Dare to Die Page 6

  At this point, Laurel had put within parentheses: (Pamela takes discursiveness to a height not achieved by even the most skilled politicians.)

  “—go away. The point is, how did it get there? As I understand the accident, Emma fell forward, not backward. Please call when you have a moment. I am uneasy. I hope you can reassure me. Did Emma perhaps lurch backward, then fall?”

  Annie had planned to carry in the groceries. Instead, she took time only to grab a stack of fresh towels and hurry to Cabin Six. White curtains were closed in the front windows. No green bike was propped next to the steps.

  She unlocked the door and called out, “Housekeeping,” to no response. As she stepped into dimness, she felt a prickle down her back. Just so had Emma Clyde entered this room Wednesday morning.

  Annie flicked on the light. The room was cheerful, wicker easy chairs with red and yellow cushions, oak bed with a green comforter, lacy eyelet curtains fluttering from the draft of the open door, three lime green walls, the fourth a marsh scene with fiddler crabs in the mud and a yellow-crowned night heron stalking forward, one foot forever lifted in a step.

  Annie left the door ajar. Though she still held the towels, she didn’t move toward the bathroom. To her right, a TV sat on a dresser. A compact refrigerator was tucked between the dresser and a chest. To the left of the entrance, a small table sat beneath the window. The bed and two wicker chairs completed the furnishings.

  Annie figured distances. Emma was found crumpled near the foot of the bed. If she had fallen backward and struck the edge of the dresser, she wouldn’t have been found on the floor near the bed. The edge of the dresser was sharp and couldn’t account for a large circular bruise beneath her right shoulder blade.

  There had been traces of blood on the footboard. If Emma fell full force and struck the footboard, she would have been fallen precisely as she was found.

  Why did she fall? The vinyl tiled floor was clear and smooth. Unless something was lying there and she’d tripped, the floor afforded no reason for an accident. The floor was clear when Annie knelt beside her. Could Emma have had a dizzy turn? That was possible.

  Neither dizziness nor tripping explained a bruise on her back.

  Suddenly Annie heard a long-silent voice from her memory: A hypothesis must include analysis of all possibilities. She remembered her mystery-loving uncle Ambrose from whom she’d inherited Death on Demand and his insistence that all successful mysteries accounted for every fact.

  She’d failed Uncle Ambrose’s test. She hadn’t even considered the most simple explanation: Emma’s bruise had no connection to Cabin Six. She might have thumped against a nozzle in her hot tub or been the unfortunate recipient of a whack from a broom handle when standing in line at the supermarket. That bruise could have occurred a dozen different ways prior to Wednesday morning. Annie blew out a breath of relief.

  Whenever the bruise occurred, it hadn’t been caused by her fall.

  Unless…Annie looked at the space behind the partially open door. When Emma entered the room someone could have stood behind the door. As it shut, the unseen figure could have jumped, fist bunched, slamming Emma forward.

  However, and she could almost smell Uncle Ambrose’s pipe smoke, that possibility required a desperate need by the assailant not to be seen. Iris Tilford had no reason to hide her presence in the cabin she’d rented. In any event, Billy had checked and Iris was nowhere near the cabin when Emma fell.

  Did Emma surprise an intruder?

  Annie looked across the room. Between the bathroom and a kitchenette, a sliding glass door opened onto a small deck that overlooked the marsh. It took only a moment to reach the door and grab the handle. The door opened easily. It had not been locked. Which proved nothing. Perhaps it had been unlocked for days or weeks.

  If it were open Wednesday morning, an intruder could have entered that way.

  But Iris had found nothing out of order among her few possessions.

  Annie slid shut the sliding door’s lock. Whatever the fact Wednesday morning, no one could now enter the cabin from the deck. Confident she’d hear Iris on the cabin’s front steps, Annie checked the top drawer in the dresser. There were a green-and-white-striped blouse and white cotton slacks. Two bras, two panties, and a neatly folded turquoise shorty nightgown completed the inventory.

  Annie closed the drawer. The other drawers were empty. She found nothing in the chest. The duffel was empty, too. A frayed navy blue Atlanta Braves sweatshirt hung in the closet. In the bathroom, there were a comb, hairbrush, deodorant stick, makeup kit, toothbrush, and toothpaste.

