Murder Walks the Plank Read online

  “Yeah.” Max wasn’t convinced. He sprinkled tabasco in his chowder. “But I’ll be glad to talk to Marian, see what I can find out.” He read the bulletin again. “It says he was shot. Wonder if they found a gun? At least he’s definitely a murder victim.”

  The massive sandwich stopped midway to Annie’s mouth. “Excuse me?”

  Max poured more beer into his still frosty glass. “Come on, Annie, face it. Pamela could have fallen—”

  “Fallen?” She put down the sandwich, a clear indication of her distress. “She wouldn’t climb over the chain. I know she—”

  He held up a hand. “Easy. Let’s just discuss it.” His lips twitched. “Have I ever told you that you look like a porcupine when you’re mad? Anyway, Pamela could have fallen. Meg may have popped pills into her wine. But if this guy was shot, that’s a different matter.”

  Annie took a big bite. She ate, then looked at him soberly. “Why are you so reluctant to think Pamela and Meg were victims, too?”

  Max spooned up broth and okra and sausage. “Meg was dying. She wasn’t expected to live another six months. What was so urgent that somebody had to kill her last night? And the idea that somebody shoved Pamela into the ocean to keep her from reading—” He looked past Annie toward the door. A broad smile lighted his face. He lifted his left hand and gestured. He put down his spoon, pushed back his chair.

  Annie twisted to look. Max was rising, moving to greet her father and Sylvia Crandall. It was too late to stop him. Of course he was going to ask Pudge and Sylvia to join them. On any other day she would have been—well, maybe pleased was too strong a word, and darn it, why did she have this aversion to Sylvia?—but it would have been fine. Today she was appalled. She had a horrid sense of unease and urgency, though truth to tell, Emma had already thrown a wrench in her plans for the afternoon. Max might think Emma’s brusque orders funny. Annie wasn’t amused. Now there would be the distraction of dealing with Pudge and Sylvia as well as Annie’s foray off island. She sat frozen in her seat.

  Pudge looked toward Annie. Her father was at one and the same moment both familiar and strange: sandy hair a little askew from the wind, gray eyes seeking reassurance, genial face hopeful yet uncertain. He was Pudge but not the Pudge she’d come to know and love. He lacked his usual easy manner. Instead of strolling across the floor with an insouciant smile, shoulders in a relaxed slouch, this man planted his feet like a soldier crossing a bog. Sylvia Crandall, pale and tense, clung to his arm as if he were a rescuer leading her to safety. Sylvia’s linen dress was worthy of Gauguin, red hibiscus flaring against a cream background, but the narrow face beneath the cap of sleek chestnut hair drooped in discontent. She gripped the handle of her crimson woven bag so tightly that her fingers looked cramped.

  For an instant too long, Annie stared blankly toward the door.

  Her father checked in midstride. His hand closed over Sylvia’s and they came to a stop. Pudge looked toward Annie, his gray eyes met hers in mute appeal.

  Annie knew Pudge had seen her stare, blank at best, unfriendly at worst. She scrambled to her feet, forced a smile, knew Pudge would know it was forced. She felt a thrill at that knowledge. She’d spent so many years without her father, it was amazing to realize that he was here now, coming toward her, love and trust in his gaze. Pudge knew. So surely he knew, too, that whatever held her back—she pushed away the thought of Sylvia—there was a bond that nothing could destroy. Thoughts and emotions swirled and she wished she could channel her mind, exclude all the untidy ragtag feelings threatening to tumble out in public, bumptious as spaniel puppies.

  It was the firm handclasp between Pudge and Max that propelled her forward. It spoke of friendship and admiration and connection. She hurried to the three-some, gripped Pudge’s other hand, and, surprising herself, reached out to take Sylvia’s long, slender, cold hand in a welcoming grasp. “Come join us.”

  Max, oblivious to Annie’s initial hesitation, shepherded them back to the table, pulled out a chair for Sylvia, his voice warm and friendly. “Glad to see you. Annie and I are trying to figure out what happened yesterday to Pamela.” He shot Annie a warning glance.

  She understood. At this point, so far as the public knew, Pamela’s death was an accident, and they wouldn’t discuss Meg’s death. But Pamela’s fall had happened on Annie’s cruise.

