Murder Walks the Plank Read online

  In unison. “—is not delivered on Sundays—”

  “—so it was probably not a serious offense. And though she felt that she was totally undeserving as her many duties had prevented her from being of any assistance to you in preparing for this grand fund-raising event for the literacy council”—Ingrid stopped for breath—“she accepted thankfully as she’d wanted to go so badly but she couldn’t afford a ticket though she understood why the prices were so high, after all a benefit couldn’t raise money any other way, but this was one of her favorite organizations and if there was any way she could repay you, she would certainly do so.”

  “Free ticket?” Annie’s tone was blank. “But, Ingrid, I didn’t.”

  “Didn’t what?” Ingrid finished her coffee, leaned over the counter to rinse out the mug.

  “I didn’t send her a free ticket. That’s so odd.” Annie shook her head. “Oh well”—she made a mental note to be sure and tell Pamela to look elsewhere for her benefactor—“it doesn’t really matter.”

  The front door opened. Max called out, “Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum. Excuse me, Pepsi.” He held up a brownish sheet of paper, styled to look like old parchment. “Treasure Maps at the ready.”

  Annie swung up the central aisle, hand outstretched, the puzzle of Pamela’s free ticket receding in her mind. Probably on one of Pamela’s many rounds of good works, she’d mentioned the cruise—which was admittedly expensive—and revealed her yearning to go. Somebody had done a nice thing, sending Pamela a free ticket.

  Water slapped against pilings, the cheerful cadence punctuated by dull thumps as the Island Packet bumped against the tires that buffered the pier. The evening sun streaked the darkening water with bronze. Laughing gulls swooped near, their distinctive cackle almost a match for the frenzied blare of conversation aboard the boat. Passengers crowded the rails, many in costume.

  Annie cradled a heavy megaphone. From her vantage point behind the pilothouse, she looked down at the lower deck. Big bunches of helium balloons, red and gold and orange, bobbed from their tethers at the aft railing. She breathed in the scent of seawater and diesel fumes and gloried in the carnival atmosphere.

  She spotted two Hercule Poirots (precise mustaches with carefully waxed points and shiny patent leather shoes were a dead giveaway), one Father Brown with the distinctive round black hat, several white-haired Miss Marples clutching knitting reticules, and—Annie was amazed—a bewigged and begowned barrister with an uncanny resemblance to portly Charles Laughton, who played Sir Wilfred Robarts, K.C., in the film version of Agatha Christie’s immortal Witness for the Prosecution.

  Pamela Potts was outfitted in a prim nurse’s uniform and carrying a small black bag. Perched on one shoulder was a figurine of a small yellow canary. Annie nodded approval. Mary Roberts Rinehart’s nurse sleuth, Hilda Adams, of course. Annie was impressed. Pamela must have visited with Laurel about creativity. The canary bobbing on her shoulder—sewn there? taped?—was certainly an imaginative stretch for Pamela. Her cheeks pink with excitement, Pamela waved.

  Annie waved in return.

  Pamela shouted, “Thank you so much, Annie. I’m having a wonderful time.”

  Annie’s mouth opened and closed. This was not the moment to get into a discussion about Pamela’s free ticket. As soon as the boat got under way, Annie would find Pamela and explain.

  Annie lifted the megaphone, then lowered it. More than a dozen people were still on the dock, waiting to board. She leaned over the rail for a better look and her eyes widened in surprise. Meg Heath, of all people. She was in a wheelchair and thin as a stick figure but waving and smiling. Her son pushed the wheelchair up the slope of the gangway. A sullen frown marred his good looks. His glum expression was mirrored on his sister’s discontented face. Claudette Taylor, Meg’s secretary, carried Meg’s purse. Claudette, too, looked grumpy. Annie felt like shouting down a reminder that this was a party, but that would sound surly and she was too excited and happy to waste even a minute worrying about ill-tempered voyagers. They’d bought tickets, all to the benefit of the literacy council, and if they didn’t want to have fun, that was their problem. In any event, Annie would make a special point of finding Meg and saying hello. Meg knew how to have a good time. Right this minute she was calling out an animated hello to Henny. Meg hadn’t been to the store for a long time, but her secretary often dropped in to pick up the latest Books on Tape. Meg liked her mysteries sassy and bold: Hiaasen, Evanovich, Friedman, and Strohmeyer.

