Dare to Die Page 7

  The pavilion sat on a slight rise overlooking the harbor. There were tables in the open-air pavilion, but Max liked his picnics to be beneath the stars. Their party was set up for the picnic tables that dotted the sweep of sandy ground between the pavilion and the boardwalk. Annie admired the centerpieces she’d designed, hurricane lamps with candles in the center of each table. Black anchor line was coiled around the bronze base of each lamp.

  Ben Parotti’s face was flushed from the heat of the roaring hickory fire beneath a sheet of steel balanced on concrete blocks. Bushel bags of oysters were piled nearby and a stack of water-soaked burlap bags. Miss Jolene directed two women behind a line of steam tables. Hot dogs bobbed in bubbling hot water. No Low Country oyster roast was complete without chili dogs and squash casserole, plenty of draft beer and sweet tea.

  Sheets from the Broward’s Rock Gazette covered one stone table. Oyster knives paired with stainless steel mesh oyster gloves were ranged around the perimeter of the table. When the roast began, Ben would steam the oysters for five to ten minutes, then shovel them onto the shucking table and everyone would set to work. They had invited forty guests, so Ben had five bags of oysters ready to steam, figuring around twelve to fifteen oysters per guest. Once a plate was loaded with oysters, the steam tables would be next.

  “Come on, Iris.” Annie ran up the steps to the pavilion. Guests walked toward the pavilion from the oyster-shell parking lot. She had barely arrived in time to greet the first arrivals. She skidded to a stop, stared up at the brilliant banner.

  Max strode toward her, grinning, his arms open. The breeze ruffled his thick blond hair. He was handsome and happy, delighted in the banner, in the moment, in her. “One of these days, we’ll greet our guests on our own front porch. Until then, this”—he gestured at the rippling silk—“is the next best thing.”

  Annie came into his embrace. “Max, the banner’s wonderful.” She smiled at him. “How did you ever think of this?”

  He looked up at their images between the sparkling white Ionic columns. “We couldn’t greet everyone there, so I brought the Franklin house here.”

  Song lyrics boomed over the mike. Voices called out. Steps sounded behind them.

  Annie remembered Iris. “Come meet Iris Tilford. She’s the one who helped Emma when she was hurt. She’s staying at Nightingale Courts and I talked her into coming tonight. She’s from the island.”

  Iris hung back a little. The breeze ruffled her hair, tugged at her blouse and slacks. She looked uncertainly at Max.

  Max reached out to shake her hand. “It’s nice to see you again.” He saw Annie’s surprise. “Iris came by Wednesday morning when I was putting up the banner. I told her it was a surprise for my wife.” He grinned at Iris. “Thanks for keeping my secret. It’s great you could come tonight.”

  There was a flurry of arrivals and Iris edged away. A little later as the smoke billowed from the hickory fire and the sun spread a glory of rose across the water, Annie saw Iris standing alone near the old live oak that island lore traced back to the days when privateers made Broward’s Rock their base for sorties against the British.

  Annie took a step, then stopped. Marian Kenyon, the Gazette’s gimlet-eyed chief reporter, a bottle of Bud in hand, sped across the hummocky ground to plant herself in front of Iris. Whippet lean, Marian always moved fast. Her unruly black hair with its frosting of white appeared either unkempt or windblown depending upon the attitude of the viewer. Marian and Iris appeared to be acquainted. Annie was well aware that the island was a small and tight society, especially for natives. Despite her years of visiting when her uncle was alive and the time she’d spent living on Broward’s Rock, Annie was often surprised at the intertwining of family and relationships that weren’t always apparent to an outlander.

  Billy and Mavis Cameron waited until Annie and Max were free before climbing the steps. Billy looked casual and comfortable in a red polo and khaki shorts. Mavis was more animated than usual, her pale cheeks flushed with eagerness. “Kevin’s thrilled that you hired the band for tonight.” She pointed toward the stage where her son thrummed the bass guitar. “Honestly, I hated those Mohawk haircuts at first but they are having so much fun I don’t mind so much now. I just hope he lets his hair grow back one of these days.”

  A harsh twang signaled a guitar string out of tune.

  Billy clapped Max on the arm. “Good thing you don’t expect perfection.” Billy’s smile suddenly faded. He squinted toward the live oak. “There’s Iris Tilford. I’m surprised she’d come to the pavilion.”

