Dead, White, and Blue Read online

  An elderly lady answered. Tall and spare, her strong features were set in a forbidding frown, perhaps in response to vacationers’ garb not usually glimpsed on a neighborhood street.

  Max swept off his hat and gave a courtly half bow. “Ma’am, if I may have only a moment of your time. I’m a representative of the neighborhood watch association and we are doing a survey on neighborhood awareness. There was a car stolen on the night of July tenth. You may remember that was the night of the big rainstorm. Did you see any cars on the street at approximately nine P.M. July tenth… ?”

  • • •

  All the way back to the island, Annie worried whether there was any chance their plan might succeed. It seemed forever before early evening.

  When she and Max arrived at the country club, Max headed straight for the terrace to check on preparations there.

  She waited in the main entryway for her guests to arrive, then led them to a private dining room. The buffet on a sideboard held an appealing assortment of sandwiches, cheeses, salads, fruit, and desserts. Instead of wine, there were soft drinks, lemonade, and tea. This was not an evening for relaxation.

  Annie waited until her guests had filled their plates, then joined them at a round table. She spooned Camembert onto a rye cracker. The club’s tuna fish salad was famous for a dash of paprika. She ate a few bites, put down her fork. She glanced toward the door. It was securely closed and no one was in the room except for herself, four actors, and a twenty-something with a scruffy early beard, sailor’s singlet, and khaki shorts.

  Amelia Wellington was perfectly attired for a casual country club evening in a V-neck black eyelet tank top and vibrant floral-patterned maxi skirt with an embroidered obi belt.

  Morgan Bitter saw her looking at him and immediately changed from a sardonic observer to the bland mien of a man who knows he isn’t to be noticed for himself, receding into the waitstaff uniform.

  Robin Visey was elegant in a dress not quite as dramatic as that worn by Shell Hurst on her last night but spectacular in itself, a bow-shoulder red crepe gown that molded to her lithe, lean, model’s figure. Her dark hair swirled in lustrous curls, her classic features exquisite and perfect.

  Roderick Fraley, according to plan, wore a short-sleeve white shirt, black trousers, and black dress shoes. Heavy cranial bones emphasized deep-set eyes that were a curious mixture of green and gray. High cheekbones and a squarish chin looked somehow unfinished, as if a sculptor hadn’t quite completed his task. An imposing man, tall and a little stooped, he transformed ugliness to power. “I’ve instructed everyone on what they are to do.” He gestured toward the unidentified twenty-something. “Bobby has his equipment.” A tilt of his head indicated a tripod and assorted wires tumbled in one corner of the room. “Now”—he reached to the floor, lifted an attaché case, pulled out a pad—“let’s get the blocking set. We can run through placement after we finish eating.”

  • • •

  Annie cast an anxious glance at the sky. Black thunderclouds banked against the western horizon, blotting out the sun, leaching color from the terrace. The pines looked dark and primeval beyond the bleachers. Strings of small colored lights on the magnolias and live oaks were pinpoints of cheer in the gloom. However, the golden glow from the torchieres seemed like isolated plumes of light, merely deepening the surrounding shadows. No light shone from the French doors. On the night of the Fourth, the lights in the club had been turned off to enhance the brightness of the fireworks. If they were turned on now, the glow through the panes would make the terrace more cheerful. But it was important to keep the surroundings as near that night as possible.

  Perhaps thirty-five people were arranged on the bleachers, not the shoulder-to-shoulder audience on the night of the Fourth. About forty others dotted the terrace, standing stiff and silent. Upon arrival each had been asked to stand as nearly as they recalled to their location midway through the fireworks display. Despite dressy casual clothes and tanned faces, there was no aura of a holiday.

  Max gave Annie a quick nod and walked unhurriedly across the terrace to stand near the bleachers.