  There was nothing worth stealing. Iris’s belongings were remarkable only for their meagerness. Annie added a towel to the rack and turned away. Whatever road Iris had traveled in coming to the island, she’d carried little with her except perhaps memories and sadness. As Billy had made clear, there was no mystery about Iris Tilford.

  Envisioning a lurking assailant in her rented cabin made no sense.

  ANNIE CLUTCHED HER CELL PHONE AND REMINDED HERSELF to be patient, but she paced restlessly as she listened to Pamela Potts’s high, sweet voice: “…good of you to call and I suppose you are right. Emma could have suffered that bruise another time. I’m afraid we’ll never know for sure. Emma doesn’t remember anything about being at Nightingale Courts. Although it seems an odd coincidence and I thought,” Pamela’s tone was faintly accusing, “you were always suspicious of coincidences.”

  Once again Annie felt uneasy. Was the bruise a coincidence? If Emma had lost her balance in the cabin, she could have lost her balance another time. Annie brushed away the memory of Ben describing the author as sure-footed as a mountain goat. Pamela began to reiterate everything they’d discussed. Annie looked yearningly at the open car trunk and sacks waiting to be carried inside. Her patience expired. She interrupted. “Tell Emma I’m glad she’s feeling better and we’ll miss seeing her tonight. Oh, golly, Pamela, I have to run. I’ll talk to you at the picnic.” She clicked off the cell, feeling vaguely guilty. But she had much to do and little time.

  As Annie retrieved the last of the groceries, Iris rode up on her bike.

  Iris braked. She stepped off the bike and asked softly, “Is the lady okay?”

  Annie balanced the sack as she closed the trunk. “Emma’s doing fine. She’s conscious and none the worse except for a headache.”

  Iris looked relieved. “I’m glad.” She looked toward her cabin. “Has anybody asked for me? An old friend said she’d come and I hope I’m not late.”

  “No one has been around for the last hour or so.”

  Iris nodded and swung onto the seat. Dust puffed as she rode on the crushed oyster shells.

  In the office, Annie unloaded the sack. As she placed the last Sprite in the refrigerator, tires crunched on the oyster-shell drive. Annie hoped no one was arriving to check in. There was no reservation for the night. She hurried to the window and saw Cara Wilkes’s late-model white Lexus convertible. Cara had represented the buyers of Annie and Max’s previous house on Scarlet King Lagoon. Annie wondered if there was some kind of problem with the new owners. The car didn’t stop at the office. Cara drove straight to Cabin Six.

  Annie smiled. It was nice that someone was welcoming Iris home.

  WHEN THE LAST CLEAN TOWEL WAS SHAKEN AND FOLDED and the fresh stack placed in the housekeeping closet, Annie brushed back a limp tendril of hair. She was hot, tired, and thirsty. She glanced at her watch. A quarter to five. She intended to arrive at the pavilion at a quarter to six. It was going to be a great party. She didn’t have to worry about having a good time. She always had a good time with Max. That morning she’d unpacked a new Irish linen shirt trimmed with open-work embroidery and a long swirly skirt with matching embroidery above the hem. The shirt and skirt were the delicate light blue of a robin’s egg. Her new sandals were a perfect color match. Max would reach out and take her hand and tell her she was beautiful and his eyes would tell her more.

  She locked the housekeepi
ng closet and hurried across the hummocky grass toward their cabin. She had time for a swim before she showered and dressed. The cabins at Nightingale Courts curved in a semicircle near the marsh. Three years ago Ingrid and Duane had built a pool in the center of the grassy area in front of the cabins between the palmettos that lined the oyster-shell drive and a stand of pines.

  In the cabin, Annie changed into her swimsuit, slipped on thongs. She didn’t bother with a cap. As she came down the steps, a towel over one arm, she glanced toward Cabin Six. Cara’s white car was gone. The green bicycle rested on its kickstand. A solitary figure stood on the deck behind Cabin Six.

  Annie was halfway to the line of palmettos when she stopped. She turned to look. The deck behind Cabin Six was no longer visible. But she knew what she’d glimpsed in her peripheral vision, a thin, forlorn, too-alone woman staring out at the marsh, shoulders drooping, a picture of defeat and sadness.