  Annie was puzzled, much as she had felt when Iris accepted the invitation to the picnic as if it were a duty. “Why wouldn’t she come here?”

  Billy’s face creased in thought. “She wouldn’t have good memories. But I guess there’s a lot of water under the bridge. Or, actually, the pier. It’s good if she’s past all of that.”

  Mavis tugged on his arm. “Kevin’s waving at us.” Hand in hand, Mavis and Billy hurried toward the platform.

  “Annie, hey. This is fun. I’m so glad we could come.” Liz Montgomery’s conventional smile didn’t reach her wide-spaced blue eyes. She was as always immaculately coiffed, her prematurely white hair bright and crisp, and stylish. Tonight she wore a pale blue linen long jacket over matching trousers. Russell stood a step behind her. His face was somber. Max enjoyed playing golf with him and he’d been pleasant to work with as they restored the Franklin house, but tonight he seemed as distant as the waning crescent moon. He gazed toward the live oak and Iris.

  Liz’s voice was pleasant. “Everything looks beautiful. I love the way candles glow in hurricane lamps.” As she gestured toward the picnic tables, she saw Iris. For an instant, Liz stood absolutely still, then she turned back to Annie. “The hickory smoke smells wonderful. We haven’t been to an oyster roast since New Year’s.” Her island accent was as soft and throaty as the coo of mourning doves. “Nobody does oysters better than Ben. Oh, there’s Fran and Buck.” Liz lifted a hand in greeting. “Come on, Russell. Fran’s waving at us.”

  They moved away and Russell hadn’t said a word. So much, Annie thought, for social graces.

  Liz and Fran came together in a social embrace that reminded Annie of the stylized movements of Laurel’s tai chi class. Russell and Buck shook hands.

  The breeze stirred Fran Carlisle’s black hair. She and Liz joined a group of women clustered around Henny Brawley. Henny was gesturing toward the water. Russell stood a few feet away, arms folded, and looked determinedly at Ben’s fire.

  Iris was alone again. She moved out of the shadows and walked slowly toward the group of women.

  Buck’s usually genial face folded into a frown. He glanced at his wife, who was deep in conversation with Fran. Buck hesitated, then stepped toward Iris. They met near a weeping willow. Buck was a big man and his bulk made Iris appear even frailer. She stared up, her face grave.

  Cara Wilkes strolled up the steps, smiling. “Hey, guys.” As she looked past Annie and Max, her smile slid away, making her look much older.

  Annie knew she was watching Buck and Iris.

  Cara’s jaw muscles ridged, then she swung back to her hosts, once again with a smile. “Great day for a picnic.”

  “Oysters ready.” Ben’s hoarse shout sounded over the voices and music. He carried a shovel full of steaming shells to the prepared table. Laughing and talking, guests swirled toward the table.

  Crackles and snaps and occasional mutters rose as gloved hands poked the short-bladed knives into the shells. As soon as one guest moved on, plate heavy with opened shells, another set to work.

  As dusk fell, the picnic tables filled. Annie scanned the crowd. She felt quick relief when she spotted Iris sitting next to Laurel. As always, Laurel was spectacularly lovely, her beauty ageless, golden hair framing chiseled features. Laurel was smiling and listening attentively. Annie felt a surge of thankfulness. Laurel was often unpredictable, but her kindness was a constant. It was no surprise that she was dra
wn to the loneliest guest.

  Annie settled at a far table with Billy and Mavis Cameron, Pamela Potts, Henny Brawley, and Edith Cummings. Edith was both an old friend and the island’s accomplished reference librarian. Edith could discover any fact a patron fancied, including the best wildlife viewing season in Pungo, N.C. (a personal favorite of Annie’s because the best season(s) listed were spring, summer, fall, and winter, and who could quarrel with that?), the highest level in British peerage below a prince (a duke), and the recipe for a Black Russian (11/2 ounces vodka and 3/4 ounce Kahlúa).

  Edith pushed aside another emptied shell. “It would be piggy to eat twenty oysters.”

  “I don’t think pigs like oysters.” Pamela’s gaze was, as always, serious and sincere.

  Billy grinned. “Pigs like a lot of stuff. My dad raised Large Whites. We fed them corn and barley meal, but Big Mama, our sow, was crazy about snails and once she ate a corn snake. She would have loved a good oyster roast.”

  Henny wiped a smear of chili from her chin. “Oysters are good. Chili dogs are great.”