  Pudge’s face creased in concern. “I heard Pamela died this morning. Damn shame.” But his voice was abstracted and his eyes kept darting toward Sylvia.

  Sylvia still stood beside the chair Max had pulled out. The rigid line of her body was as clear as a shout that she didn’t want to sit down.

  Pudge gestured at the chair. “I’ll order us something quick.” He glanced at Ben, who stood nearby with menus. “Hey, Ben, two bowls of chowder. Iced tea. Unsweetened.”

  Ben nodded and backed away.

  “You’ll feel a lot better when we eat something.” Pudge’s tone was hearty. A quick flush stained Sylvia’s pale cheeks. She dropped into the chair, sat like a stone.

  As Annie slipped into her seat, she was struck anew by the validity of the Mars-Venus analogy of male-female relationships. Pudge wanted to think there was something he could do that would banish Sylvia’s misery. A bowl of chowder to the rescue. Sylvia would have liked to shove all of them into a boat without oars and send it into the Atlantic. Max looked at the deaths of Pamela and Meg from the outside in, and Annie looked from the inside out, and both of them were sure they were right. And in Max’s male view, here was good old Pudge, so of course they would eat together with no thought to the vibrations of latent hostility exuded by the two women whose faces were determinedly molded in pleasant masks. But Annie realized there was more than hostility in Sylvia’s face. Annie looked into dark eyes stricken by unhappiness. Annie’s gaze swiveled to her father. He watched Sylvia, his face heavy with pain.

  Maybe it was time to toss pretense. And jealousy. As the word fluttered in her mind, dark as a brown bat skittering against the rose sky of evening, Annie felt a sense of relief. The release was as welcome as yanking a thorn from tender skin.

  “Sylvia.” Annie’s voice was gentle. “What’s wrong?”

  Sylvia clasped her hands together, long, thin, elegant fingers bedecked with several old-fashioned rings, the nails a glistening pink, all of a piece with her highly bred beauty, the chiseled perfection of thin features, the glisten of softly brown hair. Tears spilled from anguished eyes, ran unchecked down sunken cheeks.

  Ben’s look was uneasy as he placed the big tumblers of iced tea in front of Pudge and Sylvia. He eased quietly toward the kitchen.

  Annie stared across the table at Sylvia. She didn’t see the haughty fashion plate she’d always found cool and unappealing. She saw a quite beautiful older woman struggling to regain her composure.

  Pudge slammed his hand on the table. “Dammit, Sylvia, I’ll go get him.” He scooted back his chair.

  “Oh no. You mustn’t. That would never do. He would be even angrier….” She bent forward, buried her face in her hands.

  “Maybe…” Pudge turned to Annie. “Look, Rachel knows Cole. Maybe she can help us.” He hiked his chair closer to the table, leaned on his elbows, and talked twice as fast as he usually did. “Sometimes one kid can talk to another. And with all Rachel’s been through—”

  Oh, Pudge, Annie thought, you don’t understand. Rachel doesn’t want to share you with Sylvia, and her resentment is as hot and wild as bubbling lava.

  “—with losing her mom. Maybe she can talk to Cole. His dad’s still alive, and he loves Cole and Cole gets to visit him. I won’t try to take his dad’s place. I wouldn’t do that.” Pudge’s tone was forlorn.

  Sylvia’s hands dropped. She sniffed and opened her purse for tissues. She scrubbed at her cheeks, took a deep breath, wadded the tissues into a tight ball. “I’m sorry, Pudge.” The face she turned toward him was a map of misery, deep lines bracketing her eyes and lips, the muscles sagging. “I shouldn’t have met you for lunch. Ther
e’s nothing any of you can do.” She stared at Annie, her gaze empty of expression. “You don’t like me—”

  Annie lifted both hands in protest. “That’s not true.” Suddenly she knew that it wasn’t true. How could she resent this haggard, hurt woman? “No. It’s just”—she didn’t look toward Pudge—“it’s hard to share.” She dredged out the painfully honest words.

