Yankee Doodle Dead Page 4

  He scrambled out of the way.

  Annie rolled down her window. “Samuel, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  The young black man gingerly rotated his right foot. “That’s all right, Mrs. Darling.” But his face was grim. And he didn’t return her apologetic smile.

  Annie maneuvered the car around him, parked, grabbed her book bag and purse, and raced across the dusty ground. She burst out of the lot into the garden.

  “Guilty conscience?” came a call from above. It wasn’t quite a snarl, but the voice was as shrill as a blue jay buzzing a cat.

  Annie looked up.

  Edith Cummings, reference librarian, hung out of a second-floor window. She took a deep drag on her cigarette. “Come on up. I believe you’re in charge of the meeting.”

  “Sorry I’m late, Edith,” Annie called.

  She clattered up the back steps, crossed the porch and thudded in a service entrance. When she reached the second-floor meeting room, Edith was still draped over the sill.

  “Come in. Be my guest. All stragglers welcome.” Smoke drifted over Edith’s head. If body language could talk, hers was a snarl.

  “Don’t throw the stub out the window,” Annie warned. “It’s so dry, you could burn the island down.”

  Edith’s feet wiggled in response. Slowly, the librarian dropped down to the floor, clutching a pop bottle that contained an ounce of cola and a soggy cigarette stub. “You’re late,” she said accusingly. “And they don’t even have a smoking lounge anymore. We have to go outside.” She held up the bottle. “A smoker’s best friend. Thank God for an old-fashioned building with windows that actually open. Of course I don’t throw stubs out of windows. Would I want Smokey the Bear sobbing in his beer?” Curly black hair framed a mobile face. Bright dark eyes glinted with amusement, intelligence, and a touch of defiance.

  “Bears don’t drink beer.” The voice was placid, serious, and prim.

  Annie and Edith both looked at the speaker, a demure young woman with wide-spaced eyes.

  Someone less charitable, Annie thought, might deem them empty eyes. In any event, chalk up another clear hit by Pamela Potts, who worked as a temp and volunteered all over the island with unwavering determination to do good.

  Annie had taken a deep breath, wondering, Why me, oh Lord? when Pamela arrived at the first meeting of the committee. But volunteer committee heads do not turn away willing hands, not even when threatened with terminal boredom. And, as a matter of fact, this was only a four-person committee: Annie the chair, Pamela the willing worker, Edith, a library employee coerced into attendance by her boss, Director Ned Fisher, and the absent Sharon Gibson.

  Annie smiled genially. “Hi, Pamela.” And did not utter the Speak Your Mind that begged to be said:

  To Pamela Potts, “And bears don’t talk either.”

  Annie rushed into speech. “I really appreciate your coming—”

  “Thirty minutes late. Three-zero.” Edith wasn’t amused. She darted to a blackboard and drew foot-high numbers and underlined them three times. “Of course, I work here and what is my free time but to be proffered on the altar of total subservience to my paymaster. I was supposed to get off at six-thirty. Does it matter to me that I am trapped here for a committee meeting when my life is just one long round of similar engagements? Why should I want to go home? Could it be to see my loved ones? But what matter they when the Great Library calls?”

  “I’m sure dear Annie had an excellent reason.” Pamela looked at her earnestly.

  Annie felt her cheeks burn, tried to ignore Edith’s suddenly lascivious grin, and fumbled with her book bag, pulling out a covered dish of M&Ms and a tray of rabbit fodder. Plus a covered bowl of yogurt-based dip. She peeled back the foil. Sure, she knew her way around the politically correct snack world. She put the peace offerings in the middle of the table, then grabbed her folders. “Let’s see where we are. Edith, you’re going to print the programs here on one of the computers.” She slid into a chair at the long oak table, hoping to lead by example.

  Pamela obediently plumped into the opposite chair and fixed Annie with that serious gaze.

  Edith skipped toward the table, softly whistling the tune to a supremely vulgar ditty beloved of children on school-bus excursions. She pulled out an end chair with armrests and sprawled in it. “If Pamela gets the ads to me in time, the programs will be ready. If, that is, Herr General Hatch stops screwing things up.”

