Dare to Die Page 5

  Emma glared at Pamela. “Where am I?” It was a snarl.

  Annie felt a curl of delight. What a great start for Friday. TGIF. Doc Burford had been reassuring, but it had worried Annie that Emma had slept most of the time since her injury on Wednesday. Now, finally, Emma was awake. Moreover, she was herself, crusty, overbearing, and demanding despite her pale face, bandaged head, IV, and wrinkled hospital gown. Annie smiled, said softly, “In the hospital.”

  Annie moved closer with her vase filled with pink carnations. She was glad she’d waited until this morning to bring the flowers. They would be absolutely fresh and aromatic. She pushed aside an oblong planter with lovely trailing blooms of lavender. As her hand touched a bloom, she smiled at the sweet familiar smell.

  Pamela took a deep breath. “Oh, what a glorious scent. Liz Montgomery brought the planter. They are her very own Homestead Purple.” Pamela clutched the planter, held it near the bed. “Can you smell them, Emma?”

  Emma’s eyes glittered. “Of course I can smell. It’s my head that hurts, not my nose.”

  “Lavender.” Pamela was as ecstatic as a high priestess at a flower-laden altar. “Lavender has great healing properties.” Her tone was earnest. “Lavender lifts depression, eases nausea, and soothes insect bites. Liz is so thoughtful.”

  “I’m not depressed,” Emma snapped. “My stomach would be fine if I had some food, and I don’t itch.”

  Pamela replaced the planter and reached for the carnations. “Here are Annie’s beautiful carnations.” She held the vase close for Emma’s inspection.

  Emma’s nose wrinkled. “Spicy.”

  Pamela nodded happily. “Carnations and cloves both contain eugenol. That’s what gives carnations their heavy scent. And did you know,” she positively chirruped in happiness, “eugenol is a colorless liquid phenol used as an antiseptic by dentists.” Pamela placed the vase next to the planter. “The Altar Guild sent a dozen red roses”—she pointed to a gorgeous bouquet among several vases on the windowsill—“and they smell heavenly, too.”

  Emma was no longer listening. She lifted a hand to her head. She looked uncertainly around the room, slowly sank back onto the pillow. Her blue eyes glazed over, closed, fluttered open. In a startled tone, she said, “I was walking—” She stopped, as if she’d run into a wall. “Something reminded me.” Her gaze slid from the partially raised window sash to the open bathroom door to Pamela standing near the chair to Annie at the bedside table. “Something…” She shook her head, winced. Her fingers touched the bandage. “What’s this?”

  Pamela poured water from a carafe into a plastic cup. “We had a little fall and bumped our head.”

  Emma’s gaze at Pamela was withering. “We didn’t do any such thing.” She struggled onto one elbow, winced.

  “Do you want to sit up?” At Emma’s nod, Annie pushed the control and the head portion of the bed rose.

  When Emma was comfortably settled, she waved away the water. “Coffee. I need coffee.”

  Pamela looked uncertain. “Do you think that’s wise?”

  “Wise be damned.” Emma’s cheeks turned pink.

  Annie hurried to intervene. Emma liked Pamela, admitted Pamela was true-blue, but even at the best of times Pamela pushed Emma dangerously near the edge. This wasn’t the best of times. “Pamela, maybe we should check with the nurse and see if we can get coffee and some breakfast for Emma, too.”

  Pamela always seized an opportunity to serve. When the door closed behind her, Annie slipped into the chair next to the bed. “How are you feeling?”

  “Like death warmed over.” Emma’s eyes gleamed. “That was the title of a Mary Collins book. She didn’t write enough books.”

  Annie agreed. The California author published six novels to critical acclaim between 1941 and 1949, then disappeared from the annals of mystery writers.

  Emma glowered. “I don’t remember falling.”

  Annie nodded. That’s what Doc Burford had predicted.

  Emma once again gently touched the bandage. “What happened?”

  Annie hesitated, then began delicately. “You were at the store. We were talking about a guest at Nightingale Courts who arrived on her bicycle in the rain.”

  There was no flicker of memory in Emma’s cornflower blue eyes.

