” Max in jail. Max in an orange jumpsuit. Oh God, Max…

  There was a moment when background noise crackled and there was a distant thump or bump. Then Max’s voice, strong and clear and warm.

  “Annie?”

  “I’m here.” Too far away. Not able to reach out and touch him. Concrete and bars and horror stood between them. “Max, are you all right?” The question was small and paltry, a tiny stone against a boulder of trouble.

  “Fine. Handler’s got things under control. Listen, Annie, I only have a few minutes and they’re coming for me. Don’t worry. Handler has people looking through her background—”

  He didn’t have to say whose background. Vanessa Taylor dead dominated their life.

  “—and he’s on top of things. Obviously, I was set up from beginning to end. We have to find out who put her up to hiring me. Don’t worry about a thing. Handler’s got a bunch of people on the case and he’ll keep you informed. You stay out of it. Somebody’s dangerous as hell and—oh, here they are—”

  A door banged. A deep voice muttered in the background. There was a shuffle and sound of steps and another door.

  Handler Jones’s mellifluous voice poured over the cell. “Max is in good spirits. As he said, we’re giving it our full attention. Now, I know you want to come over here and see him. Visiting hours are from seven to ten every evening, so that would be all right, but he’s adamant he doesn’t want you or his mother over here. He’s confident we’ll figure everything out and he’ll be out of here pretty quickly.”

  Annie understood more than Jones imagined. She knew that Max didn’t want her to see him in the squalor and sadness of a detention facility on the mainland. If she insisted, if she went, Max would know that she didn’t think he would soon be free. He needed to believe that he would soon be free.

  She felt the hot burn of tears. She kept her voice steady. She too had to believe. “Tell him that’s fine. We’ll get this behind us as quickly as possible. We may have a new lead. The owner of that bar—Dooley’s Mine—saw a silver car turn out of the parking lot Monday night, following Max’s Jag. When Billy Cameron went to tell Mrs. Dodd about the murder, he looked in their garage and saw a silver car.” How many silver cars were on the island? She pushed the question away.

  “Another pointer to the Whitman house.” The lawyer sounded pleased. “I wish we could get somebody inside, but the staff has been there for years.”

  “There’s probably not time for that. The Dodds are leaving the island Saturday, going to Cape Cod.” She said it flatly, angry with people she didn’t even know.

  Handler gave a low whistle. “That’s very interesting. I’d like to know who made that decision and why. We’ll see what else we can find out. I’ll be in touch.”

  Annie called up the saved messages, clicked to the third, listened to the remainder of Handler Jones’s:

  “…didn’t have any surprises. The judge has taken the request for bail under advisement, will rule next week. I don’t think there’s any chance he’ll grant bail, not in a high-profile case like this. The circuit solicitor’s emphasizing the brutal nature of the crime. On the plus side, Max feels much better physically, still a minor headache. He’s comfortable. In a cell by himself—”

  Annie knew Jones intended to reassure her, but every word was a blow. Max in a cell. Max unable to walk where he pleased or call when he wished. Max in terrible danger of facing trial for the murder of a woman he’d thought he was helping.

  “—and I’ve given him a legal pad, pen. He hasn’t been able to remember any more and can’t provide any substantial aid to the investigation, since he had no prior knowledge of the victim. I’ve explained that I think it will be better if he isn’t privy to the investigation reports. I want to be able to assert that he is utterly unfamiliar with the victim and her background. I’ve faxed more information to Mrs. Clyde and will be in touch soon.”

  4. “Annie, Father Cooley here. I understand from Emma that Max’s difficulties will soon be cleared up and the perpetrator of this terrible crime unmasked. You know that I stand ready to be of any assistance possible. You and Max and the poor lost girl are in my prayers. And know that ‘God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.’”

  5. “My sweet, I doubt Max will agree but I thought he looked quite dashing in that odd shade of orange.” Laurel was upbeat. “His appearance was encouraging. We can feel confident that our dear boy is recovering from the physical trials of his ordeal and will meet this challenge with grace and courage while we bend every effort to gain his release. I have a friend, a most accomplished leasing agent, who thinks he can help. He is such a charmer—the handsomeness of a young Valentino, the savoir faire of Fred Astaire, and the appeal of Brad Pitt.”

