Dead, White, and Blue Read online

  Annie smiled and moved with him. They walked hand in hand to a honeysuckle-draped trellis at the end of the terrace and entered the fragrant bower. She stepped into his arms, lifted her face to his. His fingers trailed across her bare shoulder, down one arm. “Time to go home.”

  “Aren’t we staying for the fireworks?”

  “Our fireworks are better than theirs.”

  • • •

  Max Darling loved golf, but he didn’t love the game enough to make a seven A.M. tee time, which was the only faintly civilized way to play a round on a sea island in July. Sweating like a pig had never been high on his list of priorities, and by eight A.M., any physical exertion guaranteed buckets of sweat. He bent his knees, leaned slightly forward, waggled his new Callaway putter. Nice weight. Thock. The ball curved over a simulated hump in the indoor green, ran true to the hole. But what else was new? When a man takes refuge in his office from sweltering heat and has nothing to do but putt, he gets pretty good on the indoor green. Not that it ever translated to the course.

  Max retrieved the ball, returned the putter to his red leather golf bag propped next to the door, wandered disconsolately to his desk, tossing the ball in his hand. To say things were slow at Confidential Commissions was an understatement that bordered on the absurd. To be painfully honest, he hadn’t had a project since he’d helped an islander trace some gold stocks found in a trunk in the attic. Instead of a gateway to a fortune, Max told him the ornate gold-leafed stock certificates were suitable for framing as mementos, but in terms of cold hard cash, they were maybe worth five bucks apiece at a flea market.

  Max plopped into his red leather desk chair. Another hour to go before he met Annie for lunch at Parotti’s. Actually, she’d offered him a salad at the bookstore coffee bar, but he well knew that he’d scarcely have a minute with her. He wanted companionship, encouragement. He wanted out of an office that had all the excitement of watching a slow drip from a faucet. His ebullient secretary Barb was gone on a three-week holiday to the coolness of Minnesota, which made him the sole lonely occupant of the office. It was a deep dark secret from Annie, who believed life was real and earnest and work meant work, but he and Barb played a mean game of chess on slow days. He picked up a yellow legal pad. Maybe he needed to create a new ad for Confidential Commissions. The one currently running in the Gazette obviously wasn’t producing clients. Something jazzy. He began to write: Need to Know? Confidential Commissions handles the most delicate questions with complete confidentiali—He scratched through, started again. Got a Problem? Confidential Commissions Specializes in Discreet Inquiries… He X-ed out the line. Sounded too much like a PI agency and he was not a private detective. The state of South Carolina had specific requirements to be a licensed PI, and he didn’t qualify because he had no experience in law enforcement. Max considered himself a problem solver, which was a nice, ambiguous term. Max squinted, wrote fast, then nodded in satisfaction as he drew a box around the copy:

  Anxious?

  Need to know?

  Come to Confidential Commissions

  Perfect. He ripped off the sheet and turned to his computer to e-mail the new ad to the Gazette.

  A bell sang as the front door opened. A quick clip of high heels.

  Max came to his feet. He believed in karma. Was a bewildered, threatened young woman—preferably beautiful and wearing too much makeup—hurrying to him with an appeal? If she wore a red pillbox hat preferably with a black mini veil, a popular style in Erle Stanley Gardner tales, his day would be complete.

  His visitor rushed through his office doorway.

  Max’s eyes widened. Young, that was for sure. Very young. A girl, actually, despite the absurdly high heels and tight cream jersey blouse above a cerise miniskirt so short he quickly raised his eyes to her face. Max grew up with three sisters and was familiar with brushes, pencils, and palettes of beige, brown, and black. Annie was slapdash with makeup, a quick brush with an eyebrow pencil, a whiff of powder, lips lightly touched with gloss. The girl in the doorway had likely spent a good deal of time at her bedroom dressing table. Her eyes were rimmed with black. Purple crescents beneath the lower lids melded into a thick tannish orange covering. Crimson lip gloss was drawn overlarge. Bright blond hair in tight curls reached to her shoulders.

  Max looked beyond the garish makeup and saw a roundish face that still held an imprint of childhood. The violet eyes looked desperately uncertain, the overdrawn lips defenseless. “Hello.” His voice was gentle. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Max Darling. Can I help you?”