  Despite the shadows, Annie recognized many members. The Lady Luck Dance Club was well represented. Vera and Wesley Hurst stood in the center of the terrace very much by themselves. It was as though a marker had inscribed a circle around them. No one came nearer than four or five feet, not even the dance club members. Wendy Carlson’s eyes were huge in her sweet heart-shaped face. She slid occasional glances toward Vera and Wesley. Wendy’s smooth-faced lawyer husband appeared bland, as always. Rose Wheeler’s flowing drapery was reminiscent of a midnight gathering of dancing fairies but her gaze was sharp and curious. Her tall husband stood with folded arms, shoulders hunched, a man clearly wishing he were elsewhere. The Porters radiated excitement, Lou’s gooseberry eyes darting from face to face, Buddy’s pudgy cheeks blood-pressure red.

  Annie saw other familiar faces, women with whom she played tennis, lean and tanned golfing couples, a canasta group, a Mahjong league, several book clubs, two golf pros, several tennis instructors. Colonel Hudson, white hair and white mustache neatly trimmed, bony face set in hard lines, stood with his arms behind his back, ramrod straight. Next to him, Jerry O’Reilly’s rounded face creased in worry. When he saw Annie’s glance, he gave an almost imperceptible nod, a confirmation that the waitstaff was in place around the terrace, just as they had been the night of the Fourth.

  Except, of course, for Richard Ely.

  There might be latecomers to the terrace, those who were always fashionably late, but those who mattered were present. They’d been asked to dress as they had that night.

  Vera Hurst’s sprightly and cheerful short-sleeve navy ruffled blouse and belted floral skirt made her haggard, drawn face more obvious. Coral lipstick appeared garish in contrast to her pallor. Tonight Wesley’s bow tie wasn’t askew and his cummerbund fit smoothly, but he’d lost the affable look of a man sure of deference and attention. His sandy hair was a perfect length, product of an expensive cut, but his smooth-shaven face had an unaccustomed gravity and his eyes a hollow look.

  Jed Hurst hunkered against the end of the bleachers, almost invisible in the shadows. His face was a pale blob above a cherry red polo. He stood with his hands jammed deep into the pockets of khaki shorts. Annie wished she’d been at the police station to see his reunion with his parents after his release. Tonight Hayley was with him near the bleachers though the night of the Fourth she’d been at the pool with friends.

  Eileen Irwin’s ice blond hair was drawn into coronet braids, making her face even more severe than usual, cheekbones jutting, chin sharp. Pale pink gloss did nothing to soften the thin line of lips pressed tightly together. Cool blue eyes moved steadily around the terrace. She appeared regal, the sequins on her black blouse reflecting light from a nearby torchiere. Edward Irwin nervously brushed back a strand of graying hair. Behind the lens of his glasses, his brown eyes looked worried. He was a bit shorter than Eileen. Stooped shoulders made him look even less impressive. He didn’t look comfortable in his too-tight tuxedo.

  Maggie Peterson stood near one of the tall urns placed at intervals between the French doors. Annie remembered when Maggie Peterson’s pale lilac chiffon dress was a perfect foil for her glossy dark hair and violet eyes. Now she was frail, face and arms thin, the dress hanging too loose. Dave Peterson stood by himself at the east edge of the terrace. Midway through the fireworks he had been striding through the pines, nearing the oyster-shell path to the overflow lot.

  Annie located Morgan Bitter. In a short-sleeve white shirt, black trousers, and black shoes, he was indistinguishable from any other member of the waitstaff, brown hair smoothly combed, black slash eyebrows and thin features in a composed, respectful attitude, just as Richard Ely would have stood unobtrusively, eyes alert. At the moment Bitter remained in the shadows near the French door.

  Amelia Wellington, Robin Visey, and Roderick Fraley weren’t yet onstage. The distant bells of St. Mary’s by
the Sea signaled the hour, seven sweet peals.

  Vera Hurst and Wesley Hurst looked toward her. Their expressions were so similar, fear and a final demanding stare. Can I trust you? If I tell the truth, what’s going to happen?

  Annie mouthed the words. “For Jed.”

  Near the bleachers, Max gave her a thumbs-up. If all worked out as they hoped, she and Max would remain unnoticed until the final confrontation was set in motion.

  Now everything depended upon Wesley and Vera.

  Wesley took a deep breath. “Ladies and gentlemen.” Wesley’s voice was hoarse.

  Annie gripped her hands in a tight grasp. Many gatherings at the club in support of a school or a charity opened with such a greeting.