  Brad Pitt? Was Laurel’s male admirer a bit on the young side? That wasn’t any business of Annie’s. She made it a point not to dwell upon her mother-in-law’s several marriages and liaisons. The ways of love are mysterious and Laurel’s intentions, Annie was sure of it, were always of the best. Annie frowned, trying to decipher the breath of sound that reached her. Was it a silken sigh or a ripple of merriment?

  “That and a substantial bonus for immediate occupancy may work wonders. He is a fine fellow—”

  Definitely on the young side.

  “—and I’m counting on him for his assistance. I will let you know what happens. I’ve taken Terence’s good advice to heart, ‘Nothing is so difficult but that it may be found out by seeking.’ Fortunately, I have never met Lillian Dodd. More anon.”

  Annie punched Pause. …I have never met Lillian Dodd. What was Laurel doing? Where was she? Annie would not, unfortunately, be surprised by any eventuality: Laurel parachuting into the garden of the Whitman house, claiming a slight mistake in navigation. Laurel pretending to be a vet making a house call. Laurel arriving in pest-control garb to fumigate. Damn. Whatever happened, Annie had to keep Laurel away from the Whitman house, both for her safety and for the ultimate success of their investigation, though Handler Jones had bemoaned his inability to get an agent into the house as part of the domestic staff. Someone in the house…Laurel…someone in the house…

  Annie saved the messages again. First things first. She pressed Laurel’s numbers, home and cell. No answer at either. Quickly, Annie called Emma’s numbers. Again, no answers. If Emma were engaged in her phone canvass, she would ignore incoming calls. How about Henny? The result was the same.

  All right. If she couldn’t contact them, she could leave a message for each. She decided to dial their cells:

  “Laurel, Annie.” Of course she would know it was Annie. This was not starting out on the right basis. Annie knew she dare not sound chiding. What was the proper tone? But Laurel, who prided herself upon insight, wasn’t likely to be fooled. Annie decided on directness. “Laurel, keep away from the Whitman house. Please get in touch with me as soon as possible.”

  “Emma, I have a plan. Come to the place I’m staying as soon as possible. Bring everything you’ve learned about Vanessa.” Annie left the same message for Henny, then called Ingrid’s cell, knowing the Death on Demand number was probably flooded with calls. “Annie.” Ingrid’s voice was high and thin.

  Although the air-conditioning was finally cooling down the car, Annie turned the fan higher. “Bad?”

  “Bad? Now I understand Lizzie Borden. If I had an axe—”

  “Take a deep breath.” Annie put the car in drive, headed out of the church lot. She needed to get back to her cabin at Nightingale Courts. There was much to be done.

  “They aren’t even buying books.” Ingrid’s voice quivered with outrage. “People everywhere and all they want to do is get a souvenir. We
ran out of bookmarks by noon. They’re taking pictures of everything, and somebody stole Edgar.”

  The stuffed black raven perched above the entrance to the children’s section was in honor of Edgar Allan Poe, the founding father of mystery.

  “He looked molty.” Annie was dismissive. “We’ll put a tea set there, something elegant Miss Marple would have enjoyed.”

  “Annie, has anything—” Ingrid broke off.

  Annie understood. Had anything happened, anything good? Was Max still in jail? Ingrid didn’t want to ask.

  “He’s fine.” As she said it, she suddenly felt it was true. Max was fine. He was alive and safe and somehow she was going to prove his innocence. “I’m fine. We’re making progress. Listen, Ingrid, I want you to close the store and here’s what I want you to get for me….” She talked fast and she drove fast.

  6

  Annie paced on the porch overlooking the lagoon, looking for flaws in her plan to plunge into Vanessa Taylor’s world.

  Her gaze swept the water. She paused, moved to the porch railing and watched an alligator swim past. The triangular black snout slid through the dark water. The ridges of his back looked like indentations in the water. His tail swept back and forth, propelling him forward. If she hadn’t seen him, she would never have known of his presence, he moved so silently. That’s what she needed to do, glide easily through the next few days, unheeded, unheralded, unknown, but dangerous and deadly for her prey.

