Dead Days of Summer Read online

  On her last afternoon, Vanessa taunted Kyle on the telephone, then laughingly told him he could relax because everything would be out in the open after that night. Everything was already out in the open between Kyle and Heather. Heather had broken off the engagement. What was to happen that night had nothing to do with Kyle or Heather. In fact, Annie was certain that Vanessa was looking ahead to her subterfuge with Max and seeing her participation as a seal to a bargain. She would make it possible for Jon to score off Max by making him appear drunk in a cheap bar. In return, Vanessa would achieve her goal. She would no longer be a secretary. Jon would leave Lillian and ultimately marry Vanessa.

  The sense of danger that had emanated from the unseen figure in the hallway when she spoke with Maybelle. Two unmoving shoes…Annie felt a chill as she remembered that reflection. He’d been there. What had his face looked like when he listened? It was Jon that Maybelle saw staring at Vanessa with death in his eyes. Annie was sure of it.

  But every supposition was as evanescent as sea foam, gone when grasped, impossible to prove.

  Annie finished packing one box with shoes, taped the top. The bedroom and closet done, she turned to the bathroom, quickly packed powders, makeup, odds and ends. The clothes hamper didn’t harbor the diary. The bedroom and bath completed, she started on the living room. She began with the desk. She emptied the drawers, checked the bottoms, looked for false compartments. Turning to the bookcase, she checked each volume. She searched beneath the cushions of the sofa and chairs. She lifted the rug, peered behind the drapes, ran a hand atop the valances, in desperation thumped the wall for a hidden compartment.

  Annie was standing in the center of the living room, glaring at the empty bookcase, when the phone rang. She started, swung toward the small maple desk. It rang again. She took two quick steps, picked up the receiver. “Georgia Lance.”

  “Ms. Lance”—the voice was high—“this is Esther. Lunch is ready in the breakfast nook off the terrace room. Mrs. Dodd thought you might want to join them.”

  Annie’s hand clenched on the receiver. Come into my parlor… “Thank you, Esther. I’ll be right up.”

  Annie turned off the lights, gave a final glance at the packed boxes stacked near the door and at the unrevealing living room. She was frowning as she hurried down the stairs and followed the path toward the house. The lagoon looked still and hot, the dark water scummed with algae near the cattails. On a far bank, a seven-foot alligator basked in the sun. Annie felt burdened by the sodden humid air and by her failure to find Vanessa’s diary. Either she hadn’t kept a diary or she had hidden it too cleverly to be found. Could she have hidden it in the house? Perhaps in the library? But there was always the possibility it might be found by a member of the family, and surely that was a chance she wouldn’t take.

  Annie reached the side entrance. She walked quietly up the hallway. The house now seemed oppressive despite the splashes of color in abstract paintings and the occasional tall blue vase with flowers. She reached the main hallway and was turning to her left when she paused. No one knew she had been searching for a diary. No one knew she had not found a diary.

  No one knew.

  She heard a murmur of voices. No one knew…

  Annie reached the terrace room and moved purposefully toward a curved glass room at the far end. Jon Dodd rose as she entered. Lillian gestured toward the seat opposite her. Annie saw that only three places were set but she made no comment when she took her seat.

  Lillian smiled. “I’m glad you could join us.” She looked tired, her fine-drawn face lined. Her eyes were somber above her gracious smile, but Annie might have been a most welcome guest instead of an unexpected stranger.

  Annie wondered where Heather was, if she’d withdrawn to her room, refused lunch.

  A slap of shoes on the tiled floor and a squeak of a wheel on a cart announced Esther’s arrival. “Ma’am, Maybelle had to go home.” The cook’s voice was vinegary. She placed a platter of sandwiches, a large salad bowl, and a soup tureen near Lillian.

  Lillian looked concerned. “Is she sick?”

  Esther stood with arms akimbo. “She’s gone home with the misery, her eyes aflame and her hands shaking. I told her she would feel fine if she kept herself away from black magic and talk of the Evil Eye. I told her, ‘Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary, the Devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour.”’

  Annie had a quick vision of the tips of two shoes. She looked under the table at Jon’s brown loafers, rich cordovan, the tips she’d seen reflected in the mirror.

