Dare to Die Page 9

  MAX POKED HIS HEAD INTO THE LAUNDRY ROOM. “WE’RE agreed?”

  Annie’s face was mutinous. “I never thought you’d back Billy up.”

  Max felt hollow inside, the uneasy emptiness that presages disasters. Billy had spooked him. The foreboding in his old friend’s eyes had hit Max hard. Billy sensed danger and there was Annie, his lovely, sexy, bright, funny, kind, volatile Annie, eager to mount battle against an unseen, unknown foe. Clearly Iris, for all her uncertain memories of the past, never expected to be struck down. There was no hint that she had warning of the blow which stunned her, made her easy to strangle.

  He took two quick strides, cupped Annie’s face in his hands. “Billy’s a good cop, right?”

  “Of course.” Her response was emphatic.

  Max persisted. “He knows all the background, right?”

  “I could help. I could talk to people.”

  An icy breath touched him. Annie might think she was subtle, but her efforts would be transparent to the people involved. Thank God Billy had closed the Jocelyn Howard file. Those were the names Annie would match against their guest list.

  He pulled her close. “Promise me you’ll keep out of this.” He stroked a strand of blond hair back from her solemn face, gazed deep into steady gray eyes. “I don’t want you in danger.” Death had been very near Annie when she discovered the secret to the Franklin house last spring. Death had waited behind the door in Cabin Six Wednesday morning at Nightingale Courts. That Emma suffered nothing worse than a concussion was sheer luck. Death had walked through the woods last night.

  Annie looked up, her expression softening. “You and Billy are overreacting big time.” She took a deep breath. Her answer mattered to Max. “Okay. I’ll keep out.” One promise was made, but another broken. She’d offered friendship to Iris. Iris had looked like a child offered an unexpected present when Annie invited her to the pool. Now Annie felt she had turned her back on Iris.

  ANNIE MEASURED DETERGENT, DROPPED IT INTO THE WASHER, and loaded sheets. For an instant, she wanted to rebel. She could find out more about Iris and her friends in a day than Billy would manage in two weeks. No matter how well he knew his island, he was the chief of police. When he asked questions, answers would be carefully given and much left unsaid.

  She could…

  No, she couldn’t.

  She’d promised Max. They’d both learned hard lessons last summer. They now understood and never needed reminding that safety was an illusion and death might be waiting around the next corner. That knowledge deepened their gratitude for the happiness they knew. A few years ago Max might not have worried so much on her account. Now fear for her was quick to come. She had to do her part to reassure him. No matter how much she wanted to seek justice for Iris, she had given Max her promise and she would honor that promise. That was part of their bargain, each could always count on honesty and truth and respect from the other. Yes, she could ask questions, find out more, but she couldn’t double-deal with Max. Not now. Not ever.

  She slammed down the lid, turned the knob, heard the rush of water. Water…Yesterday afternoon, she and Iris had swum in the pool, Iris thin and bony in a borrowed suit. Annie sighed. She’d known Iris only a short time, but she’d glimpsed a sweet nature and great courage.

  Surely there was something Annie could do. If she couldn’t seek Iris’s murderer, certainly she could remember her life, pay tribute to a spirit now quenched.

  Spirit…

  The word danced in her mind and with it a sudden memory of Amarillo and Maria Elena Chavez, her best friend in high school, and Maria’s annual preparations for the Day of the Dead. Maria Elena loved the skull candies and dancing skeletons, but when she lighted the black clay candles on a small altar of brightly painted tiles in the shape of a cross, she was, as she joyfully told Annie, remembering with love and happiness those gone before, especially Tío Felix, who loved to play the accordion and had a mustache like a walrus, and Abuela Maria Francesca, who made the best cochitos in the whole world and always saved the largest pig-shaped ginger cookie for Maria Elena. Maria Elena fashioned a poster for each loved one with a photograph and a tribute to the Honored Spirit.

  Peace washed over Annie, soothing as yesterday’s pool water. Max couldn’t complain if she created an Honored Spirit poster for Iris. To do a good job, she would need to find out more about Iris and the life she had lived and try to capture in words and images a gentle spirit that had fought through much difficulty. She murmured a small promise, a promise she was free to make. “Iris, I’ll make you a wonderful spirit poster.”