  If Annie could submerge herself in Vanessa’s life, she might discover the reason for her murder. Vanessa hadn’t died as a result of passion. She’d died as the result of a carefully devised plan that could only have been engineered by someone she knew well. Vanessa wouldn’t have cooperated in deceiving Max for a casual acquaintance. Vanessa must have agreed to the scheme against Max either to please someone or because she had no choice. Had she been in some desperate situation? Or had she been a willing conspirator? Whatever her motive, something in Vanessa’s life had caused her death, and there was no question that for the last year and a half Vanessa’s life had centered around the Whitman house.

  There might be a way to gain access to the house. Annie’s plan might be crazy. It certainly was daring. Could she do it? Could she assume a new identity, meld into the background as the alligator merged with the lagoon? She would have to be brave and skillful and clever.

  She turned, went back into the cabin. She’d lost count of how many times she’d read the dossier on Vanessa. To succeed in her venture, she must absorb every fact within these pages as instinctively as she recalled her own past. She must forget the way purple-black clouds bank high in a May sky in Amarillo, forget her days at Southern Methodist University and the elegant campus with its Georgian architecture, forget her sojourn in New York and coffeehouses in Soho. She must think of the flat plains of Illinois and the majestic skyline of Chicago and Sears Tower and choppy waves on Lake Michigan. Annie settled once again on the sofa and picked up the dossier:

  Vanessa Taylor: Twenty-three years old. Born in Peoria, Illinois, youngest daughter of Charlotte and Henry Taylor. One sister, Genevieve, nine years older. Father an insurance adjuster, mother an elementary school teacher. Family moved to Wilmette when Vanessa was six. Attended public schools, graduating from New Trier High School. Cheerleader, choir, lead in West Side Story, waited tables for spending money, two years in junior college, came to the Carolina coast three summers ago, waited tables at Parotti’s Bar and Grill, hired as Lillian Dodd’s secretary a year and a half ago.

  Brownie leader Arlene Hubbard: “Sassy. There was always a current of antagonism between Vanessa and women. Maybe that puts it too strongly. It was more that she thought other girls and women unimportant. But when a man came into the room! Then she was brighter than a new penny. And did she strut her stuff. Even when she was a little girl there was something provocative about her.”

  Middle school music teacher Harold Childers: “An enchanting girl. Lovely voice. I always felt the other girls were jealous of her. It didn’t seem to bother Vanessa. Once she sang ‘Bali H’ai’ in a variety show. You would never have thought she was seventeen.”

  High school English teacher and yearbook adviser Emily Howie: “When Vanessa entered a room, everyone noticed. She had the sparkle of a diamond even though her background was rhinestones. She always had inexpensive versions of the latest fashions. She made an excellent appearance. No grunge for Vanessa. She managed to be part of the preppy crowd even though she didn’t have the money or background. I always felt Vanessa would come out a winner. I’m sorry to know that didn’t happen.”

  High school best friend Gina Lambertino: “We had so much fun. We’d go into town for Cubs games, a bunch of us. I’ll always remember Vanessa singing ‘Take Me Out to the Ball Game.’ She was special. Everything was more fun when she was along, like there was a spark of electricity. If she wasn’t there, everything seemed ordinary. I thought she’d be a model or an actress. She could charm anybody. Everybody—especially guys—always looked at her. She had some magic signal that brought guys from every direction. I guess she attracted the wrong guy.”

  Junior college admissions office secretary: “I wouldn’t tell you this if she was alive but maybe it might help. It’s all gossip, of course, but this is a small campus. Everybody blamed her and I didn’t think that was right. She shouldn’t have led him on, but he was in his forties, old enough to know better. I don’t know why she was attracted to him. Maybe she wasn’t. Maybe she just wanted to see if she could attract an older man. Anyway, she did. He moved out and his wife sued for divorce. Then Vanessa dumped him. He shot himself in the rose garden near Old Central. Of course, he made that decision. She left at the end of that semester.”