  Annie lost sight of Meg and her group. Everyone else she saw looked happy. She permitted herself to relax and enjoy the festive scene. Standing near the stern, the center of an admiring crowd of men (so what else was new), was her oh-so-creative mother-in-law. Only Laurel could look fetching in a long steel-gray gown. She carried a Ouija board and a flatiron-shaped board piece. Laurel was undeniably Dorothy L. Sayers’s inimitable Miss Climpson in Strong Poison. However, the judges would surely deduct from Laurel’s score for her white blond hair, which, though drawn back, bore little resemblance to Miss Climpson’s steel-gray spinster’s bun.

  In any event, the roaming judges committee, made up of Edith Cummings, a sharp-tongued research librarian; Emma Clyde, creator of the Marigold Rembrandt mysteries; and Vince Ellis, editor and publisher of the Island Gazette, would be challenged to narrow the best costumes to a final five.

  She and Max, of course, were disqualified to compete—after all, she would be handing out the prizes—but Annie was pleased at their costumes, he in a plaid shirt and brown knickers, a smiling Joe Hardy. She felt as stylish as Nancy Drew in a long-sleeved blue dress and patterned silk scarf straight from the original cover of The Secret of the Old Clock. Annie couldn’t, of course, turn her gray eyes to blue, but her curly blond hair, while not titian, might qualify as bobbed and peeked becomingly from beneath a blue cloche. Annie had never been too clear on precisely what constituted bobbed hair. She confused it with marcelled. However, she felt as one with fabled Nancy, independent, curious, and ready for adventure. Now if she had a sporty blue roadster and chums like Bess and George…Of course, she had Henny and Laurel….

  Annie’s smile slipped away as she spotted her father. She’d expected him to show up in costume, perhaps wearing a tweed jacket and cap, pipe in hand, a stalwart Richard Hannay, John Buchan’s quintessential British man of derring-do. Ever since Pudge had arrived on the island, finding her after many years of separation, he’d enthusiastically participated in all the store events. His rounded face, gray eyes, and sandy hair flecked with gray were so familiar to her now. She knew her own face was a feminine version of his and took pleasure in that knowledge. Yesterday she’d almost rung him up, suggested he come as Fenton Hardy, but she’d smiled and decided to wait and see which sleuth he chose to represent. She tried not to admit how disappointed she was that he’d not bothered with a costume. His navy blazer, crisp chinos, and polished cordovan loafers were perfect for an evening out, but he might have been anywhere.

  It was obvious, even from a distance, that his thoughts were far from the evening’s entertainment. He gazed at his companion, his good-humored face nakedly vulnerable, eyes both hopeful and anxious. One hand touched her sleeve, the other brushed at his sandy mustache, a gesture he often made when under stress.

  Sylvia Crandall was, as always, elegantly dressed. Tonight’s green linen pantsuit emphasized her midnight dark eyes and willowy grace and made a bright foil for sleek brown hair glossy as polished mahogany. Sylvia would have been strikingly attractive except for the frown that twisted her heart-shaped face. She jerked away from Pudge, walked fast, head down, toward the stern.

  Annie glowered. What was her problem? People having fun? Was she too sophisticated to engage in selfless tribute to a literary tradition? Did she think it gauche to dress up in costumes and play mystery games?

  Pudge hurried after her, his expression bewildered and uncertain. He bent to look in her averted face, pointing at the gangway. Sylvia clutched at the gold beads of her
necklace, shook her head.

  As certainly as though she’d stood beside them, Annie knew Pudge had asked Sylvia if she wanted to leave. He was willing to abandon the mystery cruise if Sylvia wished. Annie felt a hot prick of tears. She blinked them away. Wait a minute. What was going on here? Up until this very moment she’d managed to stay cool about Sylvia. After all, if her father fell in love, she should be happy for him. Of course she should. And would. She wanted Pudge to be happy. That admirable thought, however, was followed by hot dismay at the prospect of Pudge giving his heart to arrogant, remote, self-absorbed Sylvia Crandall. Moreover, their relationship was threatening Rachel’s hard-won equilibrium.

  Annie leaned over the railing for a better view. Yes, there was Rachel, crouched in the shadow of a lifeboat, still and quiet, a picture of forlorn misery. Annie felt a hurt deep inside. She’d grown accustomed to her stepsister’s smile, her eagerness, the lively warmth in her brown eyes. Instead Rachel once again looked like the too-thin, distraught girl who had burst into Death on Demand to plead Pudge’s case after Annie had turned him away, too resentful to forgive the years of separation. Dark eyes brooding, angular face stiff beneath her mop of dark curls, Rachel watched Pudge and Sylvia.