  Lillian offered the platter to Annie, who took two crustless triangles of chicken salad and another of egg salad. Annie handed the platter to Jon.

  Esther turned and walked majestically from the breakfast room, her dignity unimpaired by the slap of her shoes on the tiles.

  Jon selected four halves. “Next thing you know,” his tone was sardonic, “there will be eye of newt or chicken entrails served up with dinner if Maybelle has her way. I think it’s time to let her go, Lillian.”

  Lillian’s brows drew down into a tight line. “Oh, it doesn’t really matter. She needs the job and I don’t want to upset Esther. On the plus side, Maybelle is good humored and sweet and she works hard.” She looked toward Annie. “Forgive us for airing our domestic problems.” She gave Jon a tired smile. “Let it go. After all, we’re leaving in the morning. Here, Georgia, have some gazpacho. Esther brings tomatoes and green peppers from home.”

  Annie smiled. “It looks delicious.” She half filled her bowl with the bright red cold soup, always one of her favorites. She knew it would be a struggle to swallow. She was too aware of the man who sat opposite her, eating with gusto. As she spooned the gazpacho, she slid careful glances toward him. He was not strikingly handsome but he was attractive, with a well-shaped head, thick curly black hair, green eyes, a straight nose, strong chin, full lips. Sensuous lips. He looked rich, confident, and pleased with himself, his gray silk Italian polo perfectly fitted, his white slacks immaculate. Perhaps it was his king-of-the-hill aura that she found most chilling.

  Abruptly his eyes met hers. For an instant she felt a cold and inimical gaze. Then, as he wiped a curl of mayonnaise on his napkin, his sensuous lips parted in a quizzical smile. “How is the packing up coming along?”

  Annie seized her opportunity. She put down her soup spoon. “Oh, it’s slow going. I had another talk with Ginny this morning. The police are really counting on my finding Vanessa’s diary. They think she’ll have written about the man she was seeing. So I have to take my time, look carefully. Ginny said Vanessa always hid her diary, didn’t want anyone ever to see it.”

  “Diary?” Jon’s hand closed around the tumbler of tea.

  Annie looked at the strong fingers, tufts of hair growing between the knuckles. He was right-handed. He had gripped the tire tool with that hand, lifted it, battered the woman whose lips he had kissed, whose body he had known.

  Annie felt a wave of nausea. She put down her spoon. She spoke, knew her voice was thin. “Oh yes, Vanessa kept a diary. Always.”

  Jon lifted the glass, drank, restored it to precisely the same place on the glass-topped table.

  Lillian’s spoon clattered on the tabletop. “Oh, it’s all dreadful. I hope it’s the man they have in jail.” Fear was obvious in her drawn face. “It would be too awful—” She broke off.

  Jon lifted a sandwich. “Stop worrying about Kyle. We’ve always known he was trouble.” His gaze was vindictive. “The good thing is that now she’s broken off with him, whether he had anything to do with Vanessa’s death or not.”

  “I’m not worried about Kyle.” Lillian’s eyes blazed. “If he’s guilty, I hope they catch him. It’s what you might expect from a man who’s unfaithful. There’s nothing worse than a man who cheats on his wife. And nothing sadder than the fool of a woman who ties her life to an adulterer.” She lifted a trembling hand to her throat. “I tried to warn Heather.”

  Anni
e suspected Lillian’s fury was from pain remembered. What had been the reality of her marriage to Howard Whitman?

  Lillian brushed back a wisp of hair, her look forlorn. “I hate seeing Heather so upset. She’s devastated.”

  “Maybe he won’t be so cocky when the police go after him.” Jon ate with every evidence of pleasure.

  Lillian looked outside toward the terrace and the sand dunes beyond.

  There was silence. Annie forced herself to finish another half sandwich. She sipped iced tea and watched Jon over the rim of her glass. His cheeks were patched with red. Annie was aware of the bris tly spring of his thick black hair, the close set of his ears to his head, the deep indentations that bracketed his full lips, the suggestion of a cleft in his rounded chin.

  Lillian ignored her food. “I suppose they will. Anyone could see that he and Vanessa were involved, even though he tried to act like he wasn’t interested.”