  Former roommate on Broward’s Rock, Judy Denton: “I was the one who found us jobs on the island. I’d worked there for a couple of summers. I broke up with my boyfriend and Vanessa was ready to do something different. She’d had a bad experience, a professor who came on to her hot and heavy. When she told him to cool it, he committed suicide. It was a fresh start for both of us. We had a great time. She played the field, one good-looking guy after another. Then I met Stan and pretty soon I didn’t see her so often. Stan and I got married and came here. Vanessa and I kept up by e-mail. It was pretty much the same old same old from her—lots of parties and beach time and football weekends in Atlanta—until she got the job with Mrs. Dodd….

  Annie skimmed the material described earlier by Handler Jones, picking up toward the end.

  “…I’m sure there was a guy. Of course, she loved to brag but I guess she didn’t think it was politic to talk about him in her e-mails. I think the family all used the same system and maybe it would have been embarrassing if someone else saw it. Anyway, I’ll bet dear old diary’s X-rated.”

  Annie stared at the page. This was the second time Judy had mentioned a diary. Billy hadn’t seen one when he looked at her cottage, but that was a cursory once-over. Annie continued reading:

  “Vanessa was always cagey about her diary. I wouldn’t have known she kept one but I found it tucked in a bunch of magazines. I didn’t know what it was. It was just this floral cloth book and I opened it and she walked in and you would have thought I was stealing the crown jewels. She yelled something about I was a snoop, just like her sister. I ended up throwing it at her and we didn’t speak for a couple of days. I didn’t see it again but whenever she curled up in her own room, saying she was going to read for a while, I think she was writing in her diary. So nobody may ever find it. She moved it around a bunch of places when we roomed together. Of course, I don’t know why anybody would be looking at her stuff in that cottage, but I’d guess she wouldn’t want the maids to see it. Anyway, on Monday she dashed off an e-mail to me at 3:07 P.M.—that would be 4:07 P.M. her time—and she wrote, ‘Dear Judy, Got to run. You know what a good secretary does. She makes herself indispensable. Well, I’m trumping that. No more secretary days for me. When tonight is over, there are going to be
some changes made. Let the good times roll…V’”

  Annie let out an exultant whoop. Surely Handler Jones understood the importance of this report. No more secretary days… When he told Billy…Annie sagged back against the sofa. She didn’t need the savvy lawyer to puncture her brief euphoria. Vanessa’s declaration that she expected a big gain from her evening’s activities could be used to build the case against Max. The prosecution could claim that the changes to be made depended upon Max. The prosecution could claim…Annie didn’t need to continue.

  Annie knew the truth. Vanessa had connived to lure Max to Dooley’s Mine, drugged his drink, then taken him in the Jag to the cabin where she died. Vanessa expected a payoff. Instead, she was murdered. The only link to the murderer was Dooley’s brief glimpse of a silver car. Who drove that car? That’s what Annie had to find out and find out soon.

  Emma chose a Pepsi. Henny and Ingrid opted for iced tea. Annie wished for a jolt of espresso, settled for a double-bagged cup of instant coffee, black as asphalt. She was the last to slip into a chair around the white wooden kitchen table in the Nightingale Courts cabin. One chair was empty. Laurel hadn’t responded to Annie’s messages. Annie felt a tug of worry, but she’d hope for the best. There wasn’t time to divert energy or effort to discovering her mother-in-law’s whereabouts. She’d ask Ingrid to find Laurel. Annie glanced at the cardboard box on the floor next to Ingrid. Good. Ingrid had done as Annie had requested, though she could have had no inkling of how Annie intended to use her purchase. For now, Annie had to focus on the concerted effort necessary to make her venture possible. She needed help in large ways and small, and the moment to ask was here.

  She looked at each friend in turn. Emma had the commanding aura of a Marine brigadier despite her spiky hair, a newly dyed, striking azure today, and the casual drape of her blue-and-pink-striped caftan. The mystery writer’s costume might be casual, but her mind absorbed facts, nuances, and suppositions with the ease of a CEO. Henny was as alert as a bridge player with eight spades, dark eyes glowing behind the half-rim glasses perched on her nose. She gave Annie a thumbs-up with the effervescence of Diane Keaton at a cocktail party. Ingrid brushed back a wisp of graying hair, tried for a smile, was unsuccessful.