  Annie’s mouth opened. Closed. If she called out, it would not only be Rachel who turned to look up. Rachel would feel humiliated before Sylvia. That would exacerbate her fierce resentment. Passionate, emotional Rachel had been through so much turmoil already, her mother’s murder and the shock of crime that had touched her school. She’d survived with courage, but her wounds still ached. Rachel adored Pudge and Annie and Max and Death on Demand, Annie wasn’t certain in which order. Rachel had been excited about tonight’s cruise. If she hung back in the shadows, glaring at Pudge and Sylvia, Rachel’s evening would be ruined. But maybe she would be distracted when the action began.

  Annie lifted the megaphone. “Mystery lovers!” Annie hadn’t intended to shout, but her voice boomed, startling her and everyone aboard. She rushed to take advantage of the abrupt silence and upturned faces. “Welcome to our first annual—” This wasn’t in the script but why not? Obviously, tonight was a great success. People were still streaming aboard. Ingrid stood at the gangway, welcoming the last of the arrivals. Annie smiled at her longtime clerk and had no doubt that Ingrid’s hat, which resembled a man’s black bowler with a feminine feather, prim gray suit, and cotton blouse with a lacy collar represented Stuart Palmer’s sleuth, former schoolteacher Hildegarde Withers. “—mystery cruise. The buffet is in the main lounge on the lower level. Dinner will be served until eight-thirty. Sodas and iced tea—sweetened and unsweetened—are available. Our interactive mystery—Heist—will be presented at thirty-minute intervals on the forward deck. The narrator is Detective Inspector Maguffin, aka island actress and mystery expert Henny Brawley. Inspector Maguffin will sketch the history of a daring jewel theft from a fabled Lowcountry plantation. Questions may be posed to the suspects. Write your solution to the mystery along with your name, address, and telephone number on a verdict card. The cards are available from the bookstalls set up at the stern on each deck. There is a limit of one verdict card per person.” It wasn’t that she had a dour view of human nature. She was simply a realist. If she didn’t have a rule, at least one crafty player would submit a card with each suspect’s name. “Also available at the bookstalls”—would this subliminal reminder encourage book buying?—“are Treasure Maps. The first five sleuths to find the hidden treasure chests will receive a free book of their choice from one of the bookstalls. And now”—she saw the gangway being pulled back—“welcome to Murder Ahoy!” She raised a hand to signal departure. A cheer rose on the night air as the Island Packet pulled away from the dock, its whistle shrilling.

  Annie clicked off the megaphone. She swung about, ready to hurry to the main deck. She needed to talk to Rachel, though she hadn’t an inkling what to say. And she’d find Pamela and…

  Three figures blocked her way.

  Two

  RACHEL STOOD IN THE SHADOW of the lifeboat as the Island Packet moved slowly out of the harbor. It was sickening to see Pudge grovel in front of that woman. Rachel deliberately avoided looking at Sylvia, not wanting to recognize the distress that made the attractive woman look old beyond her years. She concentrated on Pudge. Last week when they’d talked about the mystery cruise, he’d promised to meet her at the stage to watch Annie’s play, saying he’d bet six chocolate sundaes against a root beer float that he’d turn in a verdict card before she did. She’d grinned, knowing he would let her turn her card in first and take her to the soda fountain six times to pay off the bet. Despite the thick heat of the August night, she felt cold. He wouldn’t meet her now. She knew it without any doubt. He’d forgotten all about his promise.

  Sylvia turned, took a step toward the bow, calling out, “Cole, we’re over here.”

  Rachel edged farther back into the shadow. The hard ridge of the lifeboat poked into her back. She glared at the figure moving in a reluctant shamble toward Pudge and Sylvia.

  Cole Crandall wasn’t much taller than Rachel. He looked unfinished, all elbows and knees, in a floppy pink shirt, baggy black shorts, and high-top black sneakers. He might have been nice-looking if he didn’t have such a morose expression. The thought was grudging, because she loathed him and his mother, and his face was just like his mom’s, heart-shaped with dark eyebrows like streaks of coal, mournful dark eyes, and a pointed chin.

