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  “What’s going on here?” Jon Dodd no longer looked comfortable and at ease. His light eyes flickered from one face to another, came back to Billy.

  Billy Cameron had never looked more like the cop that he was. There was no trace of fatigue or uncertainty in his face or in his stance. His thick blond hair gleamed in the sunlight. His blue eyes were grave and steady in a solid, dependable face. He stopped a scant foot away from Jon. “Jon Dodd.” His tenor voice was stentorian.

  “Chief Cameron, please. What do you want?” Lillian lifted a trembling hand in appeal.

  Billy gave her a swift look, shook his head, turned his eyes back to her husband.

  “Look here.” Jon’s cheeks flushed an angry red. “We’re getting ready to leave town. Move those cars.”

  Billy pointed at the Lexus. “Jon Dodd, is that your car?”

  Jon lifted his chin. “You know damn well it is.”

  Billy half-turned, gestured to Lou.

  Lou moved fast, ignoring the exclamation from Lillian. Lou walked straight to the right rear wheel. He knelt, studied the cast, thumped the tire with a triumphant fist. “A perfect match.” He rose held out the plaster cast to Billy. “This car was a half mile from the murder cabin Monday night. I took a cast of the tire print there. I also have a witness who saw the car. This car also left a track at the cabin where the man currently being held for the murder of Vanessa Taylor was dumped unconscious Monday night.”

  Henny came forward, a firm hand on the elbow of her companion. Her voice was loud and clear. “Don’t be nervous. All you have to do is identify the man you saw with Vanessa Taylor.”

  Rita Powell looked straight at Jon Dodd. She stood stiff and straight, her eyes wide and staring. She pointed. “That’s him. That’s the man. I saw him.”

  “Oh my God.” Lillian held her hands up to her face.

  Dodd took one step back, another. “Cameron, I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but this is outrageous. I’ll bring a lawsuit. I’m ordering you to get off this property.”

  From the top step, Maybelle’s husky voice was a keen. “There’s those that claim there’s no such thing as the Evil Eye. They say”—her sidelong glance at her aunt was defiant—“they’s no truth to potions and spells and such. But I can tell you that I know the Evil Eye when I see it and he turned the Evil Eye on Miss Vanessa. I saw him. I saw Mr. Dodd and his face was all cold as the underside of the dark beyond and he was glaring at her and then she was dead. He had the Evil Eye.”

  Annie took a deep breath, pushed past the pittosporum shrub, moved swiftly to the center of the drive, only a few feet from Jon Dodd. She pulled the small book with the floral-patterned cover from her pocket. “You thought Vanessa’s diary was in her cottage. I said I’d packed it away, but I didn’t. I kept it with me. I wanted to read it, but I knew I shouldn’t. I knew it should be left to Ginny. I put it in my purse. When the cottage burned, I knew it had to be because of the diary. When I got back to my cottage, I got the diary out and I read it.” She held the book up. “It’s all in there. How you promised Vanessa you were going to marry her. How you asked her to help you play a trick on Max Darling. How she went to his office and showed him a snapshot and said her brother was missing—”

  Jon’s cheeks flared red. Sweat beaded his face. He took another step back, another.

  “—and how she wanted him to meet her at Dooley’s Mine to hunt for him. It’s all in there, how she pretended to be crazy for Kyle so that no one would know about you and her. How she thought it was funny to see Heather so upset and Kyle trying to tell Heather he wasn’t after Vanessa and she wouldn’t believe him—”

  “Damn you, Jon.” Heather’s cry was one of sheer fury. “I should have known. You married Mother for her money and then you couldn’t stay out of bed with that tramp. She thought the money was yours, didn’t she?” Heather was derisive. “Big-deal Jon. Vanessa thought she was going to marry a rich man, but if you left Mother, it would just be you and Vanessa. You might have liked playing with her, but you didn’t want to lose everything. You decided to kill her.”

  “Jon…” Lillian’s voice shook.

  Jon hunched his shoulders, stood like a bull tormented by banderillas. “There’s nothing to this. Nothing at all. They don’t have any proof.”

  His wife stared at him. “I saw you last night.” Lillian’s face might have been chipped from marble. “I saw you coming back from Vanessa’s cottage. The phone rang and woke me up and you weren’t there. I got up and the flames were already shooting up and I went to the balcony to look out and I saw you coming back toward the house.”