  “Share…” Sylvia’s lips quivered. “That’s what’s wrong with Cole. That—and the divorce. He adores his dad. Oh—” She pushed back her chair so quickly it tumbled to the floor behind her, but she didn’t appear to hear the noise, even though there was that peculiar instant of silence when something untoward occurs in a noisy crowded room. She thrust out a hand toward Pudge. “I’m sorry. Stay here. I’ve got to get back to work. Maybe Cole will call.” Her eyes were sad but determined. “Maybe he’ll come back….” She turned and walked swiftly away, her shoes clattering on the wooden floor.

  Max rose, quickly lifted the fallen chair, pushed it up to the table. He returned to his seat, almost spoke, shook his head.

  Lips in a tight line, Pudge watched until Sylvia was through the door.

  Ben was a few feet away, two bowls of steaming chowder on his expertly held tray. He ducked his head, placed a bowl before Pudge, retreated with the second serving.

  Pudge slumped in his chair. He looked old. Defeated.

  Annie was suddenly angry. Maybe she didn’t like Sylvia after all. “That’s rude.” She glared toward the front door, but Sylvia was gone.

  Pudge’s defense was immediate. He sat up straight. “She’s got to try and get Cole to come home. He walked out last night. He yelled at her that she didn’t care about him, all she cared about was me.” For an instant there was a glow in his eyes, then memory quenched the light. “It’s a mess. Sylvia and Sam just got divorced a year ago and she hated to take Cole so far away from his dad—they lived in Chicago—but she wants to make it on her own. She gets child support but nothing more. That’s the way she wants it.” His voice was admiring.

  “Anyway, Cole hates her seeing me and he hates school. This summer he hung out at the park with his skateboard. That’s how he met Stuart Reed. He’s Wayne Reed’s son. Cole’s at the Reed house now. He went over there last night and he says he’s not coming back as long as Sylvia has anything to do with me. I talked to Wayne this morning. He advises Sylvia to play it cool. He thinks Cole will get homesick and the best thing is just to let him hang out over there for a while.” Pudge made no effort to pick up his spoon.

  “Trouble is”—Pudge looked around, lowered his voice despite the roar of conversation that ricocheted from the wooden rafters to the floor and back again—

  “Sylvia doesn’t like Stuart. She thinks he’s a bad influence. Cocky and insolent. Spoiled. Stuart’s the only reason Cole was on the boat Sunday night. Wayne had a bunch of tickets—he’s big on island civic stuff—and he told Stuart to round up some friends. Cole sure wouldn’t have come with us. Oh hell.” Pudge pushed the bowl of chowder out of the way. “I don’t know what to do. I know you and Max”—his glance at Annie was confiding—“eat here a lot. I thought if Sylvia and I kind of ran into you, maybe we’d get together and you’d help us. Anyway, I decided to bring her here and see if we’d find you. Annie, if you’d talk to Rachel, maybe she could explain to Cole that I’m not such a bad guy.” He looked at her eagerly.

  Not such a bad guy…Annie felt the sting of tears. She blinked, managed a bright smile. “Testimonials by the dozen.” But she had a vivid picture of Rachel scowling, lips drawn back like a hissing cat. “Uh, you know, it’s a nice idea about Rachel, but I don’t know if they know each other”—she saw the hope drain out of Pudge’s face—“and kids can be really shy. You know, a girl and a guy.” She knew she was babbling. She had to do something to encourage Pudge. She could never tell him how Rachel felt. But maybe there was a solution. “I’ll talk to Cole. I’ve been planning on seeing him anyway.”

  Pudge looked at her in surprise. Max fished in his bowl for whiting, his expression skeptical.

  Annie focused her attention on Pudge. Max could continue in his stubborn male fashion to think Pamela’s fall was an accident. She knew better. “You see”—her voice was earnest, and this was true so it sounded well—“Cole was on the upper deck where Pamela went overboard.” Her enthusiasm grew. She would do her best at some point in the conversation to urge Cole to give Pudge a chance, but what a heaven-sent opportunity to talk to the person who had been nearest Pamela when she went overboard. “I want to find out as much as I can about the circumstances. I feel I owe it to Pamela’s family. I’ll get in touch with Cole later today.”