  Sylvia looked hopefully at her son. “We’re so glad you decided to come after all.”

  Rachel twined a strand of hair on one finger, pulled it to her lips. So Sylvia and Pudge had asked Cole to come with them. Resentment burned deep inside. Pudge hadn’t asked her. Cole obviously had blown them off, yet here he was on the cruise.

  “Yeah.” His answer was clipped.

  Sylvia managed a lopsided, uncertain smile. Her gaze was pleading. “Cole, Pudge thought it would be fun if we all went together to watch the mystery play—”

  Rachel felt as if her heart were twisting inside her. They were asking Cole to go with them.

  Cole didn’t look toward Pudge. It was as though Pudge didn’t exist and there was simply space next to his mother, not a stocky middle-aged man with anxious eyes.

  “I’m with some guys. I only came because Stuart’s dad had some extra tickets and wanted a bunch of us to use them. Anyway, they’re waiting for me.” He turned away, his gaze once again avoiding Pudge, and hurried toward the bow.

  The invisible man looked after him.

  Rachel wanted to shout to Pudge that he shouldn’t care so much. Cole wasn’t worth caring about. He was a jerk. A nobody. Pudge took a step toward the bow, then Sylvia caught at his sleeve. Pudge would go after Cole, but he wouldn’t remember his promise to her.

  Rachel wormed to the other side of the lifeboat, fled toward the stairs.

  Annie took a step back. She wasn’t facing the Three Furies, but she had a definite sense of unfinished business about to be dumped in her lap.

  “Annie!” Emma Clyde, the imposing island mystery author, gestured imperiously. “We need you on the bow.” The ocean breeze billowed her black-and-silver caftan. Tonight Emma’s springy curls were as silver as mercury. Her nails were silver also. Magenta lip gloss was the only touch of color. And, of course, the glacier blue of eyes that could quell any talk show host.

  “Annie.” Mrs. Ben clamped reddened hands to her white apron. “You got to come down to the galley. Five of those treasure hunters are poking around by my stove and I can’t heat up beans with the galley full of squatters.”

  “Annie”—Mavis Cameron, wife of the island’s acting police chief, was apologetic—“there may be a problem at the bow. Billy sent me.” Mavis looked young and pretty in a candy-striped dress.

  Annie prioritized. Billy Cameron was not an alarmist. She held up a hand to Emma and Mrs. Ben, turned to Mavis. “What’s wrong?”

  Mavis pointed forward. “There’s a rowdy bunch of guys right at
the front railing. High school boys. A lot of pushing and shoving. Billy thought he smelled beer. Anyway, he said if it’s all right with you, he’ll ask the boys to help him patrol the boat, tell them there’s been word of a pickpocket and he’d like for them to take up posts around the boat and keep their eyes peeled.”

  Annie had provided free tickets for Billy and Mavis. The salary of an acting police chief didn’t run to seventy-five-dollar tickets. Bless Billy for taking a busman’s holiday. And for the wit and guile to channel rambunctious teenagers. “That’s a great idea, Mavis. Please tell Billy I appreciate it.”

  Mavis’s smile was warm. “He’s glad to help. He was afraid things might get out of hand and somebody could get pushed overboard. Besides, he’s not in a hurry to arrest Stuart Reed. Though,” she added quickly, “he certainly will if he has to.”

  “That Reed boy”—Mrs. Ben was diverted—“needs a comeuppance. He and a bunch of his friends were throwing food and stuff on a Friday night a couple of weeks ago—and that’s our biggest night of the week—and it made a big mess, and a can of pop broke the window of the jukebox. When Ben called his papa about it, Mr. Reed said he’d pay for any damage, and Ben said that wasn’t the point, that Mr. Reed needed to settle that boy down, and Mr. Reed said boys would be boys and Ben said maybe so but he didn’t want any of those boys to show a face inside Parotti’s ever again. Mr. Reed got mad and hung up. If Stuart Reed’s on board he better watch himself, or Ben will put him off on a sandbar and let his papa figure out how to get him back.”

  “In the meantime”—Emma was brusque—“Jolene”—she nodded her silver curls at Mrs. Ben—“has a galley to tend and Henny’s short an actress for the play. She got a call on her cell from the gal who’s supposed to be Periwinkle. She’s at the emergency room with her husband, who was doing wheelies on his motorcycle and broke his wrist.”