  Annie flashed her old friend a fond smile. Henny looked elegant in a white cotton blouse and twill slacks and a striking black sweater adorned with embroidered white daisies, a perfect accent for her clothes and a perfect weight for the suddenly cooling April evening as the sun began to sink into the Sound. Henny was the kind of woman Annie admired: smart, incisive, quick-thinking, and adventurous, a WAAF pilot in World War II, an English teacher, a two-time Peace Corps volunteer after retirement, and, of course, a mystery authority. She had delighted last week in pointing out to Annie the little-known fact that the office of Charlaine Harris, bestselling author of the Sookie Stackhouse Southern vampire series, was decorated with black-and-white photos of New Orleans grave art. Annie wondered if Charlaine Harris enjoyed Sarah Stewart Taylor’s mysteries that celebrated funerary art.

  Mavis leaned across the table. “How’s Emma feeling?” Mavis’s blue eyes were filled with concern.

  Henny spooned chopped onions on her dog. “Great. I checked her out of the hospital this afternoon and took her home. She sent her regrets. I’ll run some oysters over in a little while.”

  “That’s wonderful.” Annie’s oyster knife slipped and she was grateful for the protection of the glove. “I don’t suppose she remembers anything about her fall?” If only Emma’s memory had returned and the question could be settled.

  Pamela swung toward Annie, used her oyster knife for emphasis. “That bruise on Emma’s back worried me to pieces.”

  Henny’s eyes narrowed. “Bruise on her back?”

  As Pamela described the purplish splotch between Emma’s shoulder blades, Annie pushed away a residue of uncertainty. To suppose Emma had been attacked opened up an ugly chain of thought with no basis in fact.

  Billy finished the last of his beer. “Emma fell forward. Traces of blood on the footboard proved that. There was nothing in the cabin to account for an injury to her back.” He mounded mashed sweet potatoes on his spoon. “A bruise like you describe had to be caused some other way.”

  Billy’s calm response reassured Annie.

  Henny grinned. “She doesn’t remember Wednesday or, oddly enough, her struggle with the Slough of Despond, which, being Emma, was translated into writer’s block. I left her at her desk, fingers flying on the keyboard. She’s started a new book. In this one, a young woman shows up one evening at a tourist court on a sea island riding a bike in the rain. Nobody knows who she is or where she came from.”

  Annie looked at Billy.

  His blue eyes were amused. A slight nod assured her he would be discreet. “Funny thing how head injuries affect people. Hey, Annie, have you had a piece of Miss Jolene’s Key lime pie yet?”

  VELVETY DARKNESS EMPHASIZED GLOWING LIGHTS STRUNG among the live oak trees. Luminarias gleamed every few feet on either side of the paths that bordered the picnic area and led to the boardwalk and the woods. The waning crescent moon seemed pale and distant. It was nearing eleven. Max climbed the steps to the bandstand. He was no more than a dimly seen shadow until he reached the platform and the flash of the strobe lights.

  Max borrowed the sticks from the drummer and sounded a brisk rat-a-tat.

  Voices murmured as guests, indistinguishable in the darkness, moved nearer the bandstand.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, tonight you’ve enjoyed the music of the Red Hot Mohawks. I want you to meet Elrod Phipps, vocalist; Kevin Cameron, bass guitar; and Clint Guthrie, drums. Let’s give them a big hand.”

  The applause was strong and mixed with a few cheers. The young musicians beamed.

  Annie smelled a faint scent of violets. Without surprise, she heard Laurel’s throaty murmur from the dimly seen figure next to her. “How dear of Max.”

  Annie agreed wholeheartedly. She gave Laurel’s slender hand a squeeze.

  Ben poked at the mound of ashes beneath the sheet of steel to be sure the fire was doused. Miss Jolene had long since maneuvered the steam tables into the catering van and departed. Ben and two of his staff stayed behind to take care of cleanup. The band folded up the lights and picked up their instruments.

  “Good night, my dears.” Laurel blew a kiss to Max and wafted toward the parking area.

  As the guests dwindled to a diehard few, Annie moved around the picnic area seeking Iris. Annie walked all the way to the boardwalk, grateful for the luminarias. Uneasiness plucked at Annie when she reached the iron railings, damp from spray as the dark water slapped against the seawall. She looked up and down the boardwalk. Lamplights glistened every hundred feet, shedding a pale radiance. To her left, the shore curved. Midway to the peninsula, Fish Haul pier jutted into the Sound. The boardwalk was empty. Darkness shrouded the pier. To her right, a cluster of lights marked downtown and the ferry dock.