  Tonight a desperate family risked accusations, jail, perhaps prison, to save an innocent boy.

  16

  Thank you for coming.” Hollow-eyed and grim, Wesley hunched his shoulders. The shadows were deepening. His somber tone was a match for the darkness of the sky, the heavy weight of humid air.

  The audience on the terrace and in the bleachers was utterly still.

  “We’ve asked you here to help us find the truth to”—a pause—“to the disappearance of Shell Hurst. I want everyone to think about the terrace midway through the fireworks. Please listen as we try to trace what Shell did and said that night. Then we’ll ask anyone”—he looked around the terrace, gazed up at the bleachers—“who can help us to speak up.”

  Wendy Carlson fingered a carnelian necklace at her throat. She looked schoolgirlish in a cream chiffon dress with a high neck and princess waist. As a dance club member, she was always cheerful and eager. Tonight her eyes were huge and her voice thin as she recalled the terrace. “I saw Shell standing near the French door. Her back was to me. She was talking to someone but the shadow by the vase was deep. I don’t know who was there.”

  A French door opened. Robin Visey swept out onto the terrace, young, beautiful, confident.

  “Tonight I am Shell Hurst.” Robin’s throaty voice had a performer’s reach, audible to all on the terrace and in the bleachers. “I spoke with someone who stood there.” A slender hand pointed at the splotch of darkness by the vase.

  Morgan Bitter in his role as a waiter moved quietly to the other side of the vase, visible to Robin playing the part of Shell, but not visible to anyone standing in the shadow of the vase.

  Footsteps sounded on the flagstones at the edge of the terrace.

  Guests on the terrace and in the bleachers shifted. Quick-drawn breaths sounded, faint as the rustle of an unseen woman’s dress on a dark night.

  A hooded figure in a white robe moved steadily across the terrace, evoking the fear of a thousand nightmares. There was no face in the hood, only white cloth with slanted eyeholes.

  Annie was forewarned yet her throat constricted.

  The hood and long robe totally enveloped the new arrival. Where there should have been a face, the almond-shaped holes afforded vision. Covered arms were folded, hands hidden in loose sleeves. The smooth gliding steps gave no hint of sex, no clue to identity.

  The only sound on the quiet terrace was the soft spat of the footsteps. The forbidding apparition moved toward the beautiful woman in the elegant red dress, slipped past her, and stepped into the shadow by the vase.

  The actress in red, playing the role of Shell, turned toward the splotch of shadow. Without words, she pantomimed conversation.

  On the far side of the vase, Morgan Bitter edged forward, head cocked in a listening pose, a waiter eavesdropping.

  The woman in red and the robed figure bent toward each other, as if exchanging information.

  With a careless nod, the actress turned away, walked across the terrace.

  The robed figure slipped silently along the French doors, reached the edge of the terrace, turned and walked swiftly toward the far end of the bleachers, then disappeared from sight.

  Annie slid a glance over one particular face.

  Utter immobility. Not a flicker of movement.

  The actress in the red dress strolled at a casual pace to the end of the terrace. She paused, spoke to a stiff and silent Vera. The actress continued across the terrace, paused for a moment by Lou Porter who quivered with excitement The actress moved on, reached the bleachers. Jed Hurst pressed back against the metal frame. She didn’t look toward him. Jed watched her walk toward the path.

  A satisfied smile with a hint of insolence gave her lovely face an air of arrogant complacency. She reached the beginning of the oyster-shell path that twined into the darkness of the pines.

  On the terrace, Wesley jammed his hands into his trouser pockets. His face was hard and ridged as he watched the actress step onto the shells, which crackled beneath spiked red heels. In a moment, she reached the turn in the path and was lost to sight.

  Vera hurried across the terrace to Wesley. She gripped his arm, jerked her head toward the path. He frowned, appeared resistant. Vera leaned forward. He listened, abruptly nodded. Vera dropped her hand and he turned away.

  Wesley skirted his way through the silent figures on the terrace. Many of them took a half step back. Their eyes dropped to avoid looking at him. Wesley reached the path. He stared straight ahead.

  Jed drew farther back into the shadow of the bleachers. His sister held tight to one hand.