  For an instant Jon looked utterly satisfied. For that flicker of time, he gloried in his own cleverness. As quickly as it came, the expression left. “Of course he pretended she was coming after him. How else could he hope to hang onto Heather? It didn’t fool anybody.”

  Lillian’s mouth twisted. “I should have fired her. But that would have been humiliating for Heather. I didn’t know what to do. And Vanessa was so arrogant. It seemed to me that she didn’t care what I saw or did. It was as if she thought her place was secure, no matter what.” She touched trembling fingers to her throat. “I’m sorry, Georgia. Sorry for everything. I’m sorry Vanessa died, but you might as well know the truth. I know she was your friend, but I have to tell you that I disliked her toward the end.” Her gaze was defiant.

  Annie put down her glass. “I appreciate your telling me. It makes everything much more understandable.” Oh yes indeed, it certainly did. “I won’t tell Ginny. I know this is hard for the family. I could tell last night that Heather was unhappy. Well”—Annie’s voice was determined—“I’ll keep looking for Vanessa’s diary. For everyone’s sake. We have to find out who the man was. I better get back to work.” She pushed back her chair. “I’ll let you know at dinner if I have any success.”

  Lillian fingered the blue ceramic necklace at her throat. “We’re out this evening, Georgia. Esther will see to your dinner.” She was distant, perhaps regretting her frankness.

  Annie shook her head. “That’s not necessary. I saw a restaurant at the marina this morning when I picked up the boxes. If I keep after it, I’ll finish late this afternoon. If I find the diary—well, I’d better keep it for Ginny. She’s the one who should turn it over to the police if it comes to that.”

  She knew they were watching her as she left. Neither Jon nor Lillian called after her with encouragement for her search. Outside, she walked swiftly toward the cottages, welcoming the sun and heat. She carried with her that glimpse of satisfaction on Jon Dodd’s face. He was pleased with the snare he’d laid, Vanessa dead, Max accused, Jon at risk, Heather brokenhearted. But there had been an instant of icy stillness when she spoke of Vanessa’s diary.

  Annie’s hands closed into tight fists. She was going to smash his web of deceit, reveal him for what he was, a cruel, ruthless murderer willing to go to any lengths to hide adultery from a wife with bitter experience of infidelity.

  Lou Pirelli drew noisily on the straw, sucking up the last bubbles of his chocolate malt. He dropped the plastic container into the wastebasket where he’d tossed the crumpled sack that had held a double cheeseburger and fries. He swiped greasy fingers on a paper napkin before he picked up the glossy photograph.

  Henny Brawley spoke briskly. “Rita Powell’s with Seaside Realty. She was at a going-away party for a secretary Saturday night at that new supper club that took over at Raffles. Now it’s called Hallie’s Hideaway. You know the place—”

  Lou did. Billy had done good work in catching a murderer and art thief there when the restaurant was called Raffles.

  “—and it’s been redecorated with high-sided cozy booths and tables tucked behind fake palms. Dim lighting. A couple of phosphorescent waterfalls and a central fountain. Very hard to see anybody in there. The idea is that everybody’s slipping away to a secret tryst with a lover. Cheesy, actually. I understand the food’s mediocre, the drinks watery, and the tariff high. Rita was there with a gang from the office. They were crammed at some tables pulled together near the fountain. Her chair faced the last booth on the back wall. She didn’t much like the gal the party was for and she wasn’t paying much attention. She kept looking at the couple in the booth. She’ll swear the woman was Vanessa Taylor. That’s the man.” Henny pointed at the photograph of Jon Dodd.

  Lou knew Billy would be pleased at another piece of information linking Dodd to the victim. But…“No crime to take your wife’s secretary out to dinner. Even if the guy was up to no good, why would he kill the girl?”

  Henny dropped into a metal straight chair, her face thoughtful. “That’s the rub, isn’t it? Even if he was having an affair and didn’t want his wife to know, why murder? Say Vanessa was getting impatient, wanted him to dump his wife, marry her. All he had to say was no.”

  Lou leaned back in his swivel chair. “Maybe his wife would have kicked him out if she ever knew.”

  Henny stared at him. “Out of the mouth of a young cop. Maybe Dodd knew his wife would kick him out if she ever knew he’d been unfaithful. Maybe Lillian Dodd can only be soft-soaped to a certain point. Maybe she holds the purse strings. That would be a motive. That’s what we lack, a motive and some direct evidence.”