  She clasped her hands together. “You find out things, don’t you?”

  He looked at her gravely. “Sometimes. What do you want to know?” And who are your parents and why are you here? But surely this information would come. He gestured toward the comfortable rattan chair that faced his desk. “Come and sit down and introduce yourself.”

  She edged past him, settled in the chair, gripped the arms. “I’m Hayley Hurst.”

  Max made the connection. He had been vaguely aware that Wesley Hurst and his ex-wife Vera had teenage children.

  The girl looked at him, her eyes huge. “I know Rachel at school. I’ve heard about you and Annie.”

  Max smiled inside. Annie adored her young stepsister and was always eager to know the latest at Broward’s Rock High School. The admiration was mutual, and Max didn’t doubt that Rachel had oversold both him and his abilities.

  Hayley stared at him with disconcerting intensity. “Rachel says you figure things out. Rachel says you’re smarter than any private detective. I need somebody to find out something for me. How much do you cost?”

  Max felt uneasy. What possible reason could a kid have to ask for the kind of inquiry he could make? He watched her closely, but kept his tone light. “That depends upon what I’m asked to find. A Honus Wagner baseball card? Who Justin Bieber’s dating? Time of high tide tomorrow morning?”

  She ignored his effort at humor. “I want you to find out where somebody’s gone. I’ve got five hundred dollars.”

  He wasn’t going to take a child’s money, probably her savings from birthday and Christmas presents. In fact, he very likely shouldn’t encourage her to tell him whatever worry had brought her here. She had a family. He leaned forward. “Look, Hayley, whatever the problem is, you better talk to your folks. I doubt that I can help you.”

  “I can’t.” Her face drew down in misery. “Mom won’t ever let me talk about Shell, and when I try to talk to Dad, he gets mad. And ever since the Fourth, Jed gets this funny sick look when I mention her and he tells me to shut up. He hates her for helping me be who I am. He’s awful about her. That last day he was threatening to—Well, he was mean. Anyway I can’t talk to anyone about her and I only want to know where she went.” Her lips wobbled. “And why she hasn’t called me.”

  “Shell’s gone somewhere?” It wasn’t smart to get mixed up in family squabbles, but if all the kid wanted was a phone call, maybe he could help. Frankly, nothing Shell Hurst would do would surprise him, and certainly she and Wesley weren’t on good terms at the dance.

  Hayley nodded energetically, scooted to the edge of the chair. “She’s been gone since the Fourth.” She reached into an oversized rainbow-hued plastic beach bag. “I brought some pictures of her. I thought maybe you might need them if you look for her.” She held out three photographs. “I took them out of one of her scrapbooks. She’s a movie star. Maybe she’s gone back to LA.”

  Max had heard the island gossip about Bucky coming to the island with a “starlet,” but he doubted that Shell qualified as a movie star. He picked up the photographs. All were excellent: Shell holding a tennis racket with a breeze stirring her magnificent mane of reddish brown hair, the tennis blouse and skirt flattering to her leggy figure; Shell in a bikini looking seductively over one shoulder; Shell astride a horse in a costume reminiscent of a John Wayne Western. She might not be a movie star, but she had looks and sex appeal.

  Max took the photos,
placed them neatly in the center of the desk. He couldn’t envision wandering around the island, showing these pictures. Wesley Hurst had always seemed like an amiable man, but Max had no trouble picturing Wesley charging him like an enraged bull.

  “You haven’t talked to her since July fourth?” Max didn’t need to look at a calendar to know today was Monday, July 9. “That’s not very long ago. When did you last see her?”

  “That night. She went out a little before eight and she never came back. Dad doesn’t care. He said she doesn’t need to ever come back. He said he’s damned sure she will when she stops raising hell wherever she is.”

  Max wondered if Hayley realized how much she’d revealed about her father’s second marriage. Wesley Hurst was clearly at odds with his wife and not just at the dance. The fact that he wasn’t upset suggested Shell might have left following an argument.

  “She didn’t give any hint about where she was going?”