  A bright white cone of light abruptly shone from the top of the bleachers, illuminating Max in a vivid spot. He stood at ease in a polo and gray slacks, the casual dress for an evening at the country club, but his face was somber.

  Annie looked at the top row in the bleachers where the unshaven Bobby had rigged his lights.

  Wesley disappeared around a pittosporum shrub.

  Max gestured toward the path to the overflow lot. “On the night of July fourth, those of you on the terrace and in the bleachers saw Shell Hurst moments before she was murdered.”

  The silence was intense.

  “Shell walked to her car.” Max’s voice was level and all the more impressive for the lack of drama. “She stopped by the driver’s door. The murderer slipped out from a hiding place, came up behind her, threw a tightly rolled silk shawl over her head, and strangled her. Death came quickly. However, the murderer must have had an instant of terror. Someone was coming. The murderer darted into the shadows by a pine. Wesley arrived and found his wife’s body.”

  The spotlight shifted.

  Wesley Hurst had returned to the terrace. Now he stood in the bright circle of light a few feet from the path into the woods. The harsh light emphasized purple shadows beneath his eyes and deep lines grooved on either side of his mouth. “I found her. She was lying on the ground next to her car. I got down beside her, turned her over. There was a light up in the tree, and her face… She was dead.” His voice was husky, shaking. “I should have done something, called somebody, but I was scared.” He stared toward Max, though likely he could see nothing against the glare of the white spot. “God, I was scared. I left her there. I ran like hell back to the terrace. Fireworks were blazing up above and everybody making noise and all I could think of was getting out of there. It was hard to get across the terrace. So many people. I got to the other side and told Vera to go home and not to talk to anybody. I told her somebody’d killed Shell and we had to act like nothing was wrong. I ran around to the front of the club and acted like I’d had too much to drink and raised hell about the car. I didn’t want anyone to think about me being with Shell. I wanted everybody to think I’d been in the bar. Jerry took me home in a golf cart. I sat up all night, waiting for the police to come.” He swallowed, rubbed the back of a fist against his face. “I was wrong to leave her there.” For an instant, there was horror and sadness in his eyes. “I was so damned scared.”

  The spotlight went black.

  The bright cone blazed to encircle Jed Hurst. Hayley squinted against the glare.

  Jed took a deep breath. “I didn’t know what had happened. I saw Dad run back from the lot. He didn’t see me next to the bleac
hers. I knew something bad had happened. I didn’t know what I could do but I thought I’d better go see.” He stopped, bowed his head. He looked pitiably young. Finally, he looked up and the unsparing light showed a trembling jaw. The words came in jerks. “I got there and I saw her car. I couldn’t figure why Dad had run away. I didn’t see her anywhere. I came around the pine. She was lying on her back. Her face… It was awful. I knew she was dead. I thought… I didn’t know what to think.”

  “God, Jed, I’m sorry.” Wesley’s shaking voice came from the nearby shadows. “I didn’t hurt her. I found her that way.”

  Jed’s face crumpled. “I went kind of crazy. I’d told a lot of guys that I was going to do something to make her back off from my sister. Shell was… Anyway, that doesn’t matter now. But I thought we’d all be in big trouble. Then I thought… well, nobody was in the lot… the fireworks were exploding and most people wouldn’t start home until the show was over and I thought if I could get her out of there, nobody would know what had happened.” He took a deep breath. “I pulled her to the other side of the car and got her into the passenger seat.” The thinness of his quivering voice brought the horror near. “Once I got the car started, I drove out and turned on the road that runs behind the golf course. When I got close to the fourth hole I thought maybe I could get rid of the car, get rid… of her. I turned off the lights and drove on the golf cart path to the bridge near nine. I got the Porsche halfway across, then got out and leaned in and put it in neutral. I slammed the door and went behind and pushed. The Porsche crashed through the railing and into the lagoon. But once it was gone, it was like somebody put a big red arrow there. Railing gone. Something went through and into the lagoon. Then I thought of using another car, butting it into the railing but not going down. I ran across the course and came around to the front parking lot. At the valet board, I saw Colonel Hudson’s keys. I knew the car. I hated to do it. God, it was a sweet car.”