  Pudge’s rounded face re-formed from sadness to gratitude, his gray eyes glowing, his lips curving in a smile.

  Annie tried not to look as stricken as she felt. It was terribly unlikely that she could make a difference in Pudge’s effort to forge a relationship with Cole. Always prone to impulsive actions, she clapped her hands together. “And we’ll invite Sylvia and Cole over to dinner Friday night. Max can grill hamburgers.”

  “Oh, that’s great, Annie.” Pudge looked upbeat, excited. “I’ll tell Sylvia and Cole to bring their swimsuits.” Some of the eagerness seeped from his face.

  “Yeah. If he comes home. But you’ll make it happen, I know you will. Annie, you’re the best.” He was up and out of his chair, flinging his napkin on the table. He pulled out his wallet, dropped two twenties on the table. “That’ll take care of lunch. And have some pineapple upside-down cake for dessert.” Pudge knew what Annie loved. “I’ve got to let Sylvia know.” Pudge grabbed Annie’s hands for a quick squeeze. “She’ll be so happy.” He bent, kissed the top of Annie’s head, whispered, “Thank you, honey.” He strode away from the table, almost breaking into a run, ducking around waiting customers and out the door.

  Annie avoided looking at Max. She picked up her sandwich, took a bite. It was as delicious as usual, but she needed more than succulent flounder to revive her spirits. There was a lengthy pause. Max spooned. She bit and chewed.

  Max poured the last of his beer. “I suppose”—his tone was conversational—“that you have a plan. Some way to change Cole’s attitude, bring him home, convince him that Pudge is a great guy?”

  Annie determinedly ate.

  “No? Problem is, I don’t think the earth is going to open up and swallow either one of us.” He sighed. “So between now and Friday night, we’ve got to come up with a miracle.”

  Sweat trickled down Annie’s face. Her blouse stuck to her. All the car windows were down and the sea breeze swept over her, but that wasn’t much comfort on an August afternoon. Usually she got out and leaned against the railing as the ferry chugged steadily across the Sound toward the mainland, watching the laughing gulls, welcoming the ever-fresh scent of the sea, clapping when dolphins made a graceful arc above the water. Today she wanted to learn as much as she could as fast as possible, all the while ignoring the potential for disaster when Sylvia, Pudge, and possibly Cole arrived at the Darling house Friday night. What was she going to say to Rachel? Maybe her subconscious would figure out a good approach. But for now…

  She finished Max’s dossier on Meg. The sentences were brief, but they evoked the picture of a flamboyant, independent—some might say self-centered—woman who went her own way. Meg most likely saw her decisions as honest. Annie wondered about Meg’s mother, her children, the men she had loved and left or lost. What price had others paid for Meg to enjoy her freedom? Had she paid the ultimate price? And always, sorrowful as the distant cry of a mourning dove, there was the image of Pamela, serious, earnest, kind, and now dead because she tried to do good.

  Annie’s face was stern. No matter how long it took, whatever she had to do, Pamela’s death wasn’t going to be ignored. And Annie was afraid that Billy would separate her death from Meg’s unless a direct link could be proven. Maybe there was some hint, some clue in Max’s summary of these lives. She began to read:

 
; Carey Brown

  Carey Harwood Brown was born January 4, 1942, in Birmingham, Alabama, the youngest of five children. His father owned a car dealership. His mother was a renowned hostess. During the war years, the senior Browns were active with the local USO chapter and were part of a program that provided sandwiches and cigarettes to troops moving through by train. According to a longtime friend and fellow golfer, Carey was the darling of his family, indulged and adored. Carey was a natural athlete who possessed considerable charm and was a favorite of the press. Tall, dark-haired, with an ever-present smile, he had two passions in life, golf and, later, Meg Crane, whom he married in 1968. They were one of the most glamorous couples on the pro tour. He loved to party and drink. He never admitted that he had a problem with alcohol, but after he and Meg divorced in 1973 he drank more heavily. He missed two tournaments because he was drunk and ultimately was dismissed from the tour. He always pulled himself together when his children came in the summer, but every fall after they returned to their grandmother in Charleston for the school year he started drinking again. He was drunk when his car plowed into a bridge shortly after midnight on October 9, 1980.