  A solitary man walked a black Lab. He was the only moving figure on the boardwalk.

  Annie turned and hurried back to the picnic area. The last farewells were sounding. “…had a great time.” “The men’s grill at eight?” “…a real feast…”

  When she reached Max, she felt breathless. She gripped his arm. “I can’t find Iris. Have you seen her?”

  ANNIE HUNCHED OVER THE WHEEL OF HER CAR, BRIGHTS on as she searched the road ahead. She didn’t dare drive faster. Deer crossed the winding roads after dark, deer and possums and raccoons, sometimes even cougars and wild boars. Annie clung to the hope that Iris had chosen to walk back to Nightingale Courts and not thought to tell Annie. The countervoice in her mind argued, “That would have been rude. Iris wasn’t rude.” Even if Iris had not enjoyed the evening—Billy was surprised she’d been willing to come to the pavilion—she’d been appreciative of the invitation and would surely have known that Annie planned to take her back to her cabin.

  The dark tunnel beneath live oaks ended finally. The headlights illuminated the honeysuckle bower that marked the entrance to Nightingale Courts. A single lamplight shone. Annie wheeled into the drive, saw cars parked in front of two cabins. She noted that the old car Emma had borrowed to come to Nightingale Courts on Wednesday was no longer in front of Cabin Seven. She braked at Cabin Six, left the Volvo’s lights on. They shone on the green bicycle on its stand by the steps. The windows to Cabin Six were dark.

  Annie’s throat was dry as she slammed out of the car and ran up the steps. The door was locked. She knocked and called. “Iris? Iris?”

  There was no answer.

  Annie took the extra time to get a key and open the door. The cabin was empty.

  Annie stared at the place on the floor where they’d found Emma and felt a cold rush of fear.

  MAX QUARTERED THE PICNIC GROUNDS, THE BEAM FROM his flashlight sweeping below tables, behind trash bins, under shrubs, around trees.

  Max’s cell chimed. Annie had made certain he had it on before she left. He flipped it open. “Annie?”

  “I checked the cabin. It’s empty. Max, where can she be?”

  Max looked out at the dark water with forebo
ding, but he kept his voice even and measured. “She could have gone home with someone she knew. It’s not like she’s a stranger on the island…. Rude? Yeah, I guess. Sometimes people don’t think…. Right. Call Billy if you think you should. I’ll keep looking.”

  “SHE MAY HAVE GONE HOME WITH A FRIEND.” BILLY’S VOICE was patient.

  Annie gripped the cell with one hand, the steering wheel with another. Once again, she held her speed in check and was able to jam on the brakes as a deer turned a startled face into the lights, then bolted into the woods. Annie pushed on the accelerator. “I don’t think she had any friends.” Annie knew her voice was thin. It was Iris’s loneliness that had cried out for comfort when Annie saw Iris on the cabin deck after Cara Wilkes left. “Emma got hurt in that cabin. I’m afraid for Iris.”

  “What’s Emma got to do with Iris?” He sounded bewildered.

  “I don’t think Emma fell.” As Annie spoke, she felt certainty. “It’s like Ben says, Emma’s sure-footed as a goat. She didn’t fall down, she was pushed.”

  “Annie, you aren’t making sense.” Billy sounded irritated.

  “What if someone was hidden in Iris’s cabin Wednesday morning? Emma came in and somebody whammed her from behind and she fell into the footboard and that’s how she hit her head and got a bruise on her back.”

  He took a deep breath. “There’s no proof that bruise didn’t happen another time. But let’s say you’re right and somebody was in Iris’s cabin. Why knock down an old woman? Why not say, ‘I’m waiting for Iris. She’s not here right now.’”

  “Maybe the person was determined not to be seen.”

  He made no reply, but Annie felt his resistance, solid as a boulder. “Iris said she came back to the island”—Annie turned into the parking lot behind the pavilion—“because she wanted to find out if something she remembered or didn’t quite remember was true.” It was hard to give a sense of Iris’s uncertainty and worry and ultimate decisiveness from those moments of honesty in the cool water of the pool. “She said people didn’t want to talk to her. What if somebody was afraid of what she might remember and came to her cabin to be sure she didn’t have something written down? Maybe tonight Iris remembered.”