  Bud Hatch again. Annie sighed. “What now?”

  “Oh, nothing much.” Edith waved her hands airily. “Nothing except doubling my workload. I had the copy all ready to go about the Gallant Women of South Carolina and now, this afternoon, I get an urgent memo, Attn: Program Editor, and a bunch of scrawled notes about Points of Patriotism. Twice as much program as I’d expected. All this, of course, is on top of my regular job. And believe it or not, I have duties here which fill my day quite adequately.” She grabbed a handful of candies and munched morosely.

  Annie turned to Pamela. “How are the ads coming?”

  “Oh, yes.” Pamela opened a notebook. “The general has made all the difference.”

  Edith stopped munching. Her dark eyes glittered with inquiry.

  “He did?” Annie’s question was brusque.

  Pamela preened a little at their attentiveness. “Yes, he talked to a bunch of businessmen, persuaded them to sponsor ads in honor of famous moments in South Carolina history.”

  “Such as?” Edith prompted, her voice silky.

  “The assault of the breastworks at Savannah when Count Pulaski and Sergeant Jasper gave their lives. The upcountry resistance led by Sumter, Pickens and Francis Marion. And, of course”—she gazed at them proudly—“Generals John Barnwell, Stephen Bull and Thomas Heyward, Jr., who distinguished themselves at the Battle of Port Royal. And this is just a sampling from the Revolutionary War.”

  “Just an itty-bitty sampling,” Edith murmured. “Any ads about colonial women, like Judith Giton Manigault, who felled trees to help create a farm? She was here in 1685 when it was a wilderness. She went hungry a lot of the time. After her first husband died, she married Pierre Manigault and kept boarders in addition to caring for her family. Their descendants made Manigault a great merchant name in Charleston. Or how about Henrietta Deering Johnson of Charleston? She was America’s first pastelist. After her husband’s death, she supported her family by painting local dignitaries. She’d make a terrific ad.”

  Pamela’s eyelashes fluttered. She glanced down at her notes. “No. I don’t believe there are any women.” She brightened. “But, after all, the general spoke to his golfing friends at the Whalebranch Club.”

  Annie and Edith looked at each other, then at Pamela. Whalebranch had a men’s course and a family course. It was a fairly new club on the island. When it opened, Max had spoken admiringly of the men’s course, designed by one of the great golf architects. Annie’s reply: “Don’t even think about it.”

  Pamela’s gaze remained placid. And, of course, serious.

  “Do you play golf?” Annie inquired.

  “Golf?” Pamela’s tone put it on a par with bungee jumping. “Oh, no.”

  Edith wasn’t deflected. “What,” the librarian asked patiently, “is the theme of the festival, Pamela?”

  “The Gallant Women of South Carolina.” Pamela beamed, awaiting her gold star.

  “Think about it,” Edith urged.

  Annie and Edith watched as Pamela drew her brows down, pressed her lips together. Finally, she said triumphantly, “Why, we need some ads about women!”

  “Brava.” Edith leaned over and thumped Pamela on the shoulder. Almost gently.

  Pamela smiled happily. Slowly, the smile ebbed. “But the ads I’ve gotten almost fill the program.”

  Annie believed in the art of compromise, though she wasn’t sure Henny would approve. “It will work out beautifully, Pamela. We’ll have a double program and facing ads, one celebrating women, the next men, all the way through
and raise even more money for the library. And Edith, it will work perfectly with that extra copy.”

  Pamela clapped her hands together. “So I need to find an equal number of ads for women. Oh, Annie, you are just an inspiration. I’ll go home and map out my campaign right this minute. There isn’t a minute to lose. I have to get the material to Edith tomorrow. But I can do it.” The last was spoken like the little Dutch boy at the dike.

  Annie waited until the door closed. “Map out her campaign,” she repeated. “I wonder if the general gave her a battlefield commission?”

  “She’ll be cashiered in a bleeping heartbeat when the general finds out what’s going on.” Edith grabbed another handful of candies. “But to get along, you gotta go along. So I’ll do the copy for the Points of Patriotism as well as the Gallant Women of South Carolina. And maybe Pamela will get some ads celebrating women. As the downtrodden well know, half a loaf is better than none even if it clogs in your throat. And in the next lifetime, it’s my turn to be a raja. Or a pasha. Or whoever the hell it is who runs the show.”