  “I didn’t know she was going anywhere.” Hayley blinked back tears. “I was at Dad’s house and I saw her go out that night on her way to the club and she was gorgeous. She was wearing the prettiest silk dress with big, wide sleeves and the skirt almost to the floor and lots of colors. I went over to the club for the fireworks but I didn’t try to look in at the dance. I was with some girls. Anyway, the next day I waited until noon to go over to Dad’s house. She wasn’t anywhere so I went up to her room and she wasn’t there. Her bed hadn’t been slept in and I didn’t find the dress in her closet.”

  Max didn’t change expression. He doubted that Wesley Hurst would want anyone to know he didn’t share a bedroom with his second, much younger wife. “Did your dad look for her?”

  “He was already gone. I didn’t know what to think when I didn’t find Shell. I asked Wilma. She’s the housekeeper and she said she didn’t know from nothing and maybe I shouldn’t say anything to anybody. Wilma said Dad had left early to go out in his boat, the Vagabond. I can see Dad’s new house—I mean, it’s not new, but Dad bought it after he married Shell—from my room in our old house. It made Mom pretty mad to have him next door, but he liked being on the beach. Anyway, I was in our old house, that’s where Mom and Jed and I live. I watched out my window all the rest of the day. When Dad came home, I ran over there and asked him about Shell. That’s when he said he didn’t know where she was, but as far as he was concerned, wherever it was, she could stay there with whoever she was hanging out with. Then he slammed his car door and told me to go home.”

  “So”—Max kept his tone matter-of-fact—“you last saw her the evening of July fourth. You’ve called her but have had no response.”

  “I’ve called her cell a bunch of times. She never answers. Of course”—her voice wobbled—“maybe she sees it’s me and she doesn’t want to talk to me, but I just want to know she’s all right.”

  “She may have left the island for a week or so. Maybe she’ll come back soon.” Max thought his comment was singularly unhelpful.

  “I guess so.” Hayley twined a wiry curl around one finger. “Dad thinks she’s run away with somebody. But see, if she did, they went in her car.” Hayley leaned forward. “She drives a new green Porsche Carrera. Why wouldn’t she leave in the guy’s car? I think Dad has it wrong.” Hayley’s eyes skittered away. “But sometimes she talked to some guy on the phone. She called him cherie, but it was kind of like she was having fun with him. I didn’t see her take a suitcase when she left that night.”

  Max didn’t change expression. If Shell planned a getaway, she could easily have packed earlier and put a suitcase in the trunk of her car. “I expect she’ll be back in a few days.”

  “Won’t you help me?”

  Max cleared his throat. “Hayley, sometimes grown-ups need a little space. It sounds like Shell and your dad may be out of sorts with each—”

  She jumped to her feet. Tears spilled down her cheeks. “Rachel said you were wonderful. I guess not.” She teetered across the room in the high heels, and in an instant, the front door slammed.

  • • •

  Parotti’s Bar and Grill was packed. Wide-eyed vacationers stepped gingerly in the sawdust on the bait side of the restaurant, wrinkling their noses at the aroma released when a fisherman lifted a cooler lid, seeking black bass, grouper, squid, snapper, or chicken necks. Opposite the row of coolers was a wooden bar that would have looked at home in a dusty B Western.

  Max looked across the table at Annie. “Hayley brought pictures of Shell. Hayley says Shell’s car hasn’t been back at the house. Shell drives a new green Porsche.”

  Owner Ben Parotti, dapper in a Tommy Bahama Hawaiian shirt and navy slacks, hurried up to refill their iced tea glasses. “Everything up to snuff?”

  Annie doubted that his better half, Miss Jolene of the tea shop background, would have approved of the inelegant query, but Ben’s transformation after a late marriage from a bibbed-overall gnome to a snazzy restaurateur was miracle enough. Ben had agreed to expand the menu to quiches and add tablecloths, but he had drawn a line in the sawdust over the bait shop. Bait he had always sold and bait he would always sell, and the smell be damned.

  Annie made a happy circle with a thumb and forefinger. “Tell Miss Jolene the new seafood stew is the best ever.”

  Ben beamed. “She’s the best ever.” And he was gone.

  Max waited until he was out of earshot to finish his summation. “I feel like a rat. She ran out crying. But this has to be a matter for the family.”