  Annie wanted a quick dip, a plunge that would refresh her for a festive evening. She had no time or energy to waste.

  A long-ago memory bobbed, bright as a beach ball bouncing in the sun, her mother’s sweet and thoughtful voice when Annie had sloughed away a phone message from a too-earnest, too-plump, too-hungry-for-friendship girl in her class: “Don’t pass by on the other side.” Annie returned that call and discovered a bright, sweet, kind girl who’d grown to be a charming woman whose friendship Annie still treasured.

  Duane had asked Annie to look out for the girl in Cabin Six. Duane had known sadness. Ingrid’s kindness had lifted him up.

  Annie turned and walked slowly toward Iris’s cabin. It was all well and good to offer understanding. Yet, what right did Annie have? She was a stranger. How could she help Iris? What was she going to say? She skirted around the side of the cabin. The nutrient-rich scent of the marsh was pungent and wonderful to Annie though outlanders sometimes called the smell a stench. The tide was out. Fiddler crabs swarmed on the chocolate brown mudflat. Egrets stepped high, beaks flashing to snatch a crab.

  Iris heard the crackle of the oyster shells. She turned. The late afternoon sun wasn’t kind to her sallow, worn face, emphasizing dark shadows beneath her eyes.

  Annie reached the steps to the deck. “Hey, Iris.” Silence fell. Feeling uncertain and intrusive, Annie forced a smile. “I’m going to take a swim in the pool and wondered if you’d like to join me.”

  “A swim?” Iris spoke as if the words were strange.

  Annie was suddenly certain it had been a long time, measured both in time and emotion, since Iris had slipped carefree into the inviting blue waters of a swimming pool.

  Iris’s thin face held an instant of eagerness, then the light in her eyes faded. She massaged one wrist. “Thanks. But I”—she stared down at the old planks—“I guess pretty soon I’ll ride my bike for a while.”

  It was a lame excuse.

  Annie understood only too well. She knew—no one better—that Iris had no swimsuit. “Please join me. I hate to swim alone. I know you’re only here for a few days and you may not have a swimsuit with you. Ingrid—she’s the lady you rented from Wednesday night and I’m helping out while she’s gone to be with her sister—has a stack of suits in the”—Annie caught herself in time from saying the one-piece suits were in the snack shop. She’d be sure and remove the sale price if Iris agreed—“office and they’re for guests who forgot to bring a suit. I’ll run and get one for you.” Annie’s smile was warm. “The water will be perfect.”

  Iris stared for a moment like a child offered an unexpected gift. Her sudden smile was shy. “That would be very nice.”

  Chapter 5

  The water was perfect, not too warm, not too cold. With her dark hair sleek against her head, Iris looked younger and almost carefree.

  Annie concluded, “…and I inherited the bookstore from Uncle Ambrose. Max followed me to the island.” She’d run away from New York and Max because she cared too much. She was sure they didn’t belong together. Max was rich; she was poor. Max was laid-back and casual; she was intense and hardworking. Max enjoyed subtleties; she was direct and open.

  “Now you’re married.” Iris trailed fingers through the water. “It’s like a fairy tale. And you lived happily ever after.”

  Annie’s throat felt tight. “Happily ever after…” Her smile disappeared. Once, she’d trusted that her life and his were charmed. Not now. Never again. Life and happiness were fragile at best. Sunny days could be gone in an instant.

  Iris’s dark eyes were empathetic. It was as if a cloud slid across the sun and both of them were in a shadow. She looked at Annie gravely. “What happened?”

  Annie gazed at Iris’s burdened face, too old for its years. Annie was often asked about a time that was seared in her memory. She was quick to discern the curiosity of those seeking sensation, much like TV viewers feasting on the raw emotion and exhibitionism of reality shows. Instead, Iris looked at Annie with eyes that had known sorrow and fear. Was it better to push pain deep inside, hope that time would blur memory? Or was it better to confront the past?

  Annie ducked beneath the surface, came up with water streaming down her face, fresh and cool. She’d not intended to reveal her heart to a stranger when she invited Iris to swim. “Last summer Max was accused…” She felt again the terror of sultry August days when Max was suspected of murder and damning facts piled against him until there seemed no way to save him.