  “Hey, Edith, this is going to be great.” Annie pushed aside the dip, found the candy dish. “Imagine the general’s surprise when he sees the program. And he can’t complain because every ad brings in money.”

  “Trust me, he’ll cause trouble about it, one way or another,” Edith cautioned indistinctly, her mouth full of candies. “The general is a very determined man. He hit the library this morning—”

  Even through the closed door, they heard Bud Hatch’s booming voice. “Little Miss Pamela, what a pleasure to see you. And how’s…”

  Edith popped up, crossed to the door faster than Superman after Lois Lane, and eased it open a fraction.

  “…your ad campaign coming?”

  “Splendidly, General, splendidly. I’ve just had—”

  Annie and Edith simultaneously scrunched their faces in dismay.

  “—the most helpful—”

  “That’s fine, little lady, that’s fine. You keep right on, just like I told you, and we’ll have a program that will honor the distinguished heroes of South Carolina. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m making an unannounced swing through the building. That’s the way to keep the troops on their toes.” Brisk footsteps clipped down the hall.

  Edith shut the door, leaned against it. She flicked off the light. “The officious bastard will probably check this room anyway, but I can do without another run-in with God’s gift to white male supremacy.” There was a dark, angry edge to the librarian’s voice, unlike her customary wry, sardonic tone.

  Annie closed her folders. “What happened?”

  Edith glanced at her watch. “Damn. I’m late and I don’t have anything for dinner and Ken’s always ravenous after baseball practice. Oh, hell, I’ll pick up hamburgers. I’ve got to tell somebody or bust—and I can’t lay it on Ned. God knows it’s not much fun to be director of the library with the general horsing everyone around. No, Ned’s got his own problems.” Edith paced across the room, pushed the window open and stood by it as she lit a cigarette, took a hungry drag. “Shit, I’ve got to stop this one of these days. Ken gives me a health lecture every night. Isn’t it something, a twelve-year-old who sounds like the surgeon general? But do you have any idea how hard it is to quit smoking?” She spewed a lungful of smoke toward the open window, coughed. “If you want a blow-by-blow account of how it feels to be a pariah, just ask any smoker. And, of course, our dear general smelled cigarette smoke here the other day and rampaged around like somebody’d gassed him with cyanide.” A vivid smile lifted her frown. “Not a bad idea. You got any loose cyanide pellets at your store, Annie?”

  “Sorry. Fresh out,” Annie said lightly.

  “Everybody covered for me, said they had no idea who’d smoke in the building. Now, I ask you Annie”—smoke wreathed her face—“this building’s been here since 1910. It’s made out of tabby. It’s not a fire hazard.”

  Annie thought about people with allergies and asthma. There were more hazards to cigarette smoke than fires. And that didn’t even address what the smoke was doing—had done—to Edith’s lungs. But one look at the librarian’s glum face kept Annie silent.

  “That doesn’t matter. Ned won’t fire me.” She took a final drag, stuffed the stub into the pop bottle. “But that jerk general’s a loose cannon. Do you know what he’s trying to do to the Haven?”

  The Haven was a community recreation center. Soccer and baseball, Ping-Pong and swimming, arts and crafts for kids who didn’t come from the posh part of the island.

  In a little corner of her mind, Annie considered the word “posh.” It originated from “port out, starboard home” for well-to-do Brits traveling from England to the Empire outposts and back, preferring the shady side of the ship. Its usage spread to mean any upper-crust milieu. Of course, upper crust was an interesting term—

  “Dammit, he’s going to ruin it.” Edith plowed her hands through her unruly hair, until she looked like a cat who’d explored a light socket. “He got on the board—”

  What board wasn’t Hatch on? Annie wondered.

  “—and he’s persuaded a couple of the other men that what the kids need is to be drilled.”