  “Ingrid got word her sister was sick. She and Duane had to leave in a hurry. I promised to take care of everything while they were gone. You came out to Nightingale Courts.” Obviously, Emma had no idea she’d been engaged in illegal behavior. Annie made a quick decision. Billy had assumed Emma was engaged in housekeeping. Annie was a firm believer in not disturbing sleeping dogs. “You took towels to Cabin Six”—Annie watched Emma closely—“and the guest found you unconscious. Apparently you tripped and banged your head on the footboard.”

  “I tripped?” Emma’s eyebrows rose. “That was stupid.” She brushed her fingers across the bandage. “How long have I been here?”

  “You fell Wednesday. It’s Friday morning.” As far as Annie was concerned, it was definitely TGIF. She’d always loved Fridays, but this one was special: Emma was going to be fine, Ingrid had called to say that her sister was doing well and might be able to go home this afternoon, the weather was early April perfect, sunny and cloudless, with a high in the low seventies, and tonight she and Max would greet their friends at the harbor pavilion.

  “NOT UNTIL NEXT WEEK?” MAX FROWNED.

  Russell Montgomery swiped at his cheeks with an oversize bandanna, his face red despite the shade from his Panama hat. “The plumber’s tied up in Bluffton. He swears he’ll get to the Franklin house by Monday at the latest.”

  Max switched his gaze from Russell’s defensive expression to the shining columns of the Franklin house. The pillars glistened ivory white, and the moss green of the tabby walls had the muted glow of sunlight slanting through seawater. Max’s impatience seeped away. Russell was doing the best he could and the date that they moved in scarcely mattered. When he remembered how near he’d come to having a broken life—jailed for a crime he hadn’t committed and rescued only by Annie’s bravery and Billy’s honor—a delayed move was no big thing.

  Max’s gaze turned back. His smile was genuine. “Thanks, Russell. Hey, we’re looking forward to seeing you and Liz tonight.”

  Russell’s face stiffened. “Yeah. That’ll be great.” He wiped the kerchief against his neck, stuffed it in a pocket, and forced a smile. “Yeah. And thanks for cutting me some slack on the house. I’ll get it done.” He gave a short nod, then turned and strode away, his work boots crackling on the oyster-shell path. He slammed into his truck.

  Max watched as the pickup disappeared behind the live oaks. Had he offended Russell? Maybe his irritation over the delay had been too evident and the reference to the party seemed patronizing.

  Max shrugged. Whatever. Nothing was going to diminish his pleasure in the party. Wait till Annie saw that banner!

  ANNIE PUSHED THE SIX-PACKS OF COKE DEEPER INTO HER trunk. She wedged the Sprites next to the grocery sacks. When Ingrid and Duane got home, they would find everything in good order.

  Annie glanced at the sky, the sun beginning its afternoon downward arc. Errands and a quick grilled chicken salad at the Cosy Corner Tea Shoppe had taken most of the day. If she hurried straight to Nightingale Courts, she could finish her tasks and have time for a dip in the pool before getting ready for the party. She felt a squiggle of eagerness. Max had firmly insisted she was not to come near the pavilion until a quarter to six. He had everything under control and all she needed to bring was her party face.

  She turned on the motor and drove out of the parking lot. However, she swerved left instead of right, heading for Death on Demand. Some desires could not be denied. After all, Agatha would have missed her. Which reminded her that Dorothy L., their good-humored white cat, also needed playtime this afternoon. In her equable fashion, Dorothy L. was tolerating their temporary quarters at Nightingale Courts with her usual equanimity.

  Annie fou
nd a shady spot beneath a weeping willow in the harbor parking lot. She walked fast to the wooden steps to the boardwalk. The shop fronts curved in a semicircle facing the marina. Gleaming yachts, sportfishing charters, sleek cruisers, sturdy outboards, and sailing dinghies rode at anchor. Laughing gulls cackled overhead.

  Annie stopped at the top of the steps and stared. Women in bright spring clothes milled outside the front door of Death on Demand. She recognized Friends of the Library members, tennis players, golfers, quilters…. High voices rose in good-humored conversation, then there was forward movement. “The doors are open…such a lovely idea…Absolutely novel…”

  Annie followed the crowd and squeezed inside the bookstore. She glimpsed Henny at the cash desk. Their eyes met. Henny grinned and turned a cheerful thumbs-up.