  Lou’s face didn’t change, but he thought about the tire prints, felt a glow of satisfaction. They were direct evidence, even though they still had to prove who had driven the car.

  Henny got to her feet. She gave Lou an abstracted smile. “Thanks, Lou. I’ll leave the photo with you. I wrote Rita Powell’s name and address and phone number on the back. I’ve got some calls to make.”

  As the door closed behind her, Lou began to write a report for Billy. He glanced toward the photograph. So this was the dude who owned the silver car.

  Annie stood by the slatted blinds in Vanessa’s living room. She looked out, watching the oyster-shell path. She would have plenty of warning should anyone approach from the house. She didn’t expect Jon to approach the cottage by daylight. She’d have plenty of time to arrange everything. Then she would make one last search for the diary. She slipped her cell phone from her pocket, punched a number now familiar.

  “Broward’s Rock Police.” There was a crisp, resistant tone to Mavis Cameron’s voice.

  Annie wondered how many media demands she’d fielded this day. “Mavis, Annie Darling. I—”

  Mavis broke in, “Annie, I’m glad you called. Handler Jones is after us to find you. Please give him a ring as soon as you can. And, Annie”—her voice changed, the irritation dropping away—“he said Max is doing fine.”

  Doing fine…Shut away. Trapped. Accused. Charged. Doing fine…Annie would have cried, but she was past tears. She was past tact or cajoling or entreaty. “I’ll call him. First, I need to talk to Billy.”

  “He’s not back yet. He should get in pretty soon. I’ll have him call you.”

  Annie gave Mavis the cell number.

  Mavis sounded worried. “Where are you? Handler Jones says Max is afraid you are out trying to be a detective.”

  Annie looked across the lagoon at the Whitman house. “Tell Billy I’m less than a hundred yards from Vanessa’s murderer.” She clicked off the cell. That should get her a return call ASAP.

  Annie was making a final check of the bookcases—she hadn’t packed the books, uncertain if they belonged to Vanessa—when her cell rang. She yanked it from her pocket, took a deep breath, answered, “Yes.” She was marshaling arguments in her mind.

  “Annie, that you?” Handler Jones’s South Carolina accent was as soft as cotton candy, but he sounded tense.

  She moved back toward the front window, once again checked the walk. It
wouldn’t do for this conversation to be overheard. “Yes. I was going to call—” There was a muffled exchange, a scraping sound.

  “Annie”—Max’s voice was sharp, urgent—“where the hell are you?”

  “Max! I love you.” Her voice wobbled.

  “Don’t change the subject. I’ve had Handler looking everywhere for you. I want to know exactly where you are and what you are doing.”

  “Don’t worry.” She tried to put certainty in her voice. “I’m working with Billy.” That was almost true, would be true as soon as Billy called. “We’re setting a trap for the murderer. Billy will be in charge.” Certainly Billy would insist on that. “If everything goes well tonight, you’ll be free in the morning.”

  His silence told her more than he would ever have said, how far he felt from freedom, how little hope he had, how deeply frightened he was.

  “You will be free.” She was fierce. “It’s going to happen.”

  His voice was harsh. “You aren’t taking any chances? Do you promise?”

  She didn’t hesitate. “Not a single chance. Billy will be with me.”

  “Annie, I’ll—” A pause and sounds, perhaps a door opening. Max’s words came from a distance. “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming.”

  Handler Jones spoke quickly. “Got to go now. Catch you later.”

  Annie ended the call. She felt as if she’d thrown a lifeline to Max. Now she had to make good on her promise. He would be hesitant to believe, but deep in his heart he would be counting the hours until morning.

  Annie began to pace, waiting for Billy’s call.

  Henny Brawley wasn’t using her cell phone. She sat at the desk in her lovely long house that overlooked the marsh. The late afternoon sun splashed into the room, pouring light as bright as molten gold. Henny cradled the portable phone, waited for the greeting to end, began her message: “Emma, see what you can find out about the finances of Jon Dodd and Lillian Whitman Dodd. Who has the money? Also, what’s the financial state of his ad agency? See what you can round up.”