  At Annie’s blank look, Edith stood at attention, saluted. “Marching. Like recruits. Merits. Demerits. Scaling walls. Map exercises. Annie”—it was a wail—“the military’s all right, but we don’t need drill instructors marching the kids around. You know what could happen. Bullies. Hazing. Most of all, it just won’t be the Haven. They can do that kind of stuff in scouting. Or set up a junior ROTC in high school. But the Haven’s always been such a down-home, easygoing place. I always felt Ken was safe there. He’s such a gentle kid and he loves the crafts, and he’s too big for day care and—” She broke off, took a deep breath, coughed. “God, I don’t know how I got off on all that. Sorry. You don’t even have kids.” Her dark eyes flickered over Annie, and Annie got the message only too clearly. She not only didn’t have kids, she had money—actually, Max had pots of it—and if Annie had kids she could stay home and look after them or have a nanny or put a nursery at the back of her bookstore. Annie didn’t have to worry about a twelve-year-old kid with time on his hands and a single mom who had to work.

  Edith charged for the door. “Forget all that. Not your problem. I’ve got to get my stuff and go home. God, I used to like it around here!”

  The door closed behind her.

  Annie took her time gathering up her papers. She felt even more troubled about the upcoming library board meeting tomorrow. And certainly her small gathering this evening hadn’t been exactly cheery, although Pamela would probably do a super job of expanding the program. But Annie couldn’t forget the seething anger in Edith’s voice—or the fear in her eyes. The feisty librarian might well be worried about more than the fate of the Haven. How secure was Edith’s job, if she’d offended the general? And what did she mean about Ned, the director, having his own problems? Annie liked Ned Fisher, who was soft-spoken and kind, and passionate about increasing the library’s collection plus high-gearing the library into the information age. He ran classes on Saturday mornings about the Internet for kids from the Haven. Donated his time and the library computers.

  But Annie knew that Ned Fisher with his shoulder-length curly hair and his wispy handlebar mustache and weedy physique and primary-color trousers, held up by bright, season-oriented suspenders (stars and bars for the upcoming Fourth, dancing jackhammers for Labor Day, whirling pumpkin pies for Thanksgiving, et cetera) definitely was not the kind of man the general admired.

  Okay. Her path was clear now. She had to attend the board meeting in the morning. And if Max’s phone calls had gone well, Henny would have a strong cadre of supporters.

  Annie rewrapped the rabbit food and dip. She popped some candies in her mouth, then her head jerked up as an odd thud sounded. Almost immediately, there was a hoarse shout, then running footsteps. The sounds—whatever they were—had a muffled quality. But they defi
nitely were out of the ordinary.

  Annie was across the room in flash. She yanked open the door. For a moment, she stood uncertainly in the hallway. More shouts. She ran to the end of the hall and a wide window that looked out over the front porch and the drive and lawn. Pushing up the window, she clung to the sill and leaned out.

  Forty feet below, great shards of blue pottery and clumps of dirt and masses of varicolored petunias dotted the crushed oyster-shell drive.

  A teenager on a bike pointed toward the portico, his sun-burned face upturned. “Cool,” he shouted. “Bam. Splat. Any more coming down?”

  “What happened?” Annie called.

  He flipped back a thick mane of blond hair tied in a frizzy ponytail. “Special effects. Big time.”

  Annie wanted to stamp her feet in frustration. “What happened?” she screamed.

  “A big blue pot fell down from the roof. Almost hit an old geezer.” He put his bike on its stand. His hands on his hips, he looked up expectantly. “Hey, there’s three more of ’em.”

  Annie twisted her head, looked up, but the portico blocked her view. She knew what was atop the portico, or what should be atop the portico: four pedestals with four big vases.

  How could a vase have fallen? And who had shouted?

  Annie rushed back down the hallway, calling, “Edith! Edith!”

  “What’s going on out here?” Ned Fisher, the director of the library, was running, too. They met near the main stairway. “Annie, what’s happened?” His head swiveled as he looked up and down the hall.

  Annie had always thought of Fisher as young and eager, but now he looked strained and middle-aged and distinctly worried.

  “One of the vases fell off the roof.” She pointed toward the open window where she’d leaned out.

  “Fallen? That’s impossible! Oh, God. Anybody hurt?” He darted around her, started down the stairs.