  MAX SQUINTED AGAINST BRIGHTNESS AS THE JEEP PLUNGED out of the gloom from the live-oak tunnel into the sunny drive of the Franklin house. From the outside, there was no hint of the water damage within. Soon he and Annie would be at home in the old gray-green house with its newly painted white shutters and majestic white columns with Ionic capitals on the first level and Corinthian on the second. He was willing to be patient, but he wanted to make sure there had been some progress on the repairs. He curved around the house to the back and was pleased to see Russell Montgomery’s mud-streaked white pickup parked next to a plumber’s van. Maybe the plumber had finished his other jobs earlier than promised.

  The back door stood ajar. Max stepped inside. “Hey, Russell.” For a man who’d grown up in Yankee land, as islanders described any area north of Richmond, it hadn’t taken him long to learn how to speak: Hey for hi, palmetto bugs for roaches, tall cotton for perching in the catbird seat. Maybe he’d learned tall cotton from Texan Annie along with highfalutin for pretentious and tacky for low class. Max grinned and took the stairs two at a time.

  Russell met him on the landing. “Hey, Max.” Russell tilted back his sweat-stained Panama, revealing a white stripe on his forehead. He was a good two inches taller than Max and bulky with muscular arms and shoulders. The sleeves of his cotton shirt were rolled above the elbows. “It looks like the plumbing will be done by Tuesday, then I’ll get a crew on the ceiling. I hope by the end of the week you can move in.”

  “That’s great. When you know the definite date, I’ll call the movers.” Max wished he could start putting books in the library today, but he should get back to Nightingale Courts and help Annie with the cleaning.

  Russell’s pale blue eyes stared at Max. “I heard about the trouble in the woods last night. What happened?”

  Max wasn’t surprised that Russell knew. Likely most islanders knew that Iris Tilford had been strangled in the pavilion woods Friday night. The Island Gazette didn’t publish on Saturday, but it wouldn’t take Marian Kenyon’s lead story in the Sunday Gazette to announce murder. Word spread like a ground fire in a small community, a call here, an encounter there, like sparks leaping from tinder-dry grass to turn a forest into an inferno.

  With the question, Max recognized a change between them. Russell was no longer a contractor dealing with business. He was a man intent on getting information, his gaze wary and calculating.

  “A woman was strangled.” Max made the flat statement. His voice was bleak, as bleak as his memory of that frail body facedown on the path.

  Russell’s right eyelid fluttered. “I heard it was Iris Tilford.” That telltale flutter of his eyelid continued. “I saw her at the picnic. Did you invite her or did she just show up?”

  Max was tempted to ask Russell what difference it made. Iris came. She was dead. But if he didn’t answer, Iris was left not only dead but devalued, tagged as rude, bumptious, unwelcome. “Annie invited her. Nobody knows what happened. Billy Cameron will figure it out. Anyway, I appreciate the progress on the repairs. Thanks for coming out on Saturday.” He turned to go.

  Russell stepped after him. “Annie invited her to your party? How come? How did Annie know Iris?”

  Max stopped and faced Russell. The last thing he wanted to do was suggest the idea that Annie had some special bond with Iris. Max made his voice easy, agreeable. “Iris was staying at Nightingale Courts. We’re staying there un
til we can move. Annie and Iris took a swim yesterday afternoon and they got to talking. Annie thought she seemed lonely and decided to invite her to the party.”

  Russell looked grim. “What did they talk about?”

  Max shrugged. “Nothing much.”

  Russell’s eyes narrowed. “They must have been pretty chummy for Annie to invite her to your party to celebrate the Franklin house. What did Iris do, tell Annie her life story?”

  “Why would she do that?” Max tried to lighten his voice, sound as if none of this mattered. “Inviting Iris was no big deal. Annie thought she was nice and she didn’t have anywhere to go and it was Friday night so Annie invited her. You said you saw Iris Friday night. I guess you knew her pretty well.”

  Russell shrugged. “We went to school together.” His voice was cool. “She left the island a long time ago.”

  Max took a step toward him. “Why did she leave?”