  “What are you going to do?” Annie added butter to a slice of jalapeño corn bread.

  Max laughed. “Maybe I’ll check InTrade to see what the odds are Shell flounces back looking like the cat that ate the canary.”

  Annie understood his lack of concern. Shell and Wesley were obviously at odds. Shell was the kind of woman who wouldn’t care what anyone thought, and if she wanted to get away for a while and let Wesley stew, she would be gone in an instant.

  But if all the kid wanted was a phone call… “Max.”

  His smile slipped away, replaced by a quizzical, wary expression, the kind a man gets when a woman says, “Honey, there are a few things I want you to do this weekend.”

  Annie tried a winning smile. “Of course you won’t get involved in a family dispute, but that doesn’t mean we can’t try and find Shell and ask her to give Hayley a call.”

  Max folded his arms. “Shell Hurst got the kid’s calls. If she wanted to answer, she would.” Max shook his head. “Annie, if there’s one thing we all know, it’s butt out of people’s marriages.”

  Reluctantly, she knew he was right.

  • • •

  Annie raced ahead of Max on the oyster-shell path to the gazebo, moving fast to elude the kamikaze attacks of mosquitoes and no-see-ums. Mosquitoes honed in on her like honeybees to nectar. Max strolled without hurry, not a man to run in the heat. After dinner on summer nights, especially in muggy August, they sometimes went to the beach for a nighttime plunge, but often they ended the day in their screened-in gazebo, looking out at the moonlit-dappled garden, aromatic with sweet-scented pittosporum and honeysuckle.

  Just for an instant, she remembered another August when Max had disappeared and police dogs sought his scent at a cabin where a beautiful young woman lay battered to death. She turned, waited for him to catch up, and reached out to grip his hand. For a time, she’d thought he was dead. For a longer time, she’d feared that he would be tried for a murder he hadn’t committed. Now she knew that safety and permanency were always an illusion, that happiness could vanish without warning.

  His arm slipped around her shoulders. “I’m here.”

  Her words came slowly. “I was thinking about that August.”

  “Don’t.” His tone was gentle. “Think about now.”

  Now, this minute, she was safe and happy with Max’s arm around her shoulders. In a while, no hurry, they’d return—okay, maybe she’d dash ahead of him to avoid the after-sunset swarms of mosquitoes—to their antebellum house, a
welcoming house with comfortable furniture and heart pine floors and books everywhere. All was well for them, but Hayley Hurst’s visit to Max evoked a past filled with hurt and fear. She took a deep breath and looked at Max. “When you disappeared”—the words were hard to say—“I looked for you. Everywhere. I would never have stopped looking. Max, nobody’s looking for Shell.”

  “Annie”—he was impatient—“if ever a woman can take care of herself, it’s Shell Hurst.”

  3

  Annie leaned against the railing and looked out over the marina, admiring boats small and big. Someone had told her the gleaming white tri-deck motor yacht that had arrived from Singapore was valued at more than ten million dollars. Crewmen were washing the decks, and water from several hoses glistened in the sunlight like arcs of diamonds. She scanned small boats and found her favorite, Just Plain Vanilla, a twelve-foot yellow-hulled sailboat. A family with three teenagers was readying to cast off. The scene changed every day, but there was a sameness, too, water slapping against the pier, the satisfying scent of the sea, porpoises frolicking in the Sound. This morning she couldn’t take her usual pleasure in the familiar, cherished view.

  She frowned and hurried to the boardwalk that ran in front of the crescent of shops. At breakfast, Max had refused to even consider quiet inquiries seeking Shell. Annie felt an urgency to do something. Maybe she felt guilty that she didn’t like Shell. Maybe she empathized too much with a teenager’s plaintive request. Maybe she was having a Pam North intuitive moment. Men dismissed women’s intuition. The facts, ma’am. Pam North in the Frances and Richard Lockridge mysteries was ditzy, but she made unexpected mental connections because of what she had seen and heard.

  Annie stood very still. When she looked back at the evening when they’d last seen Shell, she had a sense of darkness, of wrongness. An evening designed for fun against a romantic backdrop had held dark moments, and that was the evening when a woman known to stir passions was last seen. The more she thought about the Fourth of July dance, the uneasier she felt.