  Laurel’s beguiling voice, soft yet always heard, lifted above the chatter. “My dears, welcome. We have gathered to enhance our minds, bodies, and spirits. We shall explore the yin and the yang.” Her smile was beatific. Her hands rose as if in benediction. Laurel’s spun gold hair was perfectly coiffed in a Peter Pan cut. Her classic features offered ageless beauty. Standing in the center of the coffee bar area, she was elegant in a red silk tai chi uniform, the jacket with traditional loop-and-knot closures, the slacks loose fitting yet beautifully styled, soft white leather shoes a dazzling counterpoint. Her blue eyes were dreamy yet acutely aware of each and every person present. That perceptive gaze reached Annie.

  “Oohh.” Laurel’s sigh of pleasure elicited smiles. “How lovely. Here is our dear Annie. We owe the grace of our surroundings to Annie, who shares with this fortunate island her devotion to books that elevate character, just as tai chi elevates bodies and souls. I have allotted fifteen minutes before we begin our tai chi”—it was as if she bestowed a treasure sought by many and achieved by few—“for each of you to purchase the book of your choice and to view the mystery paintings above the fireplace.” Now her glowing smile was almost beatific. “You will note the lovely watercolors. Many of you may not know the history behind the paintings. Members of our island watercolor society volunteer to provide the paintings. After the contest ends every month, the paintings are raffled off by the society to raise money for scholarships. This month our artist is Gus Winship, who teaches art in the high school. Aren’t his paintings wonderful!” Laurel waved a graceful hand at the watercolors.

  Every month Annie hung five paintings, each scene representing a critical moment in a superb mystery. Henny Brawley was the runaway winner of the contests, which afforded coffee for a month and a free (noncollectible) book. Henny hadn’t paid for a cup of coffee in months.

  Obediently, the tai chi neophytes turned toward the paintings. Appreciative oohs and ahs rose.

  In the first painting, a petite silver-haired woman with sparkling black eyes and a turned-up nose held a pistol with casual ease and dropped several boxes of bullets into the pockets of her red shirt-jacket. A flaming redhead in an orange Auburn T-shirt and floral stretch leggings gingerly gripped a handgun. A rifle leaned against the wall near a stack of moving boxes.

  In the second painting, the wine cellar was dark and shadowy, lit only by a candle set on a small table. A man tied to a chair was dressed in finery, the latest fashion in doublet and breeches. His face looked highborn but there was an air of dishonor about him. An imperious figure, with aristocratic features, spare high cheekbones, and zeal-burned blue eyes, stared at the captive coldly. Three men stood at the foot of the stairs, a huge redhead, a slender young man with intelligent dark eyes, and an elegant blond dandy. Behind them on the steps, a pale young woman in a green velvet dress with a white collar watched with haunted eyes.

  In the third painting, a fiftyish blonde with a face well seasoned by living trained a shotgun on a trim man in a dark suit. A slender blonde, perhaps ten years younger, used her foot to nudge a gun out of his reach on the floor. The well-kept interior of the trailer, with comfortable chairs and the casual disarray of happy living, books, and children’s toys, was in stark contrast to the burning and dangerous fury in his grim face.

  In the fourth painting, a gorgeous blonde grappled with a Rhodesian ridgeback in a graveled parking area, skinning her elbows and ripping the knees of her jeans as the lean, powerful dog struggled to escape.

  In the fifth painting, a dark-haired leggy young woman ran full tilt down an aisle between stacked merchandise in a department store storeroom, throwing picture frames, candles, wreaths, Christmas ornaments, pots and pans as she tried to escape her pursuer.

  Annie looked at the uplifted faces and felt a surge of hope. Maybe this month the contest would be won by someone other than Henny. After the watercolors were admired, the women fanned through Death on Demand, eagerly scanning the shelves.

  Annie approached her mother-in-law in awe. “We’ve never had this many customers in April.”

  Laurel beamed. “Seek and ye shall find.”

  Annie almost pointed out that Laurel was mixing cultures, then, as often in dealing with her mother-in-law, Annie remained mute.

  Laurel traced a finger delicately across the green-and-gold dragon embroidered on her jacket. “Everything has gone splendidly.” She turned to the coffee bar to pick up a notepad.

  Annie looked at the coffee bar. Agatha stretched on her back atop her red cushion, eyes half open, paws apart. If she’d been in a cartoon, an appropriate caption would read: Glutton at rest; Indifferent to owner’s absence.