  Iris floated in a plastic ring and listened. When Annie finished, Iris spoke slowly. “Everybody has troubles. Even people like you. I guess I thought I was the only one.”

  “Do you have troubles?” Annie’s voice was gentle.

  Iris’s face crinkled in thought. “Things are better now. I belong to AA and NA.” Her face held a question.

  Annie reached over the water, patted a bony arm. “I never had to fight that kind of battle. You have great courage.”

  “One day at a time.” The oft-used words were a bulwark, a hope, a prayer, a plea. Iris looked past Annie at the rising tide and the spartina grass wavering in the onshore breeze. “I have things I need to clear up. Sometimes I don’t remember things. When I do remember, I’m not sure what really happened. I’ve tried to tell the people I hurt that I’m sorry. That’s why I came home. There are people I need to see.”

  Annie remembered Cara Wilkes’s sleek white convertible. Cara hadn’t stayed long. After she left, Annie had found Iris sad and alone on the deck.

  Iris looked wry. “See, I’ve got things to ask, but nobody much wants to see me. I bring back things they don’t want to remember. Maybe I should leave.”

  Annie wondered where Iris would go and to what kind of life?

  Suddenly Iris’s face hardened. “I can’t let it be. When things aren’t right, you have to do what you can.”

  Annie had no words of wisdom. She knew better now than to murmur that everything would work out. Maybe. Maybe not.

  A faraway deep-throated blast signaled the arrival of the five-thirty ferry.

  Annie shot straight up in the water. “The ferry’s coming in. I have to be at the pavilion in fifteen minutes!” She could do it. Max always marveled at how quickly she showered and dressed and was on her way, with her hair damp but curly, a touch of makeup, and a smile. The crisp robin’s-egg blue linen shirt and skirt waited for her in the closet. It was time to share laughter and friendship and food.

  In three swift strokes, Annie was at the ladder. On the deck, water streaming in rivulets from her brief hibiscus-bright suit, she looked down at Iris, alone in the pool. Iris had nowhere to go, no one to welcome her, and peanut butter and Ritz crackers in her cabin.

  “Iris, please come with me.” Annie’s smile was sudden and warm. “We’re having an oyster roast. Ben Parotti’s sweet tea with fresh mint is the best on the island and the view of the bay from the pavilion is great.” But who was she to tell a native islander? Annie rushed on, aware of Iris’s limited wardrobe. “It’s down home. Everyone will be casual. There’s a mixture of people.
You’ll probably know a lot of them.” She made a quick decision to leave the linen outfit in the closet, substitute a striped red-and-white tee, jeans, and red sandals.

  “A party at the pavilion.” Iris’s expression was a mixture of uncertainty and trepidation. “The last time I was there…” Her voice trailed away.

  “Please come. Then you’ll know you’re home.” The pavilion hosted every kind of event from fund drives to school groups to political rallies to private parties. “Do you remember how the harbor lights spill across the water after the sun goes down?” Annie loved the harbor after dark, the smell of creosoted timbers and saltwater, the soft whisper of the sea against the pilings, an occasional glimpse of faraway lights as cabin cruisers sailed past carrying their passengers to nearby docks or faraway ports.

  Iris stroked to the ladder. She looked up, her face resolute. “I’ll come.” She climbed up the ladder. “I’ll be quick.” She walked away.

  Annie stared at the thin hurrying figure. She’d hoped to offer friendship, yet Iris seemed grim, as if she were fulfilling a duty.

  THE HEAVY THROB OF GUITARS, DRUMS, AND PIANO ECHOED FROM a stage set up halfway between the picnic tables and a grove of pines. A gangly young teenager with a white stripe of hair bristling from a shaved head painted red belted out “You’re Sixteen.” A hand-painted sign hung from the stage: THE RED HOT MOHAWKS, appearing every Saturday night at The Haven, a buck a couple. Max taught tennis at The Haven, the island’s recreation center for teens. Now she understood why he’d casually mentioned the Mohawks over the last several weeks. The vocalist moved back and forth on the stage, bending and stamping, apparently heavily influenced by a vision of an Indian powwow. Annie was glad the band was on the far side of the tables. The sound was loud but not loud enough to make guests shout to be heard.