  Russell’s face was suddenly empty, as empty as his voice. “I guess she wanted to get away. I don’t suppose we’ll ever know.”

  ANNIE PULLED A HOT SHEET FROM THE INDUSTRIAL-SIZE dryer. She’d never appreciated how hard housekeeping staffs worked. Though it was only midmorning, her shoulders ached, she was sweating like a marathoner, and the list of tasks to be done rose in her mind like the Himalayas jutting abruptly from the plain. She might be in tennis shape; she wasn’t in cleaning shape. Annie gathered an armload of sheets, still hot to the touch, and carried them to the folding table.

  “Annie.” The call was sharp.

  Startled, Annie turned toward the washroom doorway.

  Fran Carlisle stood framed in sunlight. Despite skillfully applied makeup, she looked haggard and worn. Her air of distress was in sharp contrast to the elegance of her coral sateen sundress. One slim hand gripped the doorframe. “Cara called me. Is it true? Is Iris dead? Did she die last night at the picnic?”

  Never beautiful, always stylish, Fran walked into every room with the air of a princess, expecting admiration and deference as her due. To see her distraught was shocking.

  Annie struggled against the too-clear memory of Iris lying dead on the path in the woods. “She was strangled.”

  Fran shivered. “That’s what Cara said. I didn’t believe her. Where was Iris? Who found her?”

  Billy had been definite that she and Max weren’t to be involved, but Annie knew the facts would appear in Marian’s story tomorrow. Nothing she could tell Fran would compromise Billy’s investigation. In a monotone, Annie described Max’s search and their grisly discovery.

  Fran listened with staring eyes. “On the path in the woods. Oh my God.” Fran held a hand to her throat and turned away. She walked out of the washroom door into the sunlight and sat on the wooden bench in front of the office, face empty.

  Annie came after her, stood a few feet away. “I’m sorry.” Annie knew her words were inadequate. “Was she a good friend?”

  Fran’s makeup was stark against blanched skin. “We played together when we were little.” Tears spilled down her face.

  Annie wished she could retract the question. Fran’s distress made the answer only too obvious.

  Fran drew a ragged breath, wiped at her face, turned to Annie. “Are they looking for a stranger?”

  Annie had a devastating vision of the cord twisted and tied behind Iris’s neck, the black line that had looped around the hurricane lamps, part of a centerpiece celebrating life on a sea island. “No.” No stranger had taken advantage of steel mesh gloves on the shucking table to pull free the line meant for decoration and carry it into the woods.

  Fran’s eyes widened. “How do you know?”

  Annie made a helpless gesture with her hands. “Iris was killed with a cord from one of the picnic table centerpieces.”

  “That’s dreadful.” The cry was hopeless and despairing. “Are they sure? Cord looks alike. Someone from outside could have brought it.”

  Annie shook her head. The answer was inescapable. Someone at the picnic, someone they knew had pulled black cord loose from a centerpiece on a picnic table and tucked it in a pocket or purse.

  Fran wrapped her arms tightly across her chest. “I hate the pavilion.”

  Annie knew enough now to understand. “Because of Jocelyn Howard?”

  Fran pressed her hands against her face as if blotting out an unbearable sight. Her hands slowly fell away. “You know how it is in high school, everybody has a group. We hung around together, Jocelyn, Iris, Cara, Liz, and me. We were all there the night Jocelyn went off the pier. Except for Sam, Jocelyn’s brother. He had…died. Buck and Russell were his best friends.” It was as if the words bubbled from deep within, not ordered or thoughtful. “We were all there again last night.” The words came slowly, as if saying them hurt.

  Fran lifted a shaking hand, brushed back a strand of hair. There was a faint spicy scent of carnation. Annie was sure it was an expensive fragrance. Everything about Fran was expensive, including silver bracelets that jangled on one thin arm and the deep green of an emerald in a delicate gold setting. “It all seems so long ago, but none of us forgot Jocelyn.” Fran’s face was haunted. “She was upset that night. Everybody said that’s why she jumped from the pier. When Iris ran away, I wondered if she knew something. Something was terribly wrong that night. Jocelyn was upset, especially with Russell. But he wouldn’t push her off the pier. She must have jumped. She couldn’t swim. We all knew that. Whenever I think about her, I remember how Russell treated her that night. He did his best to stay away from her. They’d broken up a few weeks before the picnic. After she died, he looked awful. I thought he felt guilty because he’d been mean to her.” Fran pressed a shaking hand against her mouth. The emerald gleamed in the sun.