  “I poached a chicken breast for Agatha with a sauce of mashed sardines. Of course”—Laurel’s laughter was light—“she may be a wee bit demanding at future meals. However, I knew”—Laurel’s gaze was bright—“you wanted only the best for Agatha. Such a sensitive creature.”

  Annie resisted an impulse to pour ice water over Agatha. It had taken months to wean her overweight feline from soft food to a twice daily portion of reduced-calorie dry food, months punctuated by sulking and outright attacks. A wee bit demanding…

  Laurel touched Annie’s shoulder. “My dear, such rigidity. I have a solution. But first”—she tore a sheet from the notepad and gave it to Annie—“here are the calls you’ve received. I kept a careful record. I invited everyone who called to join us for our exercise and meditation and to bring a friend. In addition, I made a few calls of my own.” She waved her hand at the filled aisles.

  The cash register sang. Annie hurried to help Henny at the cash desk. As Henny scanned credit cards, Annie handled cash payments. There were two left in line when a gong sounded.

  Startled, Annie jumped and grabbed at the countertop to keep her balance.

  Henny pushed a sales receipt to the customer and leaned toward Annie. “Tai chi encourages balance, harmony, grace, and beauty.”

  The last customer pushed a twenty-dollar bill and a paperback edition of Tim Myers’s A Mold for Murder toward Annie. “Tuck a credit in my book. I’ll pick it up after our class.” She turned to hurry to the coffee bar.

  The gong sounded again. A hush fell.

  Laurel gestured to Annie with the mallet. “Come forward, Annie. I know you will want to help me lead your wonderful patrons in our exercises. Please, let Annie through.” She swung the mallet at a bronze gong on the center table and the deep resonance filled the room.

  Women moved aside and a path opened.

  Henny whispered, “Five hundred and forty-two dollars and sixty-three cents.”

  Annie folded the sheet of phone messages, tucked it in her pocket, and swept to the coffee area. She embraced her mother-in-law and turned to face the assembled tai chi enthusiasts.

  Laurel folded her hands and bowed. Hands folded, everyone bowed to her in turn.

  A beat late, Annie clasped and bowed.

  Laurel’s tone was warm, inviting, as soporific as a gentle waterfall. “We’ll begin—Annie, dear, place your feet parallel, toes pointed straight. Bend your knees. Wrists loose, allow your arms to float…”

  ANNIE TURNED THE VOLVO INTO NIGHTINGALE COURTS. Five hundred and for
ty-two dollars and sixty-three cents…She wondered if she’d ever get the hang of Stork Spreads Its Wings. How did anyone wave one hand in one direction, the other in another, bend knees, point one foot out, lift a foot as if swinging over a log, and breathe at the right time? If the class continued, would Laurel teach it?

  Laurel in Death on Demand every week?

  Five hundred and forty-two dollars and sixty-three cents…

  As Annie slid out of the car and tucked the keys into her pocket, she touched folded sheets of paper. She pulled the phone messages out of her pocket. Laurel had pointed with pride to her careful recording. The messages were liberally annotated with Laurel’s thoughts.

  Annie stopped in the shade of a willow and laughed aloud. Max would love this message with Laurel’s editorial additions: “The dentist’s receptionist called to confirm your appointment. She sounds like a Viagra ad. There is nothing sexy about a filling. I almost suggested she consider voice lessons to achieve a more professional tone—cheery but bland—then decided the moment might not be opportune. Your appointment is at ten o’clock Monday. I assured her you would come.”

  Laurel had adorned a message left by Pamela Potts with smiley faces, exclamation points, and heavily scored underlining with the editorial comment: “Pamela is such a dear, but she does reiterate, doesn’t she? Below is an expurgated version of her call.”

  As she read, Annie heard Pamela’s earnest voice in her mind: “When I helped Emma dry off after her shower this afternoon, she was quite gruff when I accidentally touched her back. That’s when I saw the bruise below her right shoulder blade. I was shocked, a big, purple spot with a circumference of almost four inches which as you will admit—”

  Annie’s smile faded.

  “—is rather large. I told the nurse. She looked at it and said it was a bruise. I replied that I knew it was a bruise. The nurse said people who fall often sustain many scrapes and bruises and the attending physician would have noted the bruise and concluded it posed no threat. The nurse said the bruise would go away.” Annie imagined Pamela’s soft voice, aggrieved and impatient. “Of course, it will—”