  Esther Riggs’s somber voice rang out. “‘The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked; who can know it?”’

  Billy Cameron strode forward. “Jon Dodd, I arrest you for the murder of Vanessa Taylor on the night of Monday, August 16…”

  11

  Cameras clicked. Lights flashed. Tape whirred. Max was oblivious to reporters and onlookers, shouted questions, outthrust hands with microphones, television cameras. A car slid to a stop at the curb, Handler Jones driving, Max in the passenger seat. The passenger door opened and Annie was on the sidewalk, flying toward Max, arms wide. Her face had been scrubbed of the garish makeup, the wig and glasses discarded. They came together as if they’d never been apart. This moment was theirs alone, the world shut out. He buried his face in her sweet-scented hair; his lips moved against her cheek. “Oh God, Annie. I love you. I love you.”

  Tears streamed down her face.

  “Don’t cry. We’re okay now. You saved me.” He held her as if he’d never let go.

  “All of us together did it, Max. Billy and Lou and your mom and Henny and Emma.” She felt as if her heart was a balloon, bigger and bigger, filled with so much joy it must burst.

  They held hands as they moved down the sidewalk, the questions following them. At the car, Annie was ready to climb into the back seat, Max close behind, when a petite TV reporter cried out, “Mr. Darling, don’t you have anything to say to the world? It looked pretty black for you. Did you ever expect to be freed?”

  Max stopped, his hand on Annie’s elbow. He looked at the reporter, his blue eyes dark with memory. “I was innocent, but I didn’t see how it could ever be proved. Do you know what happened?” A huge smile wreathed Max’s face. “My wife and my friends and the police chief all set to work to find out the truth. I’m free because a first-rate police officer was too smart to be fooled by a killer. I’m free because I have friends who believed in me and worked for me. Most of all, I’m free because I have the smartest, bravest, most wonderful wife in the world.”

  Laurel Roethke smoothed back a tendril of white-gold hair. Her dark blue eyes gleamed with satisfaction as she bent close to Annie near the coffee bar at Death on Demand. “My dear, you are simply the cat’s whiskers. Max has no idea about the party. I met the Stutz Bearcat man this morning at the ferry and that adorable car is now parked at Parotti’s at the ready for the birthday festivities. That dear man may be back as well. I invited him.” Laurel looked distracted for a moment, a smile curving her lips. She came back to the present. “The party Web site has been such fun I intend to maintain it. I’ve had several hits from Siberia. I believe I shall call it the merry-ever-after site. Of course, I’ll feature the winners of our quiz. The table winners tonight will compete for a grand prize. Here’s the question: Who sketched a design for a hovering machine that he called a helix pteron and when did he do so?”

  Annie put a finger to her lips as Max approached, carrying a crystal plaque. “Later,” she whispered to Laurel. Annie was as happy and frazzled as a mother duck ready to launch a brood on a triumphant sail. The wonderful week of Max’s rescue was culminating in the best birthday party ever, though Max thought they were gathering at the bookstore to honor Billy Cameron. Indeed they were going to honor Billy, prior to departure in a double-decker bus hired from Savannah to convey the group to Parotti’s.

  Laurel turned. �
�Max, what a gorgeous plaque. Is Billy here yet?”

  Ingrid Webb craned to look toward the front of the store. “Here he comes.” The glad shout was raised by Henny Brawley, elegant in a pale violet georgette dress as summery as an August evening. Emma Clyde’s orange and gold caftan swirled as she moved forward to greet the police chief and his wife.

  The store was full of friends—Vince Ellis, Edith Cummings, Duane Webb, Pamela Potts. Standing near the coffee bar was Handler Jones.

  Annie reached out, took the plaque. When Billy and Mavis reached the coffee bar, Annie held the plaque high above her head.

  “Listen up, everybody.” Max grinned and picked up a chair, stamped it on the floor for quiet.

  Amid shouts and clapping, Annie held up the engraved plaque. “Billy, this is for you.”

  “I am thrilled to make the presentation.” Henny Brawley stepped forward, glasses perched on her nose, and read, “To Captain Billy Robert Cameron, chief of police, in honor of his devotion to duty and determination to execute his responsibilities without fear or favor. Presented on this day of August 28 by grateful residents of Broward’s Rock, South Carolina.”