  Had Russell avoided Jocelyn because he was the kind of person who didn’t want to be around unhappiness? Or was the reason deeper and darker? “You said he was mean to Jocelyn. What did he do?”

  Fran abruptly came to her feet. “Forget what I said. I don’t know what happened that night.” She rubbed her temple as if it ached. “Iris ran away not too long afterward. She came back to the island and somebody killed her.” She spoke slowly as if listening to her own words, trying to adjust what she knew with what had happened. “Maybe Iris saw someone with Jocelyn, but I don’t know anything. I don’t know anything at all.”

  Annie’s voice was sharp. “You have to tell Billy Cameron.”

  Fran looked shocked. “About Russell? That would be crazy. It would be like accusing him. He could have been mad because Jocelyn was acting odd that night. They could have quarreled about anything. He’d been accepted at The Citadel. After they broke up, maybe she wouldn’t let go. Breaking up’s no reason to kill anyone. We were just kids. Look, promise you won’t say anything, especially not to Billy.”

  Annie would never do anything to hamper a murder investigation, but this time she’d been told not to meddle. Billy had already decided the death—murder?—of Jocelyn Howard was connected to Iris’s murder or he wouldn’t have closed the file. That meant he would be talking to those present the night Jocelyn drowned. If Fran had seen Russell and Jocelyn quarreling, so would someone else.

  Fran mistook her silence for resistance. “If you tell Billy, I’ll say you’re lying.” Her face was thin and sharp and hard. “I mean it. Buck will have a fit. I don’t know anything. Oh, I wish I hadn’t come. But I had to know if it was true about Iris.” Her face twisted. “Poor little Iris.” Fran turned and ran toward her car.

  As Fran’s silver Lexus slewed around the arbor, spewing dust, Annie wished too that Fran hadn’t come. Now whenever Annie encountered Russell Montgomery, she would wonder what happened the last time he saw Jocelyn.

  Chapter 7

  The small office was cramped. An unlit cigar rested in a stained ceramic ashtray amidst a sea of folders on a battered gray metal desk jammed between rows of old-fashioned wooden filing cabinets. Above the cabinets hung bulletin boards filled with tacked-up photos of babies and small children, hund
reds of them. Behind the desk, the blinds were hiked high in the single window to afford a clear view of the Sound. Between more filing cabinets, a narrow door stood open, revealing pale green walls and rattan furniture with bright cushions.

  A tall woman in blue scrubs smiled at Max. “Doc will be here in a minute. Would you rather wait in his lounge?” She pointed to the partially open door.

  Max shook his head, puzzled. There was a main lounge and he vaguely knew waiting areas were available on all floors. “Why does he have a lounge off of his office?”

  “He fixed that up years ago. It’s a big room, fancy. It was supposed to be his office. Instead, he took the little anteroom. He said the big room was perfect for families in trouble. There are waiting rooms, but none of them are private, and he said sometimes people need space and he damn well—you know how he talks, big and gruff—was going to see they had time to themselves when their hearts were breaking. There’s been a lot of trouble in that room, I can tell you, but at least folks don’t have to mourn in front of strangers.” Her eyes were soft. “The board gave him trouble about it. Doc said hospitals were for people that hurt, not the doctors who worked there and he didn’t spend much time in an office anyway.”

  “Stow it, Bess.” Dr. Burford stomped past his nurse. He was in crumpled scrubs and his slipper-covered feet slapped against the marble floor. Bristly gray hair poked from beneath a cloth cap.

  She nodded equably and left.

  Burford closed the door, held out a hand to Max. “They’re washed. Just delivered twins to the Magruders.” He smiled and his craggy face was relaxed.

  Max felt a grip of iron, pumped in return.

  Burford peeled off the cap, settled behind the cluttered desk. “You and Annie in the market for twins?” A deep laugh. “Have to make your own. About time, I’d say.”