  Billy’s face burned apple red. “I just did my job.” Mavis, lovely in a gentian blue dress, clapped loudly, eyes bright.

  “That, dear Billy,” announced Emma in her gruffest, deepest voice, “is the point. You did your job.”

  Max stepped forward, gripped Billy’s hand. “If you hadn’t”—and Max’s voice was grave—“I wouldn’t be here tonight. Thank you, Billy.”

  A cheer erupted.

  Emma fluffed spiky orange hair. “Pass it around, Billy. I want everyone to see the mark in the right-hand corner, the mayor’s stamp making this an official proclamation.”

  As the plaque went from hand to hand with appreciative oohs and ahs, Annie glanced toward Laurel. It was almost time to announce the arrival of the bus and their departure to Parotti’s. Max was going to be surprised.

  Laurel saw her glance, drifted near. “Leonardo da Vinci,” she whispered. “In 1493.”

  Annie looked at her mother-in-law blankly. Had the moment come? Had Laurel’s ever tenuous connection to reality been sundered? Had the trauma of this past week been too much for Laurel to survive?

  Laurel gave Annie a sweet pat on her cheek. “My dear, the helix pteron. Now, isn’t it time for us to leave?”

  “Yes, but let’s wait until everyone’s spoken to Billy.” Annie wanted Billy to have his moment in the sun, his well-deserved, well-earned moment in the sun.

  Handler Jones paused near Annie. “Wonderful start to a wonderful night. And I’m glad to have a chance to tell you how much I like your store.” He pointed toward the watercolors. “Neat idea. You can’t beat suspense novels. Those are tops.”

  Annie recognized the tone of a mystery cognoscente. “Do you know them?”

  “Oh, sure. The Thirty-nine Steps by John Buchan, The African Queen by C. S. Forester, Thank You, Mr. Moto by John P. Marquand, Above Suspicion by Helen MacInnes, and The Light of Day by Eric Ambler.”

  Annie grinned. “Pick a book, any book. Free coffee for a month, and”—she lifted her voice in a glad shout—“come on everybody. The bus is here. On to Parotti’s. It’s time to party.”

  Pink tendrils of sunrise graced the sky as Max turned the car into their drive. They’d laughed and sung, tangoed and marched, played games, hugged friends. Max had even managed a ragged “When the Saints Come Marching In” on a borrowed trumpet. As Max eased the car into their garage, Annie wriggled expectantly in her seat. She couldn’t keep her secret any longer. “There’s a special present for you upstairs.”

  Max turned off the motor. “The party was my present. And being with you.” There was a world of gratitude and love and joy in his eyes.

  “There’s one more present in our room. The special one.” Annie slipped out of her seat, called over her shoulder. “First one upstairs gets to open it.”

  They ran through the kitchen and terrace room. Of course, Annie let Max surge past her on the stairs.

  Max stood in the center of their bedroom, holding a small, slender package wrapped in gold foil. He held it up, shook it. Something inside slid back and forth, made a thonking sound.

  Annie hurried to stand next to him.

  He ripped off the paper, opened the box, lifted out a worn black key. He stared at it in puzzlement.

  Annie’s smile was tremulous and loving and giving. “The key to the Franklin house. For you. For us. Happy birthday, Max!”

  About the Author

  An accomplished master of mystery, CAROLYN HART is the author of sixteen previous Death on Demand novels. She is also the creator of the highly praised Henrie O series. One of the founders of Sisters in Crime, she lives in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma.

  www.carolynhart.com

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

  Also by Carolyn Hart

  Death on Demand

  Death on Demand

  Design for Murder

  Something Wicked Honeymoon with Murder

  A Little Class on Murder

  Deadly Valentine

  The Christie Caper

  Southern Ghost

  Mint Julep Murder

  Yankee Doodle Dead

  White Elephant Dead

  Sugarplum Dead

  April Fool Dead

  Engaged to Die

  Murder Walks the Plank

  Death of the Party

  Henrie O

  Dead Man’s Island

  Scandal in Fair Haven

  Death in Lovers’ Lane

  Death in Paradise

  Death on the River Walk

  Resort to Murder

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  DEAD DAYS OF SUMMER. Copyright © 2006 by Carolyn Hart. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  Microsoft Reader February 2007 ISBN 978